Chapter Three
W esley liked food. Perhaps slightly more than the average person. Perhaps not more than the average man though. He didn’t have any peculiar preferences. Sure, he liked beef over chicken. A rare cooked beef over one well done. And just the right lobster could top that. He always ate the food in front of him and always ate dessert. Ever since he was a small child, he had been that way. Various textures didn’t faze him. Though he knew some people who couldn’t stand the silky-smooth texture of tripe, it didn’t bother him. Anything, if cooked well, could taste quite delicious.
But if there was one thing he despised swallowing, it was his own pride.
So it was taking him a little longer than he would have liked to choke it down. Leaning against the wall, taking a sip from his champagne, he knew his next move. Walk over to the bumpable spinster. Bumpable. That was surely not a word. What did it even mean in this scenario? He had been the one to bump into her, so perhaps she was bumpable. Or had she bumped into him? Had Samuel known it? Expected it? Planned it, even? He wouldn’t put it past him, though he wasn’t sure how Samuel could have orchestrated it all so smoothly.
Wesley grumbled. It was probably all a ploy, but now that he was in it, he wanted to win. In all his years, he would have never expected Samuel to wager what he had.
Now all Wesley had to do was propose. Of course, he would only propose trusting she would say no.
He reviewed his plan. Walk over to her. Ask her to dance. It was so simple. She couldn’t say no. Not only because he was a duke (because really, what kind of woman would say no to a duke?) but also because it violated the highest regarded value of the ton : etiquette. If a man asked a woman to dance, she had to accept unless she was otherwise engaged in a dance or if she was injured. He had wondered a time or two at the veracity of an opportune megrim or turned ankle. But the clear-eyed, bumpable spinster (one had to think she was a spinster by her maturity) appeared to be in good health. From his short encounter with her.
Inwardly he groaned so loud he had to grip his glass a little bit tighter to keep everything inside. Though not prone to irrational actions as such, he was not impervious to them either.
As he observed the woman, he saw her surrounded by three other women. All of whom appeared to be younger than her. They were likely her sisters. Two blondes, two brunettes. From his distance it was hard to tell much more than that, but even from yards away he could see a family resemblance in their facial structure and figures.
All he could think was that hopefully this spinster was not prone to fits. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a woman given to hysterics. And as long as she wasn’t mousy, he could have a conversation with her and it wouldn’t be unbearable to make good on this bet.
Oh, and another thing, she had better not be a bluestocking. All he needed was for a woman to talk his ears off, spouting some unfounded political ideals. She also better not bore him to death about fashion. Hang it all, the list could go on…he had better just meet the cursed gel and get it over with.
He pushed himself off the wall, took a deep breath, and—not quite able to conjure a smile—he at least forced a scowl off his lips.
“Good evening,” he said evenly to the four-woman coterie.
The spinster narrowed her eyes at him while the other three chorused, “Your Grace,” followed by curtsies.
“It’s a fine evening for a ball. I do hope you’re enjoying the event.” It was blase, but it was the most effort his head was willing to put forth.
“We are,” the other blonde, who appeared to be the youngest, spoke first. Nudging her spinster sister, she continued. “It’s a lovely evening for dancing .”
Subtle.
Well, he certainly couldn’t say he hadn’t seen the same before. Or worse. He shuddered at a memory. Much worse.
“I fear I’m at a disadvantage, for I have yet to be introduced to all four of you.” He had better work up a little more charm. “Missing one might be understandable, but having not been introduced to any of you indicates gross negligence.” That earned him a couple of smiles from the brunettes along with a soft chuckle from the youngest blonde.
“I’m Lady Artemisia. These are my sisters, Lady Boudicca,” she pointed to the spinster, “Lady Joan and Lady Zenobia.”
He would have applauded any man for maintaining his stoicism at the mention of four fierce female warriors. As for himself, he couldn’t keep one of his eyebrows in place.
Boudicca, now that he knew her name, was peering past him. Apparently uninterested in the conversation. Not many women had the audacity to show such disregard. She was treating him as if she were his superior. As though to get back at him for something. Though he knew not what that was. Regardless, he had a goal he needed to complete.
“May I have the next dance, Lady Boudicca?” He extended his hand to her, hearing the final strains of the music. For a fleeting moment, there was an alarm bell ringing in his head at the suspicion she might decline. It took altogether too long for her to meet his hand. And, if he was correct in his observations, she only did so under the stare and a cough or two from her sisters.
Odd, that.
“Of course,” she lifted those clear blue eyes to his, “I should be delighted. Above all else.”
Her phrasing was off-putting. It was as though she were being sarcastic. She should be delighted, but was she?
He was about to find out.
With a firm clasp on her gloved fingers, he led her to the floor. There was an energy about her that wasn’t quite restless, but it was fervid. It was an intensity he had not matched up against, except maybe with Samuel. Yet he had no idea what her intensity was aimed at. Him, he supposed. Positive or negative, it was yet to be seen.
“Your sisters are charming.” What better way to engage conversation than complimenting a person’s family.
“Yes.” The word hung in the air like a cloud of smoke one wasn’t expecting in a crowded ballroom. There were spaces for clouds of smoke, and this wasn’t it. “They are.” Another puff of smoke.
He almost choked on the awkwardness, but he had experienced worse. Her shortage of words appeared deliberate, which meant he needed to find out why. Or if he was unable to determine her motivation, he would at least need to break her out of it.
“They must have learned their charm from you,” he smirked.
“Why would you say that?” It was the scowl that gave her away. Well, that and the tone. She was offended. Again.
“You’re the eldest, aren’t you?”
Her response was a harrumph.
“Surely, you taught them all they know.”
“I may have, or I may not have.”
“May I inquire as to the origin of your effrontery? Is it me? Or is this your default demeanor?”
The odds were essentially in thirds. She could have answered affirmatively, negatively, or remained mum on the subject. So he should have had some expectation that she would be direct, yet he had no such preconceived notions.
So when she avowed, “I can assure you that it is you,” he merely threw back his head and laughed.
“And what exactly have I done to offend you? Perhaps I should apologize for bumping into you?”
“You didn’t bump into me. You crashed into me.”
He had never in all his life been so thrown off in the middle of a dance as to stop mid-step, but at those words he ceased hearing the three-four timing of the waltz. The strings were silenced. And his ears no longer perceived the resounding keys.
“That’s exactly what I told them,” he stared at her, feeling all kinds of odd. Had he not just tried to convince his friends that the bump they were calling a bump was in fact not a bump at all? And here Boudicca was vindicating him.
“Your Grace,” she murmured. And the pressure from her fingers, the darting of her eyes, and the brush of her skirts against his thigh all thrummed through him reminding him that he was in the middle of a dance floor and he had better damn well dance. But it was more than a reminder. It was…something. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He wasn’t even sure he knew entirely what to put his finger on.
“What did you say? And to whom?” It was the first genuine question she had asked him. He could finally hear the real tone of her voice. It was…crisp. What an odd word to use to describe a voice, but it was. She was crisp.
And then he remembered to answer her question. “I said nothing.” He couldn’t very well tell her what he had said about the bumping. That would lead to more questions, and he held a very strong conviction (even upon his brief experiences with her) that she would interrogate him. She wouldn’t stop until she had discovered the bet. And that would mean he would lose. That would not do. So a small lie was justifiable.
He was pretty sure he heard her mumble, “And so shall I.” And they were back to square one. Her shackling him in silence. But that one glimpse into her true self…that one authentic inquiry had given him an outline of who she might actually be. And she might actually be a little bit of fun to draw out. And though his goal was to win, it couldn’t hurt to have a little fun in doing so.
So to flaunt his chains, and taunt her, he said, “Your silence shackles me, for it’s impossible to have a conversation with myself while maintaining my reputation for sanity. Is this your version of, ‘Let the men live in slavery if they will?’” He quoted her namesake trusting she would recognize it, and she didn’t disappoint him.
She quirked a brow at him, but gave little else. “I’m merely an ‘ordinary person’, Your Grace.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” He lifted his hand, guiding her into a twirl. And as he did so, he caught a glimmer of a smile. A half smile to be sure, but the flash appeared to be genuine all the same.
The dance was coming to an end, and he wouldn’t offer for a second one. Not tonight. But he still wanted to plant the seed of his intentions in her mind.
“I shall call on you tomorrow.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
Her deferential treatment should have pleased him. If that was all she had presented to him, it probably would have gratified him. However, knowing what fierceness lay beneath induced a twisted need to see more.
No, she was certainly not ordinary. That fact was spelled out in her very name. If only he knew then that she was one of the least ordinary people he would ever meet, perhaps he could have prepared for his future. As it was, he was the least prepared he could possibly be.