A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  He’d almost thought her incapable of emotion and he struggled to remove his gaze from her. He cleared his throat and addressed the others. “In fact, neither Lady Cordelia nor I have danced with anyone else tonight.”

  This statement brought actual murmurs from the crowd. Perhaps he should feel some guilt at besmirching her reputation.

  But then he recalled that the woman had accepted offers for marriage easily, provided the offer came coupled with wealth and a title. She encapsulated the worst of the ton’s qualities.

  “You shouldn’t be wearing boots,” one of the bolder ladies announced.

  “I do apologize,” he said lightly. His lips twitched. “Fortunately my dance partner does not care.”

  “Ah,” an older gentleman said. “A woman who does not criticize a man’s attire. You’ve found yourself a keeper!”

  The violins hummed, joined shortly by the cello and viola, and the first dancers pranced to the best of their rhythmic capability between the lines of guests.

  “You should not imply I hold any affection for you,” Lady Cordelia said.

  “It’s amusing.”

  “People—” She hesitated. “People will believe you. Words matter. And they’ll—they’ll think you mean to propose.”

  He stumbled and bumped into a dancer. He stuttered an apology and fought to respond. “I assure you that marriage with you is a thought that could not be further from my mind.”

  Her face stiffened, and he continued on. “Fighting the French would be preferable to a marriage with you.”

  “Then it is a pity that Bonaparte is no longer threatening to invade our shores.” Her voice wobbled, and her long black lashes swooped downward with a rapidity that made him regret his statement.

  He’d been too harsh, and something like guilt gnawed on him.

  It was their turn, and they danced through the rows of people. Lady Cordelia’s movements were elegant, practiced, but then he would expect nothing less from her. Perhaps it had been uncharitable to compare her to battling the French. He might even apologize.

  Lady Cordelia and he separated. They would dance down the other sides individually and meet at the end of the line from which they’d come to welcome the new people. This was one of the simpler dances, and many people, even the gray-headed gentry, had joined.

  Just as he turned the corner, a beefy arm grabbed hold of him.

  Blast.

  It was Oggleton.

  “Hope you enjoyed your dancing.” Menace dripped from Oggleton’s voice.

  “You enjoying the ball?” Gerard forced himself to act nonchalant and tried to spot Lady Cordelia. He hastened his pace, but Oggleton kept up with him easily.

  “Because,” Oggleton continued, “I don’t like waiting. It’s boring.”

  “No?” Gerard asked. “A person who is often bored is a person who does not possess the capability to think of better things.”

  “I was pondering better things,” Oggleton said. “Like all the ways I might kill you.”

  “Come now. You were talking about fingers before.”

  “That was before you made me run after you.”

  “Strictly speaking, you weren’t doing any running. Your horse was. Galloping that is.”

  “Don’t make a difference,” Oggleton said. “I don’t like you.”

  The music still played. He’d abandoned Lady Cordelia and though he didn’t succumb to medieval notions of chivalry, the thought unsettled him.

  “Lots of toffs here,” Oggleton muttered. “I don’t like toffs.”

  “I don’t either,” Gerard said. “That’s why I’m always in Scotland.”

  Oggleton gave him a lengthy sigh. “I hope you’re not thinking of going up north now.”

  “When I could speak with you? How ridiculous.”

  “Better to just get it over with,” Oggleton said.

  “Look,” Gerard exhaled. “What use would you have for me dead?”

  “Reckon His Grace could get the money from you much quicker were you dead.”

  Gerard blinked.

  “You’ve got no heirs,” Oggleton continued, and his lips veered upward. “Heard the Duke talk about it. If you died—well, with His Grace’s not insignificant claim, he would get the money.”

  “Not the estate.”

  “I’m sure they could sell whatever was necessary. Reckon there’s some art and furniture in that big old house of yours.”

  “Dìomhair Caisteal is not a house.”

  “Nope,” Oggleton said. “It’s better. It’s a proper mansion. You’ve got other abodes too, don’t ya? Highgate Manor? Soon everything you’ve got will belong to His Grace, all to cover the unfortunate gambling habits of your mother.”

  Gerard hardened his voice. “Impossible.”

  “Bet you wish you had an heir and a couple spares now, don’t you?”

  Gerard swallowed. He’d postponed the procuring of heirs. He’d thought he’d had more time, blast it. He wasn’t yet thirty. He was healthy.

  “Let’s take this outside.” Oggleton’s eyes gleamed.

  “Balderdash.”

  Oggleton laid a grubby hand back on Gerard’s shoulders. Something cold pressed into Gerard’s back.

  A pistol. Good lord, the man had a pistol.

  They were in a ballroom. A crowded ballroom. Mightn’t someone, anyone notice?

  Unfortunately no one seemed to do so. Oggleton was helped by the fact that no one stood behind them—and that the corner was half covered by a curtain.

  “You wouldn’t dare shoot,” Gerard said.

  “I don’t like you,” Oggleton said.

  “You would go to prison.”

  “Perhaps, though I’m good at escaping.”

  “And if fleeing from prison proved too challenging for your meager intellectual capability?”

  Oggleton gave him a surly glance. “His Grace would bust me out.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “He’s done it before,” Oggleton declared.

  A chill descended over Gerard.

  Oggleton laughed. It was an ugly sound. “You think His Grace would’ve hired a man who hadn’t even killed before? I assure you, my lord, I’m an expert at it. Or would you prefer me to direct the pistol at someone else?” Oggleton continued.

  “Never.”

  “Come, come. You can reason with me outside.”

  And with that Oggleton pushed Gerard toward the window. The next moment velvet curtains brushed against him, and he was outside, swallowed by a cold and dark Yorkshire night.

  Chapter Five

  She was alone.

  Heaven help her, she’d been abandoned.

  On the ballroom floor.

  In the middle of a dance.

  The marquess and she had separated, and she’d glided down the row, expecting to find him waiting for her at the beginning of the line. That was the dance. It was a simple dance. Even the man’s lack of propriety should not have prevented him from comprehending that.

  His desertion had not been unnoticed, and the other women murmured around her.

  “But you really don’t know what happened to him?” one woman asked.

  “P-perhaps he took ill,” Cordelia stuttered.

  Lord help her, even the one who’d complained of the marquess’s lack of appropriate foot attire appeared appalled. The woman’s eyes swelled with something that resembled compassion.

  Yorkshire women with unkempt hair and unbecoming dresses weren’t supposed to express sympathy for her.

  She was supposed to be perfect. If people whispered about her, it should be confined to expressions of envy.

  “It’s happened before,” one white-headed woman said gently. “Back in the last century, it happened to my sister. You’re not alone.”

  “Of course,” a woman with pince-nez mused, “That was because the person she was dancing with was told his wife was in labor.”

  “She was still humiliated,” the white-headed lady insisted, before giving Cordel
ia a stricken look.

  “Perhaps he has a wife in labor?” The woman with pince-nez said hopefully.

  Cordelia resisted the urge to snort. Lord Rockport was too much of a rogue to marry, especially secretly. Were he married, all the world would know. The man delighted in being the center of attention.

  No, he’d planned this.

  The marquess had always despised her. He’d humiliated her by exposing her role in Matchmaking for Wallflowers, and now, he’d humiliated her in person.

  He’d abandoned her.

  In the middle of a ballroom, in the middle of a dance, in the middle of a group of people whom she didn’t know, but who all were suspicious of her, ever since he made public that she’d been writing biting articles about the ton for Matchmaking for Wallflowers.

  All her instincts to abhor the marquess had been correct. If only she hadn’t succumbed to his pleading. She should have known better. She had known better, but had yielded to curiosity, even though that was never a quality to be indulged.

  His masculine features, that sturdy jaw, those dark, gleaming eyes, were probably drawn up into a smile. Probably she should be thankful the music still played, so no one could hear his laugh. Even the musicians lifted their gazes toward her, and their heads did not shake in their customary enthusiasm as their bows tackled the strings in a joyful melody. Laughter rang through the ballroom, but the smiles straightened, and their eyes stopped twinkling, when they spotted Cordelia.

  She shifted her legs awkwardly over the floor and peered again at the crowd.

  But the marquess did not reappear.

  The other women gave her strained smiles and began their portions of the dance. Cordelia stepped to the side. Everyone danced in the line, and the stretch of ballroom to the wallflower section was bare. Scores of eyes stared at her, and heat blazed over her cheeks as if some demon had gotten hold of them.

  The other wallflowers were quiet, their gazes more wide-eyed than she thought possible. Cordelia swallowed hard and approached them, but once she neared them they swooped their eyelashes downward, and peered at their laps.

  Goodness. They’d all seen it. Everybody had seen it. And now she was supposed to return to her seat and have no one else ask her to dance and pretend that was fine.

  Likely he was laughing about her now.

  Well, the marquess had humiliated the wrong wallflower. She refused to permit him to saunter away from the dance.

  She inhaled and scanned the room, scrutinizing the punch table and canape section. He seemed the type of man to desire to linger there. She drew her fingers into tight fists and marched through the ballroom. The floorboards creaked beneath her and she forced her pace to slow, as if it were perfectly natural to be abandoned while dancing, as if that were a common occurrence.

  The flames of the eight-hour candles still gleamed from the candelabras, and no alcoves marred the rectangular shape of the room.

  There was nowhere for the man to hide.

  Yet she did not see him.

  She thrust open heavy wooden doors before the footman could reach them. Surprise flickered over the man’s face, and she exited the ballroom.

  The doors slammed behind her. Stillness pervaded the hallway though her heartbeat still pounded as if it were attempting to rival the musicians’ efforts.

  She rushed down the steps. The butler’s eyes widened, likely shocked to see a woman approaching without a chaperone, but he opened the door.

  At one point the action would have been unthinkable for her. That moment had been before being humiliated for everyone to see.

  She stepped into the cool, crisp air. The moonlight glowed over the tilestones. Horses and carriages lined the street. Some grooms chattered in a corner, and she felt their gazes on her. Wind brushed over her, and she seemed to feel every crack in the cobblestones, dampened from Yorkshire’s seemingly never-ending propensity to shower at such regular intervals as to intrigue Swiss clockmakers.

  She glanced at her feet. She still wore her slippers. Dirt clung to the glossy satin sides, and the lace ribbon was torn.

  Rockport remained nowhere about. Perhaps the groom would drive her back to the spacious home her father had rented for the week, but she required her boots. She gritted her teeth and returned to the townhouse. No need to abandon her footwear and give new fodder for the hostess to gossip about.

  She hurried up the steps. She barely grasped hold of the knocker before the door swung open, and the butler peered down at her.

  “You returned, my lady.”

  “Indeed.” She smiled tightly. “I need my boots.”

  “And it would appear, your cloak.”

  Oh. Suddenly the chill did not suffice in coolness, and warmth swept up the back of her neck.

  “Quite.” Cordelia avoided the servant’s gaze and attempted to march up the steps in a manner befitting the daughter of a duke, and not in the manner befitting a woman who’d been abandoned on the dance floor and ostracized by the ton.

  She grabbed her boots, changed into them and stuffed her slippers into her satin bag. Her hands still shook; she’d never sufficiently appreciated the complexity of knot tying. She would grab her cloak and then return to her carriage. The driver could return for her mother.

  It was decided.

  Except . . . Cordelia cast a glance toward the ballroom. She refused to slink out and approached the door.

  Music sounded, and unease prickled her back.

  Yet she refused to flee. She would not let the marquess decide her fate.

  She reentered the room and approached the footman. “Did you see Lord Rockport leave?”

  The man blinked. “Lord—?”

  “No matter—he’s not from here.” She inhaled. He should have stayed where he belonged, in some tavern downing whiskey and reading Robert Burns, or reclining in whatever place the worst members of Scotland inhabited. “Tall man, dressed utterly inappropriately for an event of this quality?”

  “The man in the muddied boots?”

  “Yes. And horrid buckskin breeches.”

  “He’s not passed through here. Not since he entered at least. And if you see Lady Sherston, you can assure her that he did not enter with consent: he managed to convince one of the footmen that he was a marquess. Quite embarrassing.”

  “You needn’t be too harsh on the footman. The man in question does indeed hold the title of marquess.” She smiled tightly as the servant widened his eyes. “Excuse me.”

  So Lord Rockport hadn’t left the townhouse. And the servant hadn’t seen him, which meant he’d likely not even exited the ballroom.

  Very well.

  Long curtains swathed the windows, and she frowned. He must be on a balcony. He’d likely found some chit. That would be just the sort of despicable thing a man like him would do.

  She strolled to the first balcony and swept past the red velvet curtains, still clutching her slippers in her hand. Her boots thumped against the floor, but she continued her strides. If the marquess could ignore propriety, she could too.

  Cold wind slammed against her.

  Wearing thin gowns was scarcely tolerable in London, but the experience worsened in Yorkshire. At least the women here refrained from sprinkling water over their gowns to better have their attire cling to their body, unlike the most daring women in the capital.

  No looming, arrogant rogue greeted her, and she returned inside and marched to the next curtain. She pulled it open and stepped outside.

  This time she was not alone. Two people gazed at her. Two people who should be very grateful she wasn’t a gossip.

  “Sorry,” she said, though she didn’t regret eliminating another location where the marquess might be.

  He was not permitted to treat her such. Her father was the Duke of Belmonte.

  Men did not leave the daughters of dukes stranded in humiliation.

  She whipped back the next curtain.

  A figure towered over her, and she was confronted with a broad chest, and even broade
r shoulders. The shade of his eyes might not be visible in the dim light, but the manner in which they flared and then narrowed could not be concealed.

  “Go inside, Lady Cora.” His stern voice seemed better suited to wayward children than refined women.

  Her anger deepened. “Lady Cordelia to you.”

  “Inside.” His voice remained strong, but his gaze drifted.

  She followed his glance. Another man, one more brusque-looking and even more inappropriately attired for a ball than the marquess, stood beside him.

  Cordelia’s spine stiffened, and the fire that filled her veins in his presence threatened to spill. “You abandoned me on the dance floor.”

  He blinked, and his voice softened. “So I did. Forgive me.”

  Fury ratcheted through her. A man was supposed to at least notice when he caused a lady irreparable harm.

  “That’s it?” She glowered.

  “Eager little thing, isn’t she?” The marquess’s companion chuckled, and he ran beady eyes down her body.

  Lord Rockport winced. “Go inside. I’ll—I’ll dance with you later.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” the stranger chuckled again.

  Goodness. The man found this amusing? She could not wait to return home and tell her father all about the horrible people in this ton-forsaken county. Perhaps then her father could regret his ridiculous decision to holiday here.

  She inhaled and raised her chin. “I’ll never dance with you again.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Lord Rockport emitted a weak laugh, and Cordelia put her hands on her waist.

  “It is not settled.”

  “His lordship don’t want little girls here,” the stranger said. “Run along.”

  Cordelia gasped.

  Lord Rockport had abandoned her on the dance floor, and now he and his friend were insulting her? She, the daughter of a duke? She had not been raised to be treated in this manner. He was mad if he thought she would permit this.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  And then she blinked.

  For the strange man’s arm was extended in an awkward fashion behind the marquess, whose face lacked the cocky assurance she despised.