“Oh, your legs are as thick as tree trunks, exquisite…” she stuttered, stepping back, her eyes traveling the length of him—although it was more of her bouncing off him as a result of their collision. “My apologies if I have injured you in any way.”
He’d been distracted by Gwen and hadn’t heard anyone coming. “Oh, no, I am unscathed by your onslaught.” Marcus immediately wanted to turn tail and run—both because he’d compared their impact to an onslaught, and because he’d been caught lurking in a darkened hall of a home that was decidedly not his. “Did you refer to me as a tree?”
“Only if you compared my faux pas to an onslaught.” She raised her brow in question.
“I wouldn’t dare, Lady Aloria.”
Her face clouded with confusion for only a moment, and Marcus dreaded having to admit that he’d been lurking in hopes of gaining her notice. Thankfully, she gave him a tentative smile before continuing, “I do beg your pardon, but these are the private rooms of Lord and Lady Garland.” Her voice softened to a far more pleasing tone than the harpy who’d just returned to the ballroom. “If you do not mind—“
“It is Lady Aloria, correct?” Marcus couldn’t believe his good fortune. “I do beg your pardon…” It was most assuredly not a wise idea to tell her he’d been wandering the halls in search of her.
“My lord, do we know one another?” she asked.
“Not formally, I fear.” Marcus took a step back, bowing as was proper. “I am the Duke of Wolfeton.”
“My.” Her hand came to rest just above the neckline of her gown. “Wolf…your name certainly suits with your dark looks and overly long hair.”
“Wolfeton,” he corrected. “And if my hair displeases you, I shall cut it.”
“I said nothing of the sort, only that society deems shorter locks to be more civilized.” She patted her own dark hair, her hand searching for any tendrils that might have sprung loose when they’d bumped into one another. “My apologies. I cannot seem to keep words inside this evening.”
Marcus took a moment to look her up and down as she’d done with him moments before. She was not as portly up close, her hair swept up, allowing him a view of her elegant neck and a slight dimple in her cheek when she smiled. How had he not seen her natural beauty in the ballroom?
It was almost inconceivable that this woman before him had ever been dubbed portly—and homely. No woman with an ounce of Lady Aloria’s wit could be considered ordinary.
“My lord?”
He wracked his brain for something charming to say, anything that could muster a semblance of wit. “Do forgive my dreadful manners. I sought an introduction earlier—“
“To whom?”
“You, of course.” He paused, but when she only stared he continued, “As I was saying, I sought an introduction earlier. I had hoped to add my name to your dance card.”
She looked down to the card hanging loosely from her wrist and then back to him. “Why ever would you seek to dance with me?”
Marcus hadn’t any idea how to answer her question. He was a duke and unattached, no lady turned down his request for a dance nor questioned his interest. Telling her the truth was certainly out of the question. As was elaborating on her beauty; she didn’t seem the sort to buy into flattery. He’d expected to walk into the ballroom, sweep her into his arms for the first dance, and be discussing her dowry with her father by morning.
“Are you hard of hearing?” Her eyes were wide and her voice raised. She looked beyond him toward the staircase. “Is there someone I can fetch to help you?”
It finally struck him, she thought him daft.
“Can I accompany you back to the ballroom, Lady Aloria?”
“I do not know, can you?”
He was unsure who was more frustrated at their absurd exchange.
Maybe it would be safer to take his chances with Gwen. She did not have access to a fleet of cargo ships, but she had the money to buy Marcus out of debtor prison. With that weight lifted, he could then focus on the matter of his future and restoring his family legacy—but then he would be tied to Gwen for all of eternity, and that would make his family legacy worthless. He knew she had no interest in a family.
Squaring his shoulders, he tried again. “Lady Aloria, I will escort you to your father.”
“Ah-ha,” she said, placing her hand in the same spot Gwen’s had sat only moments before. “One should never ask permission for something they desire, but demand what they want.”
“I will remember exactly that in the future, my lady.” She was clearly not the shy and reserved spinster he’d imagined wooing. Under closer inspection, she was quite young and her body, while rounded a bit more than was the thing in society, was perfectly proportioned. “After our return, you will accept my offer as a dance partner.”
“And why ever would I do that?” Her hand sat weightlessly on his arm as they descended the stairs to the main floor and the chords of a cotillion in mid-song floated up. “My dances are spoken for, for the remainder of the evening.”
“Surely you can find a free spot for my name.” He wondered why she seemed so averse to adding his name to her list. “Who is on your list next?” Marcus took hold of her card as they reached the hall leading to the ballroom. He had but a few brief moments to convince her. “The Earl of Plumberly—I can see why you are leery of calling off your dance with him.”
He feigned shock, raising his brow.
“And you think yourself more worthy of a dance than the earl?” Surprising him further, she mirrored his stunned look. “The earl and I have had a long friendship. I do not think he will take kindly to being jilted.”
Marcus wanted to laugh at her choice of words. While he hadn’t spent much time in London, the gossip always reached him, and if that failed, Canterbourne was there to give him insight into Lady Aloria and her past. Marcus knew that Plumberly had jilted her a few seasons prior, and the mere thought that she’d honor the earl with a dance was insulting.
Chapter Three
There wasn’t a thing Aloria wanted more than to call off her dance with Plumberly, especially because of the way he’d called off their betrothal three seasons before. But she was loath to admit that to a stranger. She couldn’t blame the earl for his decision, though she did hold him responsible for the scandal heaped upon her after he’d been openly seen courting another before they’d officially called off their marriage. She’d been shocked when he’d taken her card without a word and written his name on it this evening.
She took in the strong shoulders and muscular legs of the duke beside her. No one would venture to give them a cruel moniker like Plumberly and Portly, as they had with her and the earl.
No, the Duke of Wolfeton would likely be dubbed the wolf to her Little Red Riding Hood, though no one would dare call her little—or him a wolf. She knew nothing of the man and only had occasion to set eyes upon him this once.
Maybe if she hadn’t been crying her eyes out over Lord Canterbourne’s rejection of her at the time, she would have taken notice of Wolfeton.
His name was fitting.
His hair hung past his shoulders, but was tied back in a formal fashion. His intense gaze lent an almost animalistic appeal to him, though she’d never insult him by equating him to an animal. Even if she already had.
But, what was she thinking? The last thing she needed or wanted was another man, a suitable, handsome, charming man with the capacity to crush her once again. Aloria had set her sights on boring, stodgy, and possibly elderly; with no risk of giving her heart, hopes, and dreams to another, only to have them thrown back in her face when the man decided her dowry wasn’t sufficient enough or her enhanced size was too off-putting.
“Shall we?” His penetrating stare asked many more questions.
They’d arrived back in the ballroom.
Aloria hadn’t realized it because the crowded room had gone silent as all eyes turned to stare at them, frozen in the doorway. Couples stood still on the dance floor, the mus
ic having either ended or stopped mid note.
Lady Aloria, the overweight and spinsterish daughter of Lord Garland, and the Duke of Wolfeton, a recluse with much intrigue surrounding him, poised as if they were the guests of honor finally arrived to greet their audience.
She laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle.
The sound echoed through the room, bounced off the walls—and restarted time.
The musicians struck up the beginning notes of a waltz when she nodded in their direction. Startled, she realized they’d paused for her; she commanded this room, something she was highly unaccustomed to.
She watched as Lady Delilah and Lord Canterbourne took their places on the dance floor.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Plumberly making his way toward her to claim his dance.
Wolfeton had spotted him as well. His hold on her arm tightened—he wasn’t letting her go.
And Aloria was torn; she didn’t want to let him go either, yet aligning herself with him—or any man—was surely a mistake.
“Aw, Lady Aloria.” Wolfeton spoke loud enough for the closest people to hear. “I believe this dance belongs to me.” With effortless grace—something Aloria had never been able to master—he guided her down the steps into the room and straight to the dance floor, past a gawking Lord Plumberly. His arm held her close, yet far enough away for them to look at one another. “How was that for taking what I want?”
“You are a speedy learner, my lord.” But it still begged the question of why he wanted her. Before long, they were dancing in the center of the floor with other couples swirling about them, yet keeping their distance. “But I do believe you may have found a rival in Plumberly.”
It was his turn to laugh. “When you are in my arms, it is Marcus, not my lord or Wolfeton.” He was quite adept at issuing commands. “Besides, Plumberly passed on any claim he might have had on you.”
Her face suddenly felt heated. Wolfeton—Marcus—knew of her disgrace, yet she sensed his comment wasn’t meant to be cruel or embarrass her. It was a statement of fact. Their movements about the floor cooled her face quickly, taking care of the blush, hopefully before he noticed.
Aloria couldn’t bring herself to look up at him, preferring to focus on his shoulder—broad as it was—and her dance steps instead. Although, he’d taken command of their movements, expertly guiding them around the floor with little help from her. If she did stumble, she wondered if he’d be able to keep them both from tumbling to the floor.
Too quickly, the moment came to an end. Marcus released his hold on her and started in her father’s direction.
“You are an exquisite partner,” he complimented.
“Did you not believe that girls of my size are capable of dance?” Aloria had no idea why she’d asked the question nor where it had come from. It was possible the sight of both Canterbourne and Plumberly in the same ballroom had overloaded her poise. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. I meant no off—“
He came to a halt, cutting off her apology. “Take heed your own advice, Lady Aloria. Do not apologize for demanding an answer to a question you deem of import.” He gently patted her hand and began walking once more. “Besides, you move with a grace I have not seen in another woman since watching my mother dance with my father.”
Her eyes snapped to his, leery of his continued kindness and compliments. He must seek to embarrass her at any moment.
“My lord,” the voice couldn’t be described as anything but congested, as if the woman were in dire need of a handkerchief and a private moment. “I am ready.”
She is ready? For what?
Aloria turned to face the woman, a smile on her face in greeting. This was her home, after all, and she was expected to greet each guest with the decorum befitting her status.
“Welcome…” Her word trailed off, her eyes unable to focus on the beauty before her. She was everything a woman of the ton was expected to be; tall, willowy, with skin the color and texture of porcelain.
Marcus stiffened next to Aloria, his hold tightening once again.
“Lady Gwendolyn,” he said in greeting. The icy flare to his words was not lost on Aloria. She wondered what claim the woman had on Marcus, and why she now looked to Aloria with daggers in her eyes. “What a surprise. I was unaware you’d be attending this evening.”
Aloria didn’t believe that for a moment. She couldn’t help but think that he did, in fact, know Lady Gwendolyn was in attendance—and figured he may have even promised her a dance.
The woman ignored Marcus’s words and focused her sights on Aloria. “Ah, Portly, I must have missed you at the receiving line, for I am sure your size is not missed often.”
The words stung, causing Aloria to take a step back and out of Marcus’s hold. She was more than used to people talking of her size, her age, and her penchant for attaching herself to rakehells, but never to her face nor in her own home.
Aloria couldn’t breathe.
Frantically she scanned the room for help.
Delilah, her dearest friend, was taking a sip of sherry while Lord Canterbourne laughed at something and leaned close to whisper in her ear.
Aloria’s father was deep in conversation with Lord Haston and too far away to hear even if she called for him.
And she most certainly wouldn’t expect Marcus to come to her rescue, especially with Lady Gwen now softening her gaze and stepping into the place Aloria had vacated at his side. She appeared perfect next to him, the pair making a striking couple; the exact opposite of what Aloria looked like on his arm.
Yes, Aloria was meant to grace the arm of a lord like Plumberly or even aging Mr. Vanderall, but not the finely dressed, wealthy, and refined Duke of Wolfeton.
Women like Lady Gwendolyn took that role.
Marcus shook Lady Gwen’s hold from his arm, so subtly no one but she and Marcus realized it happened—and he stared at her, prepared to do exactly what Aloria couldn’t ask of him. He was going to give Gwen what she deserved, which would bring them both into the spotlight. Something neither of them wanted—or needed. Aloria only wanted to survive this one evening and then retire to the country to repair herself, find her purpose, and discover the life she’d always been meant to lead.
She searched the duke’s stare, pleading with her eyes for him to remain silent, if only for a few moments more—and then she’d be gone—away from everything.
“If you will excuse me,” Aloria squeaked, barely loud enough for her own ears.
Next, she did the only thing she could think to do in the situation—the one thing she’d sworn never to do—she lifted her skirts and fled the party. She had no destination in mind, simply kept her feet moving and prayed not everyone had seen her mad dash from the room. Or worse yet, heard Lady Gwen’s horrible comment.
Chapter Four
Marcus hadn’t the time to process what took place a moment ago, but he was moving toward the staircase he’d descended with Aloria, trying to keep her in his sights. If she disappeared into one of the rooms above before he was able to catch up, she’d be lost to him.
Blast Gwen and her interfering nature.
And curse him, as well. He never should have led Gwen on, given her hope that they still shared any sort of relationship beyond nodding to one another at social functions.
If Lady Aloria never spoke to him again, it would be warranted.
He’d stood there and said nothing as Gwen uttered her snide, deplorable comments.
Aloria hadn’t deserved any of it. Gwen was angry with him—and his lack of interest in her—but had taken it out on Aloria because she knew her hurtful words no longer incited his temper or drew his attention.
Lady Aloria reached the top of the stairs and headed in the opposite direction he’d found her earlier in the night. She maneuvered around a hall table with the ease of someone who’d roamed these halls since birth.
“Lady Aloria,” he called to her as she rounded a corner. He thought he saw her glance over her shoulder, but he couldn’t
be sure he’d even called her name loud enough for her to hear over the sound of their footsteps or their combined, labored breathing.
He thought of how so many had witnessed the whole encounter.
He and Aloria entering the ballroom, arm in arm, their turn about the dance floor, and Gwen’s subsequent harsh words. If that hadn’t gained their attention, then Aloria’s flight from the ballroom after Gwen’s outburst would have alerted the remaining guests to the scandal unfolding before them.
Following her had been a mistake, but he had no other choice. This night, his first back in London, was turning out to be nothing like he’d expected. He needed Aloria, at least for the time being.
Up ahead, she entered the last door on the left before slamming it in her wake.
Slowing his pace, he inhaled deeply to catch his breath, weighing his next move. He hadn’t made one correct decision thus far, and it truly didn’t matter what he chose now. He could knock softly and await her answer. Or he could barge in, demanding his entry.
If he were smart, he’d turn around and leave before it was too late. Find another way to circumvent the creditors who sought relief for the debts his father owed. Walk right out the front doors without collecting his coat. Unfortunately, he was not in a financial position to invest in another one.
He took another deep breath and prepared to knock on the door.
But his hand fell back to his side when he heard sobbing coming from within.
Now he was certain he should run. Leave the Garland townhouse, never to return. Wipe any remembrance of Aloria from his mind.
Instead, instinct set in, the need to protect her overwhelming. He put his hand on the knob and turned, confirming Lady Aloria’s earlier suspicions of his daftness.
The door opened wide to reveal Aloria, her back to him, and her shoulders shaking as she cried quietly into her hands.
It was then that Marcus knew he was the worst of creatures. He did not deserve to be let out in polite society.
The Siege of Lady Aloria_World of de Wolfe Pack Page 2
