Chapter THIRTEEN
“The betting book at White’s has seen no rest in the last twenty-four hours.” Garrett slapped his gloves against his knee as the four friends bounced along in his carriage to the Havertys’ party the next evening. “Everyone in town is speculating about your challenge with the duke.”
Lucy straightened her shoulders and eyed her cousin. “First of all, how has everyone in town found out about it? Second, I didn’t think you were a member at White’s.”
Garrett laughed. “I’m not. But everyone at Brooks’s has been talking about it nonstop as well. You wouldn’t believe how high some of the bets are up to.”
“You didn’t answer the first question,” Lucy pointed out.
Garrett shrugged. “Very well, I may have mentioned it to a few chaps.”
“Dissolute gambler,” Jane mumbled, pulling the book away from her nose. She eyed Garrett over the top of it. “And out of curiosity, exactly how high are the bets?”
Garrett whistled. “High enough to buy a new carriage. And I’ll ignore the fact that you just called me dissolute.”
Jane smirked at him.
Cass worried her hands. “I think it is disastrous, simply disastrous.”
Lucy reached over and patted Cass’s knee. “Don’t worry, Cass. I’m certain to win.”
“I know that, Lucy. I’m just worried that it’ll harm your reputation and … Making a bet with a duke, the Duke of Claringdon of all people, cannot be good for your reputation. I’m certain of it.”
“Reputations are highly overrated if you ask me,” Jane said from behind her book.
Garrett’s eyebrow shot up. “Really?” he asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.
Jane pulled the book down to the tip of her nose and eyed him over its edge. “Yes, are you surprised I think that, Upton?”
Garrett shrugged. “No. Not particularly. Perhaps I’m only surprised that you admitted it.”
“I’m a bluestocking, Upton. If I gave a toss about my own reputation, I’d study far less and spend far more time worrying about things like hair ribbons and frocks.”
He blinked at her innocently. “Bluestockings don’t wear hair ribbons, Miss Lowndes?”
Jane pushed up the book to hide her face again. “We wear them, Upton. We just don’t care about them.”
“I’m truly worried for Lucy tonight,” Cass continued, interrupting them.
Jane dropped her book again. “I’m not worried. I’m looking forward to it, actually. I can see tomorrow’s headline in the Times, ‘Lady Lucy Crushes Claringdon.’”
Lucy raised her chin and smiled. “Thank you for your faith in me, Janie.”
“And I, for one, want a front-row seat tonight,” Jane added with a sly smile.
Cass waved her hand. “I’m worried. What if the headline ends up being, ‘Duke of Claringdon Wins Yet Another Battle’?”
“Do you really think our Lucy will let him win?” Garrett asked.
“Thank you, Garrett,” Lucy replied.
“I just think the duke is quite clever, and he’s seen a lot of the world,” Cass said. “I would hate for you to be humiliated, Lucy.”
Lucy regarded her friend closely. “Don’t worry, Cass. I’ll be fine. Have some faith.” Truth be told, she’d had her own moment of doubt in the middle of last night. Confronting the duke in public? Why, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t have a moment’s doubt, would she? Would the arrogant duke consider for a moment if he would lose to her? She’d quickly got over it, however.
Lucy had few talents. Charming people, dancing, playing the pianoforte—those skills had eluded her for her entire life, but cutting people to shreds with her tongue? That was a gift the universe had seen fit to bestow upon her and she never doubted it. Well, perhaps for one brief little minute last night, but in the end, she knew she’d win. She had to.
When Lucy’s little group entered the ballroom, tension crackled in the air. It was as if one hundred pairs of eyes turned immediately to watch them.
“I wonder if the duke is here already,” Cass whispered from her right.
The answer to that question quickly materialized in the form of their hostess, Lady Haverty. The woman glided up to them with a sly smile on her face. “Lady Lucy, good to see you. The Duke of Claringdon has yet to arrive.”
Lucy let out her breath. Why did that reprieve give her a bit of peace?
“Thank you so much for your kind invitation this evening,” Lucy replied. Her friends also greeted their hostess warmly.
“My pleasure,” Lady Haverty said. Lucy got the distinct impression that that lady was ever so glad to be the hostess of what was sure to be one of the most talked-about dinner parties of the Season.
“Yes, well, be certain to let me know when the duke arrives,” Lucy said in what she hoped was a casual voice.
She did not have long to wait. It seemed mere minutes later that a commotion at the door caused everyone to glance up while the butler intoned the name of the Duke of Claringdon.
“This is it,” Garrett said under his breath, giving Lucy a warning glance laced with an encouraging smile.
Lucy shrugged. “I’m perfectly ready whenever he is.”
Within a matter of minutes, the riotous crowd had jostled the two of them together toward the middle of the ballroom and Lucy looked up into the daring, handsome face of the Duke of Claringdon.
She curtsied. “Your Grace.”
“My lady.” He bowed and brushed his lips across the knuckles on her gloved hand. She shuddered. Not fair. She snatched her hand away as if it had been burned.
The crowd quickly filled in around them.
“Seems we’ve garnered quite an audience,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and circling her. “What shall we discuss?” He arched a brow in a challenge.
She gave him her best false smile. “You’re so clever, Your Grace. I defer to your expertise in picking a subject.”
He eyed her warily. “Sarcasm becomes you, my lady.”
She smirked. “So I’ve been told.”
“Why don’t you dance with me first and we can think about it?” he offered.
She nearly snorted. “Dance with you? No. Thank you.”
One brow shot up. “Ah, now that’s surprising.”
She regarded him down the length of her nose. “What is?”
“Why, with your reputation for wordplay, I’d have thought you’d find something infinitely more clever to say in response to a gentleman with whom you do not wish to dance than, ‘No. Thank you’.”
He was mocking her. Her face heated. Her ears were no doubt turning red. “You think you can do better?”
He inclined his head in acceptance, a devilish smile on his firmly molded lips. “I know I can.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
He grinned and raised his voice so the audience would hear him. “This shall be the wager then. I shall come up with a plethora of more inventive ways to turn down a dance than ‘No, thank you.’”
“How many?” she asked, still trying to quell the riotous emotions in her middle.
The duke turned and called out to their audience. “Does anyone have a pack of cards?”
“I do!” Lady Haverty offered, calling to a footman to bring cards posthaste.
The wait was not long. The footman hurried back with the cards while the entire ballroom appeared to converge upon their little enclave. In the meantime, Cass and Jane gave Lucy encouraging smiles and then faded into the crowd with everyone else.
The duke took the cards from the footman and presented them to Lucy with a flourish. “My lady, pick one, if you please.”
“What for?” Lucy asked, valiantly attempting to keep the rising panic from her voice. What was he up to?
“Whatever card you draw will be the number of responses I invent.”
Lucy arched a brow. “And what if I draw a royal?”
“Twenty,” he answered simply, as if he did this sort of thing on a regular basis.
She eyed him warily but hovered her hand over the stack and plucked a card from the center. She flipped it over. “The King of Hearts,” she announced with a satisfied smile.
A muffled ooh made its way through the crowd.
“You wouldn’t be interested in the best two of three, would you?” he asked with a jaunty grin.
Lucy shook her head and smiled back at him. “Twenty sounds perfect to me.”
He winked at her. “How did I know you would say that?”
She shrugged. “Lucky guess?”
“Very well,” he agreed. “I shall come up with twenty better ways to refuse a dance with a gentleman than your ‘No, thank you.’”
Lucy tapped her slipper against the parquet floor. She had no choice. He’d made the challenge and she must see it through. Wise of him actually, to keep her from being the one to use her tongue. Quite wise indeed. “Very well. I accept. Let’s hear them.”
“Ah, wait. First, we must decide. What shall be the forfeit?” he asked, plucking nonchalantly at his ivory cuff.
Lucy arched a brow. “Forfeit?”
“Yes. What shall the winner win?”
She wrinkled her nose at him, then stepped forward to whisper so their audience would not hear. “When I win, you agree to leave Cass alone.”
He appeared to consider it for a moment. “Agreed,” he whispered back. “Only because I know I will win.”
“And what do you intend to win?” she replied.
He bowed again. “Why, the coveted dance with you, my lady.” This, he said loud enough for the entire audience to hear.
Lucy had to concentrate to keep from allowing her jaw to fall open. As if that rogue truly wanted a dance with her. It was ludicrous, of course, but not much of a threat. She had every intention of winning.
“Very well, Your Grace. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
The crowd seemed to lean forward collectively, eager to watch the proceedings. “This is almost better than the theater,” she heard Jane say from somewhere in the large mass of people.
“You sound confident that I will fail, Lady Lucy,” the duke said.
“I am confident, Your Grace.” Lucy couldn’t help the little thrill that shot through her at the prospect of the challenge. My, but it had been an age since anyone had asked her to dance and even longer since anyone had challenged her, truly challenged her. She was used to slicing potential suitors to bits with her tongue and continuing about her affairs. But this man—oh, not that he was her suitor, no, he was Cass’s suitor—at least he challenged her. Didn’t hang his head and slink away like a wounded animal. Oh, yes, she was looking forward to this, a bit too much actually.
The duke folded his hands behind his back and began to pace around the cleared circle. “I shall begin with the obvious. ‘Dancing with a man of your charm might make me swoon, my lord.’”
Lucy rolled her eyes.
“‘I could not in good conscience accept your offer to dance when there are so many other ladies here with dance cards just begging to be filled by someone as prestigious as yourself.’”
A little smirk popped to her lips. He circled around her.
“‘It would be rude of me to dance with you, knowing my skill would only serve to cast you in a less-than-flattering light.’”
“I like that one,” she admitted.
“‘I wouldn’t dare be so presumptuous as to accompany his lordship onto the dance floor knowing the color of my gown would clash with my lord’s dashing evening attire.’”
“Preposterous,” she said, pretending to study her slipper.
“‘I’m sorry, my lord, but my maid laced my stays too tightly to possibly consider the exertion.’”
“That one’s just silly,” she replied. “Besides, I wager you’ve heard all those and more.”
“A few,” he admitted with a grin.
“I confess myself disappointed,” she said. “I thought you had more imagination than that, Your Grace.” The crowd was watching her but instead of feeling self-conscious or shy, Lucy found she relished the attention. It had been an age since anyone in the ton took any notice of her. And here was the dashing Duke of Claringdon challenging her to a verbal duel. The best part was that it seemed to be enhancing her reputation instead of shredding it to bits as Cass had feared. Everyone’s gaze was trained on her with a mixture of awe and envy.
“I’m not done yet,” the duke continued. “‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I cannot possibly dance with you, as I’m having my wig washed.’”
She snorted at that. “I do not wear a wig.”
“Not the point,” he added with a grin. “Where was I?”
“Number six,” someone called helpfully from the crowd.
“Quite right. Let’s see. Political. ‘I’m sorry my lord, but I must decline as I’ve taken a vow of no dancing until the Importation Act is defeated.’”
“As if,” Lucy scoffed.
He didn’t stop to take a breath. “‘I’m sorry, my lord, but there isn’t time as I’m to be a stowaway on a ship bound for the Americas tonight.’”
“That one doesn’t even make sense.” But she couldn’t help but smile.
“Yes, but it’s interesting, is it not?” he asked with a roguish grin.
The crowd cheered in appreciation. Lucy shrugged.
“‘Being so close to a gentleman of your esteemed stature is likely to fluster me so much I shall tread upon your feet,’” he offered.
“Hardly,” she snorted.
“‘If I were to dance with you, my lord, I’d jeopardize my prestigious position as head wallflower.’”
Jane materialized from the crowd, pointing a finger in the air. “To be precise, Your Grace, I happen to be the current holder of the prestigious position as head wallflower.”
“Duly noted,” the duke said with a grin.
Lucy shook her head at her friend. Jane nodded and blended back into the crowd.
The duke was playing to the audience now, smiling outright and clearly enjoying himself. “‘I’d rather be shooting at Napoleon than dancing with you.’”
Lucy inclined her head. “I’m not a half bad shot.”
“‘I cannot dance because I have to look for my smelling salts.’”
Lucy afforded him a long-suffering stare. “Not likely.”
“‘I’d rather be eating army rations,’” he added. And then, “‘I’d rather be buying a turban.’”
“A turban?” She gave him an incredulous look.
“‘It’s far too warm to dance,’” he continued.
She sighed. “That one’s probably true.”
He tugged at his lapels. “‘Dancing is against my morals.’”
She giggled at that.
“‘Aww, I would dance with you but I don’t want to make you look inept.’”
“Far too similar to an earlier reply,” she scoffed.
“That was number eighteen!” someone called from the sidelines. Lucy could have sworn it was Garrett.
She gave the duke a challenging stare. “Only two more. Can you manage, Your Grace?”
He straightened his already straight cravat. “‘I would not care to fend off the hordes of other ladies vying for a dance with you this evening.’”
“Number nineteen!” the crowd shouted.
Lucy drew in a deep breath. One more. Only one more. He was going to do it. He was going to win. And that meant … she would have to dance with him.
The duke cleared his throat. “I’ve saved the best for last.” He gave her a wicked smile. “‘I’m afraid, my lord, that if I were to dance with you, I’d be entirely too charmed and end up falling hopelessly, madly in love with you.’”
“Number twenty!” someone shouted. Cheers went up just before the crowd became silent. Tension filled the room. Lucy held her breath. Everyone was watching her. By God, the man had done it. He’d come up with twenty things to say that were better than her simple “No, thank you.” He’d shown her up. She should be embarrassed. Humiliated. Instead all she could think of was the fact that she’d promised him a dance.
The duke took his time. He strolled to the end of the open space and strolled back. He gave her an arch grin. “I have one more. An extra reply, if you will. One to replace the questionable number eighteen.”
More cheers from the crowd. Lucy eyed him carefully. “One more?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“I’m on tenterhooks.” She tried to sound bored and hoped her voice didn’t shake.
He cleared his throat. “‘Why, Your Grace, I’d be delighted to be your partner for the next dance.’”
She smothered her smile behind her glove.
“Don’t you think that’s infinitely better than, ‘No, thank you’?” he asked. “I do.”
The crowd erupted into cheers once again.
Lucy pushed up her head and swallowed. She had to give it to him. He had won. As if on cue, a waltz began to play.
He strolled over to her and offered her his hand. “My lady, I believe you owe me this dance.”