Page 6 of A Sinful Virgin for the Duke

“I thought I would find you here,” Andrew Gulliver, the Earl of Newfield, said to Frederick while approaching him. “Skulking in the shadows like a veritable gargoyle.”

Frederick stood against a wall in the ballroom and watched couples dance past him, his narrowed eyes skipping over every unmarried woman in the room. If it was not for the damned obligation of being part of the ton, of being a duke, he would have refused to open his doors to these fifty guests.

The past two hours following dinner had been excruciating. He had danced with nearly all the unattached women, debutantes, spinsters and widows alike, all of them marriage-minded, all of them irksome.

Whether it was the sound of their voices, their incessant chattiness, their beguiling fluttering lashes, or their evident wheedling to learn if he was looking for a bride, it all irritated him.

Frederick’s eyes swept the crowd once more. Despite the constant demands from the ton, from his friend and from his grandmother, he neither needed nor desired a wife.

“You must pass down the line.”

“The Dukedom cannot die.”

“You will be better off with a wife. She would steady you.”

“Leave me to it then,” Frederick scowled. “Don’t you need to get on with that plan you have up your sleeve to lure an innocent woman into your lair?” Snorting, Frederick sipped his whiskey, knowing light champagne would not be enough to settle his nerves.

“Me?” Andrew pressed a hand to his chest in mock chagrin. “Your unfounded accusation has hurt me, sir; you have wounded me deeply.”

He cocked a brow, “You are telling me that you have repented your rakish ways and are now a reformed man who has been bitten by the matrimonial bug at last? Are you now marriage-minded?”

“Marriage?” Andrew choked out the word as though it was sour on his tongue. “Now you insult me even further. I know you have not been down my path, but a rake is as likely to change its ways as soon as a leopard can change its spots. However, I was about to ask you that same question. Have you not yet found your bride? One you can love and cherish until the end of eternity?”

“I think you have forgotten how ton marriages work,” Frederick said dryly. “I do not need to fall in love with the woman. I just need her to be decent enough to sire me an heir.”

Besides, I doubt that any gently bred woman would take to my tastes in the bedroom. It would send any virgin into a dead faint.

Frederick extracted himself from his shadowy corner and aimed to escape to the balcony, only to have his plan foiled as an older lady wearing a dark sage green gown and her greying blonde hair in a high chignon, nearly collided with him.

She stepped back, her eyes hardly opening as one would if it had been an unintentional collision. Frederick was tired of these games, and well-rehearsed tactics, but he could not call her out on it.

“Oh, I am so terribly sorry, Your Grace,” she curtsied. “I hope I have not caused you to spill your drink.”

“No, it is perfectly untouched,” he said. “But thank you for your consideration, Miss…”

“I am certainly older than a miss, but I appreciate your compliment,” the lady said. “I am Anna Clarke, Marchioness of Treston at your service.”

Frederick inclined his head, hoping to escape the interaction before her daughter, niece or charge appeared “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady. Now, if you will excuse me?—”

“Mama,” a young woman came forward bearing two glasses of champagne.

Clad in a gown of white silk, he decidedly ignored how the glow of the candelabra slid over her décolletage, the neckline of the gown low enough to tease, but not low enough to be condemned for a debutante. “I have your drink.”

Frederick wondered dryly how long she had been waiting with those drinks in hand.

The girl was pretty as pretty went, with dark blonde hair, softly rounded cheeks tapered to a piquant little chin and big blue eyes.

“Oh,” she blinked at him. “I am so sorry, Your Grace.”

And now we begin to play the cat and mouse game, where I am the mouse.

“No harm done,” Frederick said, “And you are?”

“My daughter, Elizabeth Clarke,” the marchioness said proudly. “She just completed Dame Chandler’s Finishing School with outstanding marks.”

I wonder how far removed this is from parading the girl around the market like a cow, shouting, hear ye, hear ye, she is to be sold to the highest bidder. Cast your bids now.

“Ah, from what I heard that lady is a harsh taskmaster. My felicitations to you on leaving unscathed,” Frederick replied, lifting his glass. “I do hope you enjoy the evening but please, do excuse me.”

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