Chapter 2

CHAPTER2

“You did not mention that you would be having guests,” George remarked, sitting down in his usual place at the Morning Room table.

“Oh, did I not? How remiss of me.” Lady Finch smiled, but George was no fool; he knew very well that this was an orchestration, for it was not the first time she had done such a thing. “But is it not more pleasant to have a larger party? I have always believed so.”

George whipped his napkin before laying it carefully across his lap. “I have always preferred a smaller, more familiar group as you well know.”

He would not participate in Lady Finch’s little game, for though it seemed to amuse her endlessly, he had grown tired of it after the first three or four attempts to introduce him to new young ladies, who were, more often than not, nearly identical to the last. Not a glimmer of originality in a single one of them: they all played pianoforte with passable talent, they all claimed to enjoy the same poetry and literature but could barely recite a single sentence, they all embroidered with a tedious enthusiasm, and not one dared to let their face greet a solitary ray of sunshine, lest they should freckle.

As bland as flour—each and every one. He could admit that some were prettier than others, but prettiness was not enough for him. Beauty could be enjoyed for an evening, but the novelty wore off when morning came.

“These are Lady Agnes and Lady Rose, daughters to the former Earl of Snowley,” Lady Finch continued, undeterred.

“I did not know him,” George replied with a yawn. “And what is the nature of their presence here? More ingenues for you to lash into shape?”

A cold voice cut through him, demanding his attention. “You can speak to us directly, you know? We are not statues, incapable of speech, and though I might have had my mouth full, it takes but a swallow, and I am able to talk politely again. Or, perhaps, you would be more inclined to acknowledge me if I was conversing with my mouth full, chomping and chewing as I made our introductions. I suppose that would make for quite the lasting memory.”

He frowned at the woman who had spoken so defiantly. She sat haughtily in her chair, her shoulders pinned back, her small chin tilted up as if an invisible hand lifted it. She was not unpleasant to behold, but few young ladies were, yet there was nothing notable enough about her beauty to make him take a second look. Indeed, he likely would not have done if she had not all but chided him in public.

“Are you in the habit of speaking with your mouth full?” he could not help but reply.

“I am in no habit at all, Your Grace. I am not a nun, though perhaps that was your mistake—did you think we had taken a vow of silence, and that is why we could not be addressed directly?”

Her eyes were the most intriguing thing about her, colored an unusual shade of green—a summery, pale green like new leaves sprouting. They flared with an intense sort of fire though the rest of her pretty face remained unmoved. It was quite remarkable to him, in truth, that her gaze could harbor such anger while her expression was as calm and still as a portrait.

“It is customary to allow the host to introduce the guests,” George replied drily. “Are you from the countryside? The North, perhaps, where proper etiquette has not quite reached?”

Her eyes creased into a glare as he had hoped they might. Who did this woman think she was, trying to reprimand him in front of his acquaintance? Evidently, regardless of where she was from, she needed educating in the matter of hierarchy, and he did not mind being the schoolmaster.

“Manners are demanded in the North though perhaps they are not as valued here in the South?” she retorted just as drily, imitating him.

For some reason, that annoyed him more. He had expected her to back down as most young ladies with a modicum of character tended to do when pushed for wit. But not her, it seemed.

“You think me ill-mannered?” he accused.

“I did not say that. Do you think me uncouth?”

“I did not say that” he parroted, his eyelids twitching against his will.

“How curious it is that we are both speaking English, and yet quite unable to understand one another. We should have requested an interpreter,” she said with a pleased smile that served to irritate him further. She clearly thought she had won this battle of wits, but he was only beginning.

Kindness is the very best pin to deflate pride, he knew, putting on his warmest expression. It felt like an ill-fitting mask upon his face, tugging muscles he did not often use, but it would serve its purpose and be worth the strain of lips and eyes and cheeks when she did not know how to respond—a satisfaction he would certainly relish.

“It appears we have begun on the wrong foot, Lady Agnes, and it is never wise to begin a dance out of time with the music,” he said in the silky voice that made women blush furiously. A young lady had fainted once when he had kissed her hand—a fact that would always make him smile.

She rested her elbow upon the table, settling her chin into the upturned palm of her hand. A most unladylike gesture. “Are we dancing? I thought we were getting to know one another. Either way, you strike me as a waltzing sort of fellow.”

“A waltzing sort of fellow?” he repeated, feigning confusion. She could not have figured him out so easily, for it often took the fairer sex far longer to realize that he was a rake: an indulger of shallow pleasures and not a gentleman to stake the promise of a secure future upon.

“Goodness, not a waltz—I do get my dances muddled, sometimes. I meant only that you are graceful and elegant in your posture,” she replied, mischief shining in her unusual eyes. She was using his trick against him.

George cleared his throat, letting his gaze slide across Lady Agnes’ silent sister to the amused expression upon Lady Finch’s face. The old lady was enjoying herself far too much, no doubt aware that seeing him bested in wits was a rare spectacle indeed. And that, perhaps foolishly, only made him more determined to win.

“Doyou dance, Lady Agnes?” George sat back in his chair, lounging as a spare plate of fish was brought to him.

“Not if I can help it,” she replied swiftly as though she had had the retort ready to fire.

George nodded toward Lady Rose. “And what of your sister? Does she dance? Does she even speak?”

“Only when spoken to, and as you have not addressed her directly—goodness, how tedious I must be repeating myself—she cannot reply.” Lady Agnes met his increasingly frustrated gaze, unflapped and unflustered. Not something he was accustomed to when conversing with the opposite sex.

George twisted the edge of his napkin, his back stiffening as his hackles rose. “Lady Rose, is there a dance that you prefer?”

“Now, was that so difficult?” Lady Agnes interjected, making him realize that he had fallen right into her trap, giving her what she had wanted all along: recognition.

Lady Rose covered her mouth with a dainty hand, but George saw the fleeting smirk appear before she could pretend to dab at something upon her lips. “I favor a country dance, Your Grace. And my sister is quite the fibber, for she is most gifted in dancing. I do believe she could have been a prima ballerina if she had so desired.”

Those unexpected words drew George’s gaze back to Lady Agnes, who was making a show of finishing her cod and cream sauce, ignoring him completely.

Upon second look, making a detailed observation of the obstinate and infuriating woman, he realized he had made a mistake in glancing over her. She was exceedingly pretty, but pretty bored him. It was the confidence with which she carried herself that held his attention, and the subtle particulars that whispered of a wildness, hidden beneath the surface.

Her wavy brown hair, glinting with strands of russet and dark blonde, was hastily pinned back with two jade hair slides, allowing tendrils to spring loose as they pleased, giving her the appearance of someone who had just enjoyed a bracing walk along the coast. Windswept and liberated. Two long, trailing pieces of hair framed her face which was neither classically beautiful, traditionally pretty, nor just pleasing. She was something entirely different: a newly discovered creature with a more savage kind of beauty.

Sharp cheekbones softened into the plump apples of her cheeks, dusted with freckles that she made no effort to hide with powder. Her lips were small but full, making it appear like she was pouting, yet when she smiled, they spread wide into the most unbridled, disarming grin that made her cheeks even plumper, like a doll’s. And those eyes… Being almost too large for her face, there was no escape when they decided to fixate upon a person, drawing in the observer, tempting them to come to the edges of the two glinting, green pools.

“What prevented you from becoming a prima ballerina?” he asked, wetting his lips with his tongue as he noted the slender, swan-like curve of her neck and the flowing movements of her hands, gesturing as she spoke. Her wrists and forearms, gloved in pale blue silk, were mesmerizing, joining the dance of her fingertips, at odds with the brittle music of her voice.

“I lack the patience to stand upon my tiptoes for hours on end,” she explained, chuckling against the rim of her wine glass as she lifted it to her mouth. “And I cannot bear all of that curtseying and bowing. That ought to be saved for the end of a performance, not every scene.”

She kissed the glass as she drank, likely not realizing how sensual the act might be to an onlooker. Watching her, a familiar crackle of excitement surged up through George’s stomach, prompting his blood to quicken in his veins. It would pass, no more than a fleeting thrill, but at least Lady Agnes had some mystery about her—something that was not too common in high society.

“Your Grace, you have not touched your fish,” Lady Finch finally intervened, no doubt fearing that Lady Agnes’ challenging spirit might inspire him to leave without eating a single bite.

George managed a thin smile and picked up his knife and fork, cutting off a piece of the succulent fish and popping it into his mouth. He chewed while he held Lady Agnes’ gaze, trying to decide how best to make his next attack. For what Lady Finch did not seem to realize was that George could not be less inclined to leave—not before he had thwarted Lady Agnes’ strong line of witty defense, at least.

* * *

An hour and three courses later, George was at the end of his tether, unable to make a dent in Lady Agnes’ fortifications. She did not blush, she did not lower her gaze, she did not giggle shyly behind her napkin, she did not yield when he challenged her with remarks about the North or guesses about her way of living, nor did she balk when he posed his questions toward Lady Rose. Instead, she was ready to deflect everything he said, braced with verbal ammunition that he could not hope to defend against, protecting her sister with a vehemence that infuriated him.

“I did not realize the hour,” he said, resisting the urge to throw down his napkin in reluctant surrender. He could not show Lady Agnes that she was the victor. “I have imposed myself upon your generosity for long enough, Lady Finch. That was a delicious dinner, as ever, but I have business to attend to before the season begins.”

Lady Finch almost knocked over her glass in her sudden agitation. “Must you go so soon? Can business not wait until tomorrow? I thought we might all take a turn in the gardens, to aid our digestion and to appreciate the warmth of this fine spring evening.”

“I apologize, Lady Finch, but I must depart,” he insisted, rising from his chair.

Across the table, Lady Agnes flashed him a triumphant smile. “It has been a most diverting evening, Your Grace, thanks to your late arrival.”

“Yes, quite,” he replied, clenching his jaw. “I trust that Lady Finch will do well in making refined ladies out of your raw ingredients. Although, Lady Rose, I do not think you will need much polishing.”

Lady Rose dipped her head, a delicate flower sitting beside the thorny stem that defended her at every turn. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

With a stiff bow, he headed for the entrance hall… and had very nearly made it to the doors when Lady Finch’s hushed voice called him back. “Your Grace, might I have a word?”

She rushed across the ancient floors, picking up her skirts in her hurry to retain him. George stood and waited politely, straightening up in anticipation of the remorse that would surely come—the old lady apologizing on behalf of Lady Agnes. That would be enough of a victory for him.

“Of course,” George replied as Lady Finch came to a standstill.

“What did you make of young Lady Rose?”

George flinched in disappointment. There would be no apology, just another game of Lady Finch’s that he would have to decline to be involved in.

“Why would my opinion on the fair lady matter?” he asked.

“She is a lovely creature,” Lady Finch explained, “and I hoped you might take a liking to her. That is why I invited you this evening, for I have been corresponding frequently with Lady Agnes, and I have learned of all of Lady Rose’s merits. What is more, she is exactly as described—charming, sweet, amusing, and once I have contended with the matter of her confidence, she will be the most glittering diamond that the ton has ever seen.”

George pretended to pick lint from the lapel of his tailcoat. “I am still at a loss, dear Lady Finch. How is that of any concern to me?”

“You are a duke, and it is due time that you took a wife,” Lady Finch huffed as if it should be obvious. “It pains me to see you spending your days alone and your evenings with an endless carousel of strangers. Do you wish to forever share your dinners with an old lady like me, until I am gone, and you have no one?”

George blinked at her, shocked by her remark about a carousel of strangers. “Lady Finch, you might be wise and respected, but such words do not become you. I am my own gentleman. I choose to spend my days and nights as I please, and I have no intention of changing that.”

“But would it be so awful to have someone?” Lady Finch insisted. “And do not chastise me for speaking the truth, Your Grace. I am well aware of the manner of life you are leading, and if I were your mother, I would tell you that I do not care for it. Either way, that is not what I want to discuss. I need help with this young lady.”

George sniffed. “Then, find a gentleman whose behavior you find acceptable.”

“She is to make her debut this season, she knows no one in London, and her dowry is not exactly… considerable,” Lady Finch went on, ignoring him. “Yet, I find her utterly delightful. This sort of young lady does not come along too often, Your Grace, and I want to personally ensure that she makes an advantageous match. She has such promise, my dear, and I know you hate to see wasted potential.”

George grimaced, narrowing his eyes at his old friend. “Are you asking me to court her, or are you asking me to coax other gentlemen into courting her?”

“Either would suffice,” Lady Finch replied with a smile, as if she already knew she would get her way. “But having you as a sort of… guardian to guide her through the season would certainly make her more compelling to other, more respectable fellows. These gentlemen—they admire you for reasons that I shall never understand, but you would be of service to her, and I would owe you a great debt for doing me, your friend, a grand favor. You see, I think this season shall be my last, and I should like to end with my reputation for success intact.”

George had a thousand questions for Lady Finch but could urge none of them to his tongue. In a way, he did not want to hear that she might be unwell or that her vitality might be waning, for the thought of losing her was impossible to him. Looking at her, he saw the deep lines of age and the weariness in her resigned expression and chose to believe that was the reason behind her remark: she had grown tired of society and being used as a means for debutantes to make excellent matches. Nothing more.

He sighed, sweeping a hand through his curls. “You know I cannot refuse you, Madame.”

Her affection for waifs and strays and those who were born under ill-fated stars was the sole reason he was not in a gutter somewhere, stripped of his titles and his dignity. For that, he owed her everything, and no favor would ever be too great, nor would he have dreamed of allowing her to be indebted to him.

“Does this mean you will help?” Lady Finch’s eyes brightened, making him a touch suspicious that she was tricking him.

He unleashed a groan. “I suppose I must if this is really to be your last season.”

“It is, dear boy.” She rose up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “You shall not regret this, Your Grace.”

He bowed his head. “I hope not.”

Indeed, he was already thinking of his next meeting with the two sisters, for though Lady Agnes had won that evening’s battle of wits, much to his chagrin, she would not win the war. If he had his way, she would rue the day she had looked up from her fish and said a single barbed word to him.