Page 4 of The Duke's Spinster

Now all hehad to do was bump into Lady Simone, ask her to dance, and have a sham courtship.

The details of the bet had been set. Bump into a lady. Dance with her. Court her. Propose to her. And of course, she wasn’t allowed to know of the bet. That would throw everything off. To Samuel, it wasn’t part of the bet if the woman said yes or no to the proposal. Likely, he assumed the woman would say yes, because really, what woman would say no to him?

He was a handsome, wealthy, young duke. And he had a decent personality. Or, more precisely, up until this time, his personality hadn’t been harsh enough to deter any ladies.

Speaking of not deterring ladies, there was Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Melson. She was making a beeline for him. He knew what that entailed. She had already tried to set him up with several ladies. How many nieces, god-daughters, and other female relatives of marrying age could one woman have?

Apparently, the answer was infinite. For they just kept coming. And each one that came gave him a new headache.

The first one had spelled her name for him. Her name had been Jane.Jane with an e, she had said. The dance couldn’t have been short enough after that opener. The next one wasn’t sure where the continent was. The entire continent. She wasn’t sure if England was north of it, south, east, or west.

The next few ladies the dowager had finagled a dance for were ruthless gossips. He still wasn’t sure what their angle was.Should he be impressed that they knew so much about thetonthat they could recite whose dresses were a season out of style? Or was he supposed to commiserate with them and lament the deterioration of society as one knew it all because one wore too much lace? Or was it ribbons?

And after that, Wesley hadn’t kept a very clear record of who was who. All he knew was that he dreaded the sight of the dowager, and he avoided her at all costs.

So, with her in sight, and he with a game plan for at least part of the evening, he strategized a getaway. In theory, it should be simple. Keep an eye on her while backing up just enough to make a quick turn and dart toward Lady Simone. Then commence the bumping.

If only theories always worked the way they should…well, then science as the world knew it would be an entirely different game. The theory worked as far as keeping his eyes on her and backing up.

“Wesley, are you—” Samuel had a smirk on his face as he darted a glance between Wesley and the duchess.

He was smirking because he knew what was coming if Wesley didn’t make a clean escape. And, of course, instead of aiding and abetting the runner, Samuel lifted two fingers to acknowledge—and welcome!—the dowager.

“Traitor,” Wesley hissed and flashed angry blue eyes at his friend. In response, Samuel’s wavy long locks jostled in laughter. Wielding a bit of a rebellious streak, Samuel was the only one in their posse with longer hair. The other three could almost pass for brothers, with Wesley being the most uptight of them. And right now, Wesley was especially resentful of the mischief in his friend’s countenance. That man could play dirty when he wanted to. And there was a lot at stake.

Flustered, Wesley took a few extra steps backward, therefore making his swift turn further away from his intended target, and—

THUNK!

Drat. Something soft and pliable met his elbow. And then something lukewarm and wet dripped down the back of his calf.

This was the last thing he needed. Some over imbibing imbecile throwing his drink all over his breeches.

Mid-turn, heart hammering, all to avoid the dowager and engage in this already irritating bet, Wesley started to confront the man who was obviously at fault. “What the deuc—” and mid-thought he realized the voice leaking an expletive didn’t belong to a man at all, but a lady. “—duke?”

And if Wesley hadn’t been flustered beyond belief, trying to avoid the dowager at all costs, as well as working his way to Lady Simone who liked him less than he liked her (which should have been an affront to his ego but was not), he probably would have noticed a few things about the lady holding the lemonade.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” the sweet voice drifted over his head.

“Never mind. Just—just…needs to be cleaned up.” He wasn’t looking at her downcast head of golden locks as he scanned the room for a footman.

Catching the eye of one, he raised his handkerchief saying, “Here.”

The lady then looked up and saw the raised cloth. A flash of umbrage flew across her eyes. She snatched the cloth with a grumble he couldn’t make out.

Shocked that she snatched his handkerchief from his fingers, he snapped at her, “What are you doing?”

“Am I too slow, Your Grace?” she bit off. All sweetness evaporated.

“No, of course not.”

She bent down before he could say another word and placed the cloth on the ground to soak up the liquid.

“Get up,” he grumbled.

“Would you make up your mind?” she volleyed.

Nettled, he took her hand in his. A current shot through him, but he was far too vexed to give it much credence. “Stop that,” he ground out. “You’ll make a scene.”

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