Only A Duke Would Dare (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #42)

Chapter 1

Sometimes new chapters are thrust upon you, sometimes you must seize them yourself. Tonight was the night of a new chapter. A chapter of firsts. Lady Elowyn Price had never been more ready. This very night, this very moment, she was embracing all she had denied herself.

She surveyed the ballroom and inhaled a deep breath.

Ah.

The smell of possibility.

“You’re really doing this, then?” Isadora asked with a slight furrow of her brow.

Persephone nodded her agreement to the question. “Yes, are you sure?”

Isadora also nodded. “You know you don’t have to feel forced to do anything?”

Elowyn tipped her head, touched by her two friends’ ongoing concern.

They’d been bosom confidants ever since she could remember—all through childhood—but had diverged onto slightly different paths after their debut season.

Isadora had married shortly after her coming out and then lost her husband to illness in her third year of marriage.

Persephone had turned into a butterfly of flirtation but refused to accept any suitors.

And Elowyn, well, she had joined the ranks of the wallflowers after a slew of unfortunate events.

No longer.

“I refuse to be a shrinking violet any longer,” Elowyn said firmly.

“Of course, I support you wholeheartedly, however . . .” Isadora trailed off, unsure how to phrase her next words.

Elowyn chuckled. “Please, do not leave me in suspense. However, what?”

“I think,” Persephone stepped in to finish for Isadora, “she means you’ve been saying that every year for the past five years.”

Elowyn grimaced. She had, yes. And her friends had been supportive of both her determination and her retreat.

“I know,” she murmured. “But those years have all been in preparation for this year. Nothing will hold me back now.” And she truly did mean nothing.

Not a brutal rejection. Not the diamonds of the ton making fun at her.

Not a sprained ankle. Not a terrible cold.

And certainly not her own doubts. No, this year, her determination outmatched any obstacle.

Nothing could stop her.

Persephone chuckled. “Very well, seeing as you’re this determined, I salute you. I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Just point me in the direction of the Earl of Stagbourne.”

“The Earl of Stagbourne?” Isadora asked, eyes flying wide. “Why him? Wait, just for the sake of clarity, what is your first order of business?”

Oh, right, her friend hadn’t attended yesterday’s soiree where she and Persephone had discussed the perfect gentlemen for these tasks. Elowyn grinned. “A dance.”

“I see,” Isadora murmured. “Are you sure the Earl of Stagbourne is the perfect match for your first dance?”

Persephone nodded. “Of course. The man is praised for being the best dance partner in England.”

Which was rather frightening in itself. Elowyn could count on one hand how many times she’d danced over the years.

Three.

Three dances.

And they’d all been with her brother. So could they even count? In any event, dancing was the best place to start. First dance. First kiss. First tryst in a garden. First ride through Hyde Park. First husband—and God willing—the last.

“Yes, but will he be good to our Elowyn?” Isadora pursed her lips. “That is the better question.”

“Of course.” Persephone’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you know something we don’t?”

Isadora cleared her throat and scoffed at the question. “What else could I know that you don’t?”

Elowyn arched a brow.

“Well, then,” Persephone said. “Apart from being a good dancer, it’s said he’s also one of the kindest gentlemen of the ton. He won’t object if Elowyn asks him first, neither will he reject her. That’s why he’s the perfect choice.”

Elowyn sent a reassuring glance to Isadora. “Don’t worry, Is, I’m ready.”

Isadora sighed, then gave a nod. “I know, I know. I don’t know why I’m so worried. You’re wearing pink. You’ve always looked prettiest in this shade but never worn it to a ball before.”

Elowyn’s face flushed and she smoothed her skirts. “Nonsense!”

“Oh, don’t deny it,” Persephone said with a grin.

Her friends laughed, only causing her face to flame even more. Yes, well, sad to say, she hadn’t wanted the color to be spoiled for her. “Hush and help me locate the partner for my first dance.”

Persephone nodded to two men across the room in conversation, their demeanor that of two friends at ease about the topic they were conversing on. “Purple cravat.”

Well then.

She could do this.

“Do you want us to come with you?” Isadora asked.

Lord no! “Do not even dare.” She had to do this alone.

Part of the disaster of her first year had been because her face would turn beet red and her hands would shake whenever a gentleman approached her with any form of interest. She’d sometimes even stutter from nerves.

Her refuge had been her friends. Tonight, more than ever, she wanted to prove she could walk toward what she wanted without her courage abandoning her.

She drew in a breath and straightened her shoulders. “Wish me luck.”

“Oh stars,” Isadora muttered. “I think I’m more nervous than you.”

Elowyn grinned at her friend. Foolish or brave, perhaps there was no difference. Nevertheless . . .

Here goes nothing.

***

Julien Everett, the Duke of Mandeville, was three seconds away from losing his infamous temper. Not just lose it, but have it explode all over this godforsaken event, never mind the chit trying to entrap him. He didn’t have time or the patience for this. And yet, here he was.

His gaze dropped to the hands suggestively splayed on his chest.

Well, this was a bloody first.

Not traps set by greedy mothers, that happened on every other night, but bloody stepping straight into one. That had never happened before.

Damnation.

He would never have attended tonight if not for his business with the Duke of Cranbrook, which had been taken care of readily enough.

However, before he could slip away, he’d been waylaid by this overly tenacious chit, who insisted she had a message to deliver.

Normally, he’d have ignored such an approach.

However, given the timing, he couldn’t entirely dismiss that Cranbrook had sent her after him.

He should have bloody known better. In those seconds of hesitation, he’d allowed himself to be drawn into an empty drawing room.

“I will only say this once, woman,” Julien ground out. “Remove your paws from my person.”

“Please, call me Gabrielle,” she murmured, blatantly ignoring his request, and went on, “You must know, I’m the diamond of the season. I can fulfill all your heart’s desires.”

Diamond? What bloody diamond? A thorn more like. Heh. Just how did she reconcile those two things? “And what do you know of what I desire?”

Her grin seemed to widen even more. “Your desire is to continue your bloodline.”

Christ, deliver me . . .

The audacity. That was the farthest thing from his heart’s desire.

“Wrong. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.

” He tried to step back, but the bloody woman only pressed closer, her fingers digging into the fabric of his waistcoat so thoroughly that anything short of prying her from his person wouldn’t deter her.

Blazing hell.

He balled his hands into fists, the leather straining across his knuckles. He’d have done just that, pry her away, but he didn’t want to soil his gloves. He’d already have to rid himself of his waistcoat. Possibly burn the thing.

“Oh, don’t be like this, Mandeville,” the woman practically purred. “I can be very obedient.”

Obedience. The term caused the simmering embers in his chest to blaze into a roaring fire.

He’d spent most of his childhood under the thumb of his father and grandfather, both of whom demanded obedience.

Had spent his entire adult life ensuring he’d never be trapped like that again.

And now this green chit dared set up one of the worst traps for him.

Her bravery was almost laughable.

Almost. If it weren’t so damn infuriating.

“Do not make me warn you again,” Julien growled, a warning itself. “You won’t like the next one.”

She did not so much as hesitate to flutter her lashes, looking like a damn crazed pigeon. “Must you be so stern with me? You say I’m wrong, but I am not without perception, you know.”

She was not with it either. He took a step back, but unfortunately, like a newly attached shadow, she followed his retreat.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, his patience running so damn thin, he was about to toss propriety into a damn barrel of gunpowder and light a match.

Should he just allow her plan to play out?

Irrevocably ruin the chit’s reputation for daring to play games with him?

“What you’re planning will never happen.

You have sorely misjudged me if you believe your little plan will work. ”

Her sickeningly sweet smile made his stomach turn.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mandeville, but I know there’s more to the rumors than meets the ear.”

“There’s really not,” Julien ground out, the vein in his jaw throbbing in protest.

In response, she rose to the tips of her toes, her lips aiming for his.

Rage tore through every part of his body, and old fury rose from the depth of the dark void he usually kept sealed by gates of iron.

He snatched her wrist and glowered down at the woman, squeezing her wrist in warning, not enough to hurt, but just enough to get his point across.

And it did.

Fear flickered in her eyes.

This was precisely why he kept his distance. Why he never allowed people too close. People always wanted to overstep their boundaries. Always wished for more than he was willing to give. Save for a few exceptions. This chit wasn’t one of them.

“Y-your Grace?”

He twisted his mouth up into a wolfish grin.

“Is this not what you wanted? After all, you have lied to me, placed your hands on me, and refused my request to stand down. All for what? An attempt to secure the title of duchess?” He leaned forward until they were eye to eye.

“Are you even sure you can handle a man like me?”

A gasp from the doorway had his head snapped up.

Julien glanced over, his gaze falling on a beauty in pink.

Christ.

This night couldn’t get any worse.