A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  A woman was sitting beside the smoky fireplace, and Gerard lengthened his strides. He extended a hand to her, and before she might question him—or heaven forbid, decline—he pulled her onto the ballroom floor.

  Chapter Three

  A hand grabbed hers, and Cordelia lurched forward.

  The hand was large, the skin bronze, and the grip strong.

  She stumbled after the stranger, remembering in time to lift the hem of her dress before she plunged to the floor. The man’s hand still held hers, tugging it with the vigor of a bull charging through a field.

  Which would rather make her a plow.

  An image she did not condone.

  “Stop,” she ordered.

  The stranger did not stop, did not even deign to turn his face in her direction.

  His grip remained strong, his demeanor remained bold, and he barreled toward the dancers and everyone of any importance at this dreadful event.

  A man who dragged women from the comfort of benches was unlikely to heed mere words. Assuming he even understood words. He was clothed like no person at the ball. His attire was paler than the other gentlemen, who had adopted black evening dress, in an indication that Beau Brummel’s influence extended to the remotest regions of the country.

  The man’s buckskin breeches insulted the formality of the occasion, and his shirttail flopped against the worn leather. He wore riding boots. Unpolished riding boots. He clomped across the floor, and his footwear thundered over the screeching violins and untuned piano as if he’d determined to make them an instrument.

  Strong shoulder blades moved beneath this man’s coat, and he exuded energy. His dark hair, the espresso shade heightened against his absurd tan tailcoat, was cut in a manner that did not lack all taste.

  It was a pity the man had not bothered to style it.

  “I demand you stop!” Cordelia said.

  The man did not even shorten the speed of his lengthy strides.

  “I thought you might desire to dance.” The stranger drawled the words in a Scottish brogue, and she doubled her effort to release herself from his clasp discretely. She couldn’t afford any more scandal.

  “I rather like dancing, lassie,” the man mused with that dreadful accent again. Each word sounded melodious, lacking an appropriate seriousness, and he rolled his r’s with vigor.

  She knew about Scots. She knew about the letters they wrote to Matchmaking for Wallflowers, and of their glee at insulting the English. As if it were the English people’s faults that the Scots hadn’t been able to read a map properly for centuries and still considered themselves wronged for ancient incidences.

  “Please refrain from clutching my hand!”

  “I’m an eager man.” His hold on her did not lessen.

  Fans lowered, people nudged others, and a hundred pairs of eyes seemed to scrutinize them. The crowd stirred, but the man seemed to not give any indication that he’d even noticed he was the center of attention in the crowded ballroom.

  “We’re being observed,” Cordelia whispered.

  “You’re correct.” Humor tinged his velvety voice.

  The man was so cocky, he likely thought that being the epicenter of attention was his natural state.

  This was not what she needed. Not what she needed at all. She wouldn’t become more respected in society by having the local madman—or non-local madman, judging by the distorted length of his vowels, sweep her up.

  “Release me,” she repeated.

  “Are you frightened, lassie? I’m not going to ravish you. Let’s only dance. You do know how to dance? They do teach that in England, don’t they?”

  His brogue rumbled in contrast against the polished, rounded voices of the ton.

  The contrast was almost pleasant.

  She raised her chin and firmed her voice. “I possess no desire to dance.”

  He slowed his pace. “Everyone wants to dance.”

  “Not me.” Cordelia lied.

  The man swerved around. His nose was straight, his jaw wide, and his face a golden hue that spoke of ruggedness and the outdoors. His dark brown eyes sparkled—for a moment.

  A brief, very brief moment.

  “Lady Cordelia.” His tone switched to icy formality, and each vertebra in her body stiffened.

  “Lord Rockport.”

  Of all the men of the ton, he’d been the only one uninterested in dancing with her last season. Instead he’d relished in rebuking her. The words from his lips had been veiled insults, not the effusive compliments other men bestowed.

  And then—then he’d destroyed her, humiliated her.

  The cocky smile, the twinkling eyes disappeared. This was not the man who had grasped and led her through the entire ballroom. His face radiated distaste, and he stiffened.

  But then everyone’s manners increased in formality when conversing with her. She possessed a talent for revealing the outer most shell of a person.

  “I was unaware it was possible for you to venture so far from the epicenter of the ton,” he said. “How is Matchmaking for Wallflowers most famous columnist?”

  Heat flowed through her veins, seeming to swirl through her body with the potency of the strongest gale. She inhaled, and when she finally spoke, each word was controlled. “No longer a columnist.”

  “Is that a great cause of anguish?” The man had the audacity to smile.

  She despised the condescension men expressed toward the magazine, and how they decried its frivolity, when they were guilty of spending hours following cricket and horse-riding each day.

  Knowledge of cricket and horse-riding would not secure their future, while a good marriage would secure a woman’s happiness.

  Was it so dreadful that she’d written articles on how a woman might best pursue a man? Was it not a woman’s right to do what little she could to shape her own future? If marriage had to be a woman’s destiny why should it be surrendered to chance and parental whim?

  Cordelia glided her hands down and forced herself to speak, even though she wasn’t certain she recollected the exact procedure. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Questioning his lack of etiquette brought her a greater joy than pondering how she’d managed to meet yet another person who found her despicable.

  His gaze shot to the side. His face darkened as if he were in the presence of a monster, and not just her, Lady Cordelia Haywood, daughter of the Duke of Belmonte and the ton’s newest casualty.

  “I am about to dance with you.” The man’s deep voice vibrated against her ear.

  “Absolutely not.” Cordelia shook her head, even though she’d never minded dancing, even though she’d always enjoyed the few moments when she might relax and yield to the rhythmic beat of the chamber chorus.

  Her delight at dancing certainly did not extend to him.

  No matter that he was a marquess.

  No matter that his brother—half-brother—was the most powerful man in the region.

  No matter that his height and muscular width surpassed that of most men. She would not dance, and he would not make her.

  The marquess raised his chin and tightened his grip on her hand. The fact they were in a crowd did not seem to worry him. “Every woman desires to dance.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Is His Grace here?” He asked, and his voice softened into something like understanding.

  “My father?” She shook her head, and he smiled.

  His gaze was once again cocky. It was the gaze of a man well aware of his charms and comfortable being referred to as a rake, rogue and scoundrel.

  She steeled her eyes. It would be easy to say no. Everyone around them expected her to storm off before one of the footmen hauled him from the dance floor.

  But something in his nonchalance, despite the disapproving faces of the other guests, made her waver.

  They didn’t know who he was, they saw only a broad-shouldered man in casual attire, too handsome for his own good.

  Perhaps she’d been a wallflow
er enough tonight. If people were determined to gossip about her, it may as well be for doing something scandalous.

  At least then no one would pity her.

  “Very well.” She nodded, and he brushed his fingers against hers.

  The musicians played a Scottish reel, the sort of joyful music that she and every other Englishwomen secretly delighted in, even if some members of the ton decried the gaiety as inappropriate, only one of many, many inappropriate things that derived from the Northern wilderness of Scotland.

  The marquess gave her a tight smile she did not bother returning. She might acquiesce, but she did not need to feign enjoyment.

  “You never wanted to dance with me in London,” she said.

  His eyebrows swept upward, and amusement flickered in his eyes.

  The words sounded petulant when spoken aloud, and she clamped her mouth shut.

  “I dinna know you noticed.” He leaned closer to her, and she was all too aware of the chiseled features of the man’s face. Her nose was absolutely not contemplating the pleasing aroma of his scent, more masculine than that of any of the fops here as if he’d just been running. She was certain that salt and pine needles weren’t supposed to be so appealing and she fought the urge to inhale.

  “Dancing with you was always a prospect I dreaded.” She lifted her chin, ridiculously proud that her voice had only trembled slightly.

  The marquess’s dark eyes sparkled, and he coughed as if he were controlling his mirth. “Indeed. That is an opinion contrary to that of most debutantes in London.”

  “Then that makes me wiser than most debutantes.”

  “I see.” His baritone voice seemed to pinch something inside her, some emotion that she’d told herself she didn’t possess.

  “Nevertheless, we shall dance. Unless you’re to claim that you’re incapacitated in some other manner.”

  “I did not sprain my ankle when we crossed over the ballroom floor.” Something in his easy gaze made her the tips of her lips soar upward as if to meet him. “I did not have the foresight.”

  His breath was hot against her ear. “Then enjoy, lassie.”

  “Fine.” She allowed him to lead her into the starting position.

  The other women eyed her. The ones who recognized the marquess seemed impressed, but others appeared to hold her in contempt, tittering at the man’s unconventional attire.

  The violins’ tempo sped, and she followed the beats as they built to their crescendo. She bounced and jostled with the others, and the rigidity of her spine relaxed.

  “You’re enjoying this.” Rockport shot her a smug glance, and his eyes glimmered.

  Arrogant was definitely a word that befitted him, along with rake and rogue and all those other traits that men should not be proud of possessing, but which they undoubtedly were.

  The marquess was the darling of the ton, despite his Scottish roots, or perhaps even, because of that added mysteriousness.

  “I did not appreciate that letter referencing me.” Cordelia did not bother to keep the bitter note from her voice. He should feel uncomfortable. He should feel despised. “And I can assure you I did not write any article about Alfriston.”

  He tilted his head, and something like guilt seemed to flicker across his face, but then he sighed. “That doesn’t change the fact that you should find a better way of occupying your time. Like dancing. You seem to be dancing quite admirably for a woman who claims to resist the practice.”

  “Is that so?” Cordelia continued to follow the steps, twirling over the floor, and the tension in her shoulders relaxed.

  “I never suspected the ice queen would find mortal entertainment so engaging,” Lord Rockport remarked. “Perfection comes naturally to you. It is unfortunate for you that so few possess the capacity to recognize it. Is that not what you believe?”

  And just like that, she abhorred him again.

  He lifted his dark brows in a smug glance that reminded her that he’d once topped Matchmaking for Wallflower’s list of Top Ten Lords to Land, and that he knew it.

  “Because you’re truly made of ice, just like the rumors.” He gave a languid grin.

  “No!” she exclaimed, and the man stifled a further insulting smile. His eyes still sparkled, and she forced her gaze away.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of avoiding his gaze and she steeled her features. “You should never have insisted we dance together.”

  He shrugged and swept his gaze over the ballroom as if she were not worthy of even being appropriately addressed.

  She knew she should be silent, but instead she asked. “Whatever possessed you?”

  “A sense of adventure.” He chuckled, and she hated that his laugh managed to convey such warmth. “The same sort that caused Sir Walter Scott to go traipsing around Antarctica. I believe he even paid for that pleasure.”

  “You are comparing me to the Antarctic?”

  “Only the worst sections of it.” He winked.

  “I despise you.”

  “And yet I saved you from that row of wallflowers. Never expected to find you there.”

  That made two of them, but he didn’t need to know that. “I am very particular in whom I dance with.”

  “Then I should feel deeply honored.”

  “You left me no choice.”

  In one minute the music would end, and she could return to the wallflower designated portion of the room, easily visible to the group of chattering chaperones located on the diagonal side of them.

  Her mother was here somewhere, though knowing her, she was hanging beside the punch table, where helpful men might refill her drink.

  Lord Rockport’s gaze drifted about the room as if already bored with their conversation.

  Likely he was determining who his next victim might be.

  He hadn’t even recognized her. He never would have asked her to dance had he done so.

  The thought sent an unnecessarily sharp pain through her.

  Three-two-one—

  The music ended, and she curtsied. “Thank you for the dance.”

  The words were automatic, and she remembered too late that she did not want to thank him at all for it.

  He didn’t even bother to look at her when she said the words. His shoulders, worthy rivals of Atlas’s, switched to a shrug, and he moved his gaze toward the door.

  Chapter Four

  That blasted Oggleton.

  The man was here. Glowering.

  Clearly the footman hadn’t taken Gerard’s words with much seriousness. Tension flared through Gerard’s body. His feet stumbled, as if bricks, and not mere leather boots, were strapped to them.

  The music ceased and Oggleton’s face drew into something that resembled a smile.

  The sight was not pleasant, whatever it was.

  Lady Cordelia turned.

  Blast.

  Had she been speaking to him?

  Gerard gripped his hand over her wrist, and her spine, always rigid, straightened more. He didn’t have time to analyze the lass’s emotions and glanced at Oggleton. The man wove his way through the dancers, and his too full lips arched up further, scrunching his unpleasant face.

  Tension shot through Gerard’s body, and he tightened his fist with a vigor he was accustomed to only showing when boxing.

  He was not going to succumb in some stuffy ballroom amongst absurd amounts of crystal, foppish gentry, and lassies attired in too many ruffles.

  Lady Cordelia wriggled from his grasp, but he clasped his hand over her.

  The piano thundered and the string instruments joined a few beats later, but she turned away.

  “I admire your eagerness, but the starting point for the dance is in that direction.”

  Her eyes widened in a manner that would be pleasing on any other woman. Prickly Englishwomen were absolutely not supposed to intrigue him. London swarmed with marriage-calculating chits, and there was no need to devote attention to the ice queen who bestowed questionable advice to them. Especially n
ot when said ice queen happened to be the sole surviving offspring of the Duke of Belmonte. Of all the women in the world to be stuck with, he had to have chosen her. His eyes drifted to the other wallflowers, chattering chits, who would have blushed demurely at the prospect of having him dance with them.

  He flashed a smile at the curmudgeonly older members of the gentry and the tittering younger ones and then turned his attention on the English lass beside him. “Lady Cordelia, I am the type of man reputations are built on. Surely yours will also last a few minutes longer, even if you are dancing with me.”

  Her eyebrows soared upward, and he held her hand properly this time. He wrapped his fingers around hers, absent-mindedly noting the elegant shape, apparent even under the stiff lace of her gloves.

  But then no one ever faulted Lady Cordelia’s appearance. It was the personality that prompted all the problems.

  For a moment he thought she would protest again, but as more people thronged about them, her face switched to an icy elegance, the kind normally seen in classical sculptures.

  They strode through the ballroom, and some of the guests pointed in astonishment. A few women gave derogatory glances at his muddied boots, and he winked at them, enjoying the manner in which their eyes widened and their mouths gaped open before he strode past them. Their accents were thick, and their attire, though tolerable, lacked the flourish of Lady Cordelia’s gown.

  He leaned toward her. “I never took you for a country bumpkin.”

  “The location is temporary.”

  “I rather thought women like you only condescended to grace the more removed counties of the region when London is abandoned in the autumn.”

  Her face stiffened though her steps remained immaculate as if no statement could fetter the years of training she’d undertaken to become a debutante.

  Behind her he glimpsed Oggleton gesturing toward one of the balconies. Gerard almost laughed. The man was mad to think he would venture anywhere alone with him.

  He glanced at her. The woman was elegant. He would grant her that.

  The other guests whispered, not bothering to hide their open gossip.

  “Aye, this is our second dance,” Gerard announced to some of them, and the shade of Lady Cordelia’s cheeks transformed from pink to a more unusual magenta.