Page 9 of A Deviant Spinster for the Duke
Duncan Lock had never encountered a woman so impervious to his charms, nor so determined to rebuff his flirtatious efforts. There were ladies who acted coyly to begin with, of course, but they could rarely resist his attention for long. Ordinarily, all it required was a change of approach, adapting his pursuit to the character of the lady he had set his sights upon.
Valeria Maxwell, however, was a lump of granite, impossible to erode with his usual tide of sultry compliments and flirtatious behavior.
“You wantmeto helpyou find a husband?” he repeated flatly. “I am offering you whatever you want, andthatis what you are requesting?”
She had been right to tell him that he would probably be disappointed. It was akin to arranging a hunt with old schoolfriends, certain that it would be a beautiful day for it, only for bad weather to roll in and douse everyone with anicy downpour, scaring off the birds and deer. Leaving the party soggy and miserable, wondering why they bothered riding out at all.
“Yes,” she said simply.
He withdrew a half step, eyebrow raised. “You want me to be your matchmaker?”
“I imagine that if anyone knows the decent gentlemen of society and who to avoid, it is you,” she said with a slight shrug of dainty shoulders.
“With respect, Valeria?—”
“Miss Maxwell will suffice,” she interrupted, her plump lips flattening into a tight line.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Miss Maxwell, I can find you a matchmaker, but I cannotbeyour matchmaker. I would not know where to begin with you.”
“Am I so without prospects?” she challenged, her tone almost daring him to be blunt.
Taking another half step back, he surveyed her as if he had not already observed her at great length, committing every detail of her beauty, her figure, and her demeanor to memory.
She was slender in the way that those who loved the countryside were, and taller than most, with the most exquisite auburn hair that shone in the sunlight. Strands shifted color depending on how she turned her head: strawberry, copper, russet, and burnished gold. Her eyes were the shade of late summer leaves, not yet turned toward autumn, her skin a healthier hue than the ghostly white of most society women, proudly dusted with a pretty constellation of freckles.
Fiery, defiant, curious, rebellious. A splendid blend.
“How old are you?” he asked instead of replying.
She scowled at him. “Five-and-twenty.”
“And, at five-and-twenty, why do you think I can succeed where you have not?” he said, not at all surprised to hear that she had some wisdom, some experience. She did not carry herself like a debutante, which he rather liked.
She sauntered away, skimming her fingertips along the back of the nearest settee. “Because you know men, and I do not. Because you have influence, and I have so little.” She paused, smiling a little. “And because you owe me.”
He laughed in the back of his throat, unable to help it. “I do.”
“Are you going to break your word?”
“No, but I should like to understand. If I do not, I can be of no assistance to you.” He leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, watching the way she moved through the room.
There was hesitation in the sway of her hips and the position of her hands, as if she did not know what to do with them. He was making her nervous.
Not so impervious, perhaps.
“What is there to understand? Are you not an intelligent man?” She canted her head, staring back at him.
He chuckled. “I am reasonably intelligent.”
“Well then—I wish to be married, I need a husband to do that, and you are well acquainted with most of the gentlemen of the ton. There is no trickery here, Your Grace. It really is that simple.” She paused, chewing her lower lip. “Of course, we shall have to keep this between us. I do not want to be entangled in a scandal with you, Your Grace.”
A pity…
“Do you have any requirements?” he asked, more intrigued by the prospect than he cared to admit.
She halted behind an armchair, eyeing him warily. “What do you mean?”
“Preferences?” he replied with a smirk. “Do you want a husband that is likely to die soon? Do you favor an excellent head of hair, or would you not be averse to some balding? Do you like your gentlemen tall, short, dark hair, fair hair, thin as a broom, plump as a festive goose? Should they be witty or very dull? Is this to be a marriage of convenience, or one of companionship—passion, even?”
