Chapter Four
M en always had ulterior motives. If they told you they wanted one thing, they always wanted another thing. To be sure, they probably wanted that one thing as well, but there was always something else.
So when the Duke of Baskim invited Boudicca to dance, she knew he wanted more than just a dance. There was no reasonable explanation for his arrogant-clean-the-floor-behavior to evolve into a polite-shall-we-dance-because-you’re-oh-so-charming demeanor. Definitely not. The man wanted something. What the deuce that was, she didn’t know. Yet. But he could be sure that she wouldn’t stop until she uncovered the ugly truth. For it was always ugly.
Truth rarely, if ever, came in a neat little box with pretty ribbons. It was never absolutely beautiful. Truth was wrapped in complexities like pain, vulnerabilities, and weakness. All the things Boudicca cared little for.
After years on the Marriage Mart, she had experienced her fair share of truthful men, only later to discover their ulterior motives. Fortune hunters. Pleasure seekers. Status climbers. Lord Tamely—not as tame as his name would suggest—was the worst of the lot. He had a habit of making full families his enemy. Thankfully, she had escaped his clutches. Unfortunately, it had to happen more than once. He wasn’t the only culprit though. She was an earl’s daughter with a more than fair dowry. And she could admit with confidence that she was beautiful. So despite her family’s eccentric reputation, there had been offers. Not a single one of which she had considered for even a second. It hadn’t been difficult to convince her father of that either.
He was around. But not very attentive. Or attentive at all. Since losing his wife years earlier, he had retreated into his reading. Which mostly consisted of history, strategies for war, and notable quotes from famous warriors, including each daughter’s namesake. Much of the knowledge had been passed down (that was putting it lightly, it had been required study) to his daughters and his one son. Boudicca’s brother was less present and therefore less attentive than her father, being on the continent and all. The loss of their mother had hit him hard. Perhaps being the only son, he didn’t feel as though he could confide in his younger sisters. Though he was treated similarly to his sisters, he was the heir, so it had been different. He had studied as well, but he had also been trained to be the next earl.
Boudicca didn’t much mind the obscure studying, the reading, and the memorizing their father forced upon them. But her real passion was in the weaponry. In fact, all the daughters had developed an enthusiasm for one weapon or another.
It was not common knowledge among the ton . Heaven forbid gossip got out that the four daughters of an earl spent their off evenings wielding foils, bows, daggers, and pistols. Boudicca’s favorite weapon was the long blade. She had been fencing for as long as she could remember, and she was exceptional. Though no one knew it was her behind the mask. It was all part of her grand plan for her life as a spinster. If she was going to be a spinster, she might as well be an eccentric one.
Whenever she worked up an appetite for competition, which was more often than she liked to admit as a woman, she messaged her old fencing tutor to come for a visit. So really, she still had regular lessons almost once a week.
And she was in the middle of writing just such a missive when the butler announced that there was a visitor for her.
A visitor. She knew who it was, of course. The dark-chocolate-haired, hazelnut-eyed duke. The vision of him caused an odd sensation to trickle through her. Hunger. Thinking of food like that was always quick to tempt her appetite.
It would be normal, expected even, for her to take her time. Check her hair. Possibly even change her frock. But him…that arrogant duke, she did nothing. She didn’t even check her reflection in the mirror.
She marched downstairs, ready to greet him in the drawing room. No chaperone required. She was spinster enough to be the chaperone.
In her mind, she planned to claim allergies to the flowers he presented, and then offer him lukewarm tea. Even if he brought her favorite bouquet: pale pink peonies. It was as devious as she risked to be. There was no point in making an enemy of the man. She merely wanted to make a good enough show to her sisters that she had hooked a duke. Then, after reeling him in a bit, she would throw him back in the pond for someone else.
The bothersome man couldn’t even let her have that.
Upon entering the space, he stood in the middle of the room as if he owned it, hands clasped behind his back. Waiting. Ready. One might even say battle-ready. He was as rigid as the stones used to build her house, and there were no cracks showing.
“Good morning, Lady Boudicca.” He smiled and gestured for her to sit. In her own drawing room.
Of all the—
“I hope you’re feeling well today. I should love to discuss—”
But there would be no discussion. Her nose sniffed the air. Nothing. Oh, not nothing. A hint of sandalwood. But there was a distinct lack of anything floral, so she tuned him out completely. As her eyes skimmed across the room, she noticed a glaring lack of flowers. The man was a duke. A duke?! He knew to send flowers to a lady he had danced with the previous night. It was etiquette. Pure and simple. If he was not even willing to display the simplest of humilities—argh!—the man had far too much pride. Well, this would just not do.
She raised a hand, palm up, “Did you not bring me flowers?” Clear cut. Direct. There was no other way. The man needed to be taken down a peg or four.
“Flowers?” It was one word, but the tone implied that she couldn’t possibly be serious.
“Yes.”
She let the silence hang in the air. It was one of the best negotiating tactics she had gleaned over the years.
“You wanted flowers?”
“Did I want flowers?” Echoing the last few words of her opponent’s sentence. Another tactic.
“Yes.” And as if that single word jostled him out of some nebulous cloud of pretension, he clumsily added, “Of course, I should have brought flowers. How…ungentlemanly of me to forget.”
“You forgot?” She wasn’t calling him out on a lie…exactly.
He scowled, and she watched his jaw clamp shut. Miraculously, he still managed to grind out a few words. “I apologize.”
Not a few. Two. He managed two words. They were enough. Almost.
“Well, when you remember, I shall take your call.”
“Wh—”
She brought her fingers to her temple, “I do believe I forgot that a small megrim has settled in. Please excuse me.” She turned to leave the room, then threw a look over her shoulder. “ I apologize .”
*
Oh, that cursed woman. She apologized. The gel apologized, did she? She forgot. She forgot a megrim. Cursedest of all females. Of course she was lying. It was patently clear, yet he could do nothing about it. Unless of course he wanted to bury himself further in poor etiquette. Clearly she was a stickler for propriety. Or something.
And why hadn’t he brought flowers? He couldn’t remember exactly. He knew he should have sent flowers. It was etiquette. That was partly why it nettled him so much. She was right. He was in the wrong. And he hated being wrong, almost as much as he hated swallowing his pride. Again.
It was a simple act of neglect. He should have made the arrangements this morning before breakfast, but in his mind he knew he was going to pay her a call. His presence was surely superior to a bouquet.
Regardless, the gel wanted flowers, he would get her flowers. Tomorrow. He had had enough for one morning.
He would take lunch at White’s and see if anyone was there.
As it turned out, Samuel, James, and Chris were all sharing a meal together.
He sank into the last open chair at their table and heaved a sigh.
“Trouble with the lady?” Samuel jested, palms facing and fingertips touching to make the shape of a mountain. As if to say he was on top of it, and Wesley was merely attempting to scramble up it.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Wesley placed his hand on the wooden table and rubbed its surface.
“She’s a feisty one. That’s for sure.” Chris brought his fork to his mouth, but the food didn’t quite make it in.
“What? You know her that well to know she’s feisty?” Wesley demanded.
Chris glanced around the table. “Lady Zenobia’s sister? Of course I know her. I know all the sisters. Their whole family in fact.” The food reached its target, and he chewed and swallowed. Under duress no less. “What?” he finally asked.
“You didn’t think to mention anything last night?” Wesley managed to keep his face impassive.
“What? You needed my help to ask a lady to dance?” Chris scoffed.
“No,” Wesley eyed his friend, “I didn’t need your help asking her to dance. But didn’t you think it was pertinent to disclose your proximity to the family?”
“I did not. The bet is between you and Samuel.” Chris continued chewing. Annoyingly so.
“You’re telling me that you don’t remember the kissing bet we made on Chris and Zenobia?” Samuel jumped into the conversation.
Mouth full, Chris piped up, “We don’t need to bring that up.”
“Because you defaulted?”
“I didn’t default.”
“Did you kiss her?” Samuel prodded.
Chris crunched down on his food. “Whatever.”
“Well, who won the bet?” James asked.
“I did,” Samuel boasted.
“Of course, you did,” Wesley wanted to revert the conversation back to Chris and Boudicca. “Would you say you’re good friends with Boudicca?”
“We’re friends. What do you want from me? We used to play together as children. I know she’s feisty. I know she likes to fence. I don’t know her favorite ice flavor or what music she likes.”
“I get it. You’re friends.” Wesley put his hands up in defense.
This was not good. The exasperating woman was a friend. Well, a friend of a friend. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize her reputation. Even more so now. And, perhaps for the first time, he appreciated the fact that he also didn’t want to play around with her emotions at all. Not that he currently thought she had more than two: disdain and offense.
“Samuel—”
“Aha! Another attempt to weasel your way out of this bet.”
“James—”
“This is between you and Samuel.” James’ hands were in the air. “You two made the ridiculous bet, now you can lie in it.”
“Good one,” Wesley said dryly.
“Don’t be mad at me when you’re the idiot.” James chuckled.
“Right. I can see you three are going to be a great help in all of this.”
“Happy to help.” James slapped him on the shoulder.
“What kind of trouble did she give you?” Chris asked guilelessly.
“No trouble,” he bit off. “I forgot to bring her flowers when I paid her a call today.”
And that sent the three into wallops of laughter.
“Wesley,” James shouted. “Are you new? Is this your first visit? What were you thinking ol’ boy?”
“Apparently I wasn’t.”
“It sounds like you’ve met your match. There might be a lady out there with higher standards than you.” Chris’ chuckles subsided. “You better be ready to bring your best game, Wes.”
“Yes. Well, I won’t be caught unprepared again.”
If only that were true, Wesley might have had more success the next day. The meal complete, a game of piquet won, Wesley was feeling on top of his game. It was a restful evening at home and a good long sleep. He had made arrangements for flowers to be delivered to his house the next morning, thus being able to present them in person. Nothing could top hand-delivered flowers.
Those thoughts should have lent to a peaceful sleep. But instead of a deep sleep, he dreamed of peonies. Pink peonies. Not red. Not white. No other colors at all. Just a pale pink flower with soft petals and a deep fragrance. He could almost smell it in his dream. That was a first. Dreams had the potential to be a safe place. A place where no harm could reach a person. A place where one could control everything. Add what they liked, discard what they didn’t. Yet dreams rarely achieved their full potential. So, of course, when he reached out to touch the rose it had thorns. And the thorns were sharp. But it wasn’t a sensation of pain that rattled through him. It was a sense of something else. Impossible to put into words, especially when one was dreaming. And more especially because when one woke up, all one remembered was the pale pink peony.
Peonies, of all things.