“You didn’t bump into me. You crashed into me.”
He had never in all his life been so thrown off in the middle of a dance as to stop mid-step, but at those words he ceased hearing the three-four timing of the waltz. The strings were silenced. And his ears no longer perceived the resounding keys.
“That’s exactly what I told them,” he stared at her, feeling all kinds of odd. Had he not just tried to convince his friends that the bump they were calling a bump was in fact not a bump at all? And here Boudicca was vindicating him.
“Your Grace,” she murmured. And the pressure from her fingers, the darting of her eyes, and the brush of her skirts against his thigh all thrummed through him reminding him that he was in the middle of a dance floor and he had better damn well dance. But it was more than a reminder. It was…something. He couldn’t put his finger on it. He wasn’t even sure he knew entirely what to put his finger on.
“What did you say? And to whom?” It was the first genuine question she had asked him. He could finally hear the real toneof her voice. It was…crisp. What an odd word to use to describe a voice, but it was. She was crisp.
And then he remembered to answer her question. “I said nothing.” He couldn’t very well tell her what he had said about the bumping. That would lead to more questions, and he held a very strong conviction (even upon his brief experiences with her) that she would interrogate him. She wouldn’t stop until she had discovered the bet. And that would mean he would lose. That would not do. So a small lie was justifiable.
He was pretty sure he heard her mumble, “And so shall I.” And they were back to square one. Her shackling him in silence. But that one glimpse into her true self…that one authentic inquiry had given him an outline of who she might actually be. And she might actually be a little bit of fun to draw out. And though his goal was to win, it couldn’t hurt to have a little fun in doing so.
So to flaunt his chains, and taunt her, he said, “Your silence shackles me, for it’s impossible to have a conversation with myself while maintaining my reputation for sanity. Is this your version of, ‘Let the men live in slavery if they will?’” He quoted her namesake trusting she would recognize it, and she didn’t disappoint him.
She quirked a brow at him, but gave little else. “I’m merely an ‘ordinary person’, Your Grace.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” He lifted his hand, guiding her into a twirl. And as he did so, he caught a glimmer of a smile. A half smile to be sure, but the flash appeared to be genuine all the same.
The dance was coming to an end, and he wouldn’t offer for a second one. Not tonight. But he still wanted to plant the seed of his intentions in her mind.
“I shall call on you tomorrow.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
Her deferential treatment should have pleased him. If that was all she had presented to him, it probably would have gratified him. However, knowing what fierceness lay beneath induced a twisted need to see more.
No, she was certainly not ordinary. That fact was spelled out in her very name. If only he knew then that she was one of the least ordinary people he would ever meet, perhaps he could have prepared for his future. As it was, he was the least prepared he could possibly be.
Chapter Four
Men always hadulterior motives. If they told you they wanted one thing, they always wanted another thing. To be sure, they probably wanted that one thing as well, but there was always something else.
So when the Duke of Baskim invited Boudicca to dance, she knew he wanted more than just a dance. There was no reasonable explanation for his arrogant-clean-the-floor-behavior to evolve into a polite-shall-we-dance-because-you’re-oh-so-charming demeanor. Definitely not. The man wanted something. What the deuce that was, she didn’t know. Yet. But he could be sure that she wouldn’t stop until she uncovered the ugly truth. For it was always ugly.
Truth rarely, if ever, came in a neat little box with pretty ribbons. It was never absolutely beautiful. Truth was wrapped in complexities like pain, vulnerabilities, and weakness. All the things Boudicca cared little for.
After years on the Marriage Mart, she had experienced her fair share oftruthfulmen, only later to discover their ulterior motives. Fortune hunters. Pleasure seekers. Status climbers. Lord Tamely—not as tame as his name would suggest—was the worst of the lot. He had a habit of making full families his enemy. Thankfully, she had escaped his clutches. Unfortunately, it had to happen more than once. He wasn’t the only culprit though. She was an earl’s daughter with a more than fair dowry. And she could admit with confidence that she was beautiful. So despiteher family’s eccentric reputation, there had been offers. Not a single one of which she had considered for even a second. It hadn’t been difficult to convince her father of that either.
He was around. But not very attentive. Or attentive at all. Since losing his wife years earlier, he had retreated into his reading. Which mostly consisted of history, strategies for war, and notable quotes from famous warriors, including each daughter’s namesake. Much of the knowledge had been passed down (that was putting it lightly, it had been required study) to his daughters and his one son. Boudicca’s brother was less present and therefore less attentive than her father, being on the continent and all. The loss of their mother had hit him hard. Perhaps being the only son, he didn’t feel as though he could confide in his younger sisters. Though he was treated similarly to his sisters, he was the heir, so it had been different. He had studied as well, but he had also been trained to be the next earl.
Boudicca didn’t much mind the obscure studying, the reading, and the memorizing their father forced upon them. But her real passion was in the weaponry. In fact, all the daughters had developed an enthusiasm for one weapon or another.
It was not common knowledge among theton. Heaven forbid gossip got out that the four daughters of an earl spent their off evenings wielding foils, bows, daggers, and pistols. Boudicca’s favorite weapon was the long blade. She had been fencing for as long as she could remember, and she was exceptional. Though no one knew it was her behind the mask. It was all part of her grand plan for her life as a spinster. If she was going to be a spinster, she might as well be an eccentric one.
Whenever she worked up an appetite for competition, which was more often than she liked to admit as a woman, she messaged her old fencing tutor to come for a visit. So really, she still had regular lessons almost once a week.
And she was in the middle of writing just such a missive when the butler announced that there was a visitor for her.
A visitor. She knew who it was, of course. The dark-chocolate-haired, hazelnut-eyed duke. The vision of him caused an odd sensation to trickle through her. Hunger. Thinking of food like that was always quick to tempt her appetite.
It would be normal, expected even, for her to take her time. Check her hair. Possibly even change her frock. But him…that arrogant duke, she did nothing. She didn’t even check her reflection in the mirror.
She marched downstairs, ready to greet him in the drawing room. No chaperone required. She was spinster enough to be the chaperone.
In her mind, she planned to claim allergies to the flowers he presented, and then offer him lukewarm tea. Even if he brought her favorite bouquet: pale pink peonies. It was as devious as she risked to be. There was no point in making an enemy of the man. She merely wanted to make a good enough show to her sisters that she had hooked a duke. Then, after reeling him in a bit, she would throw him back in the pond for someone else.
The bothersome man couldn’t even let her have that.
