Page 36 of A Scarred Wallflower for the Duke
Then again, perhaps it was not its perceived inaccuracy that had prevented her from taking the portrait. Perhaps she was ashamed of the way she had behaved. Perhaps she was ashamed of all she had allowed him to do to her. Ashamed she had let herself lose control.
As far as Vincent was concerned, there was no finer thing than having Georgina Wyatt writhing beneath him, gasping his name. The feel of her, the taste of her—intoxicating. Since their stolen afternoon in his smoking room three days ago, he had thought of little else.
Tonight though… tonight he was to be Miss Lydia’s. Tonight, he was to walk on the arm of the lady his mother had chosen as his wife, parading her in front of thetonas his potential bride. He had been dreading the ball for days.
Yes, it would be a chance to see Georgina, but she would be prancing around the place on the arm of the Baron of Renshaw. He was dreading that even more than he was dreading an evening in Lydia’s company.
There was a knock at the door and Vincent hurriedly shoved the drawing into his pocket. His valet stepped inside carrying the shaving bowl and razor. He sat them on the dressing table in the corner of the room.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” he asked with a crooked smile. “If you do not mind me saying, you look like a man about to head to the executioner.”
Vincent forced a chuckle. Could not help but admit he felt that way too.
* * *
Lydia Wyatt wasnotlooking forward to the ball. A night glued to the arm of the Duke of Levinton sounded positively intolerable. Worst of all, she would be forced to watch her darling Peter prancing around the place with her sister.
Not that she held it against Georgie at all. How could she? Georgina was the genius who had concocted such a plan—a plan to get rid of that dreadful Duke once and for all.If only we could see the plan through a little faster…
Lydia walked into the ballroom with her arm looped through her sister’s. The place was already a hive of activity, with the string orchestra in full flow, and brightly dressed couples littering the floor. Lydia had taken as long as humanly possible to get ready, and she was glad to see they had already missed a large portion of the festivities.
She glanced over her shoulder at Marcus and their grandmother, who were walking several paces behind them. Confident they were out of earshot, Lydia leaned in to speak to her sister. “Tell my Peter that I miss him,” she told Georgina in a low voice. “Tell him how much I wish it were him I was dancing with tonight.” She sighed heavily.
“I shall be sure to pass on the message.” Georgina gave her a crooked smile. “There is no need to look quite so dour. You look as though you are about to walk to the gallows.”
Lydia sighed. “Ifeelas though I am about to walk to the gallows. How can I face an entire evening in the Duke’s presence? It is simply intolerable.”
“Well. You shall just have to find a way. There he is.” Georgina nodded toward the Duke, who was standing in a corner of the ballroom, chatting with a group of his friends. He caught sight of them at once and gave both sisters a nod in greeting. Lydia felt the muscles in her shoulders tighten.
“Good evening, Miss Wyatt, Miss Lydia.” Peter swept up to them smoothly, then turned to greet Marcus and their grandmother. He was dressed immaculately, in a charcoal suit and waistcoat, his walnut-colored hair neatly trimmed. The navy cravat at his throat highlighted the blue flecks in his eyes. The sight of him went some way to easing Lydia’s dread.
The Dowager Viscountess gave him as warm a smile as Lydia suspected her capable of.That, at least, is something. Hopefully, she will accept Peter when he finally asks for my hand.
Peter’s eyes caught Lydia’s for a moment, and he gave her the faintest of smiles. Lydia felt something warm in her chest. And then he turned to her sister. Pressed a hand to his heart and sighed lovingly.
“Miss Wyatt, you look wonderful this evening. May I have the pleasure of this dance?”
* * *
Damn that Renshaw to Hell.
Vincent had been hoping for at least a word with Georgina before the Baron swept her off across the dance floor. He had intended to ask her outright about the state of her relationship with Renshaw—and had intended to demand an honest answer.
And then what? Even if she admitted there was nothing between them, you still could not make her your wife. No one would ever accept it.
Nonetheless, he needed to know the truth.
He had also intended to give her something of a ribbing about the meek and overly polite letter she had penned to his mother earlier that week, asking her forgiveness for the way she had behaved at their afternoon tea. Vincent had no doubt Lady Thomson had forced Georgina to do so—probably on pain of death.
He stood among his friends with a glass in his hand, doing his best not to watch Georgina and the Baron as they chatted with each other on their way to the dance floor. Renshaw whispered something in her ear and Georgina tossed her head back, laughing merrily. Vincent had never seen her behave in such a girlish way. And he did not enjoy it one bit.
Lord Greenford, next to Vincent with a glass of brandy in hand, followed his gaze. He nodded in Georgina’s direction. “Who would ever have thought it? I hear that Renshaw plans to make her his wife. Does he really imagine he can do no better?”
Vincent’s hand tightened around his glass. He was not sure what he was angrier about: the thought of Renshaw marrying Georgina, or Greenford implying that he was settling by doing so.
If he truly is to marry her, that Renshaw is a damn lucky bastard. How can I just stand back and allow her to become his wife?
Before he could open his mouth to reprimand his friend, Greenford whacked Vincent on the shoulder. “There you go, Levinton. There is your young bride now.” He chuckled. “You are lucky she does not take after her sister.”
