A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  The Duke of Alfriston and his own brother hadn’t helped anything with their ridiculously happy love matches.

  No, debutantes were definitely out. They didn’t know themselves well enough yet. They might agree to marry him—he smiled, because a man like him wasn’t likely to be resisted, but he’d hate to make any woman unhappy. Just because he might be a marquess proposing marriage, did not make him resemble the heroic aristocrats in Miss Van Lochen’s books.

  He needed someone practical. Someone who would agree to a marriage of convenience. A contract, just like how marriages were supposed to be. A fancy piece of paper with no other expectations.

  He needed someone who could see that his title brought benefits. Someone who didn’t want to search for her perfect match.

  Someone like—

  He tensed.

  No, no.

  He shouldn’t be thinking of her.

  The notion was ridiculous, purely attributed to the fact that he’d spoken with her earlier. His mind shouldn’t be considering her as a wife.

  The woman’s father had sent a henchman after him. Hardly an ideal quality in a father-in-law to be.

  Of all the women in the world, the woman he held in the utmost abhorrence was Lady Cordelia Belmonte. She represented all the worst instincts in women: in fact, she encouraged them. She was calculating, evidenced by her habit of becoming engaged to aristocrats.

  Though he loathed the matchmaking frenzy of the ton, driven more by the pursuit of titles and long lines of zeroes than love, he was equaling them in shrewdness. He was choosing a woman he’d always despised for money.

  Mother had been similarly scheming.

  And yet—despite that.

  Lady Cordelia was perfect.

  Not—not perfect. Obviously. Other men might find her blonde hair and blue eyes appealing. Other men might liken her to a seraphin, and might muse whether she most resembled Aphrodite or Hera.

  Other men did not possess his impeccable judgement and his clear-headedness.

  Still, Lady Cordelia had been raised to be the perfect wife. Her father possessed vast wealth, a state no doubt abetted by his habit of lending vast sums of money to people who could never afford to repay them, and then sending murderers to gather the interest-increased funds from either them or their descendants.

  He wouldn’t have to pay off the debt, at least not with the haste Oggleton demanded, were he to become Belmonte’s son-in-law.

  The solution would work.

  Not because of any affection on his part. Obviously.

  Gerard’s lips twitched. The duke would bloody well have a heart attack to find Gerard and Cordelia were joining their lives together.

  He grinned.

  That might just be worth putting up with her anyway.

  And it was only a marriage. It wasn’t as if they needed to speak much with each other. Just reciting the vows would suffice. And then they could have a lifetime of ignoring the other, just like all the other members of the ton.

  He could do this. This was about preserving his mother’s memory. This was about maintaining the servants on his estate. This was about keeping his half-brothers’ innocence. They didn’t need to know that his father had died of grief because of her mother’s affairs. They didn’t need to know about her indulgent nature. They were optimistic, hopeful.

  And this was about his blasted future, even if that seemed to be rapidly losing value.

  Gerard beamed: he was an expert problem solver.

  Life was good.

  Chapter Eight

  Gerard strolled through the ballroom and whistled as he searched for the lass. Various footmen glowered at him from behind the silver platters of food and drink they carried.

  He spotted her. She’d returned to the fireplace and was sitting alone, even though some other wallflowers chatted merrily nearby. Her spine was straight, not touching the back of her chair, and she’d folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap. Somehow the sight tugged at something in his chest.

  He stepped toward her, and she tilted her head upward. Her cobalt eyes widened for a brief moment, but she soon swept sooty lashes downward. “I suppose you’ve come to express your gratitude for the fact I saved your life.”

  “I’ve come to ask you to dance.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Your offer does not tempt me.”

  Right.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised, but annoyance flickered through him. He wanted her to marry him. Refusing to dance with him was not a promising start.

  “I don’t see any other man offering to dance with you,” he said, hoping that his tone didn’t seem as affronted as it sounded in his ears.

  “I recommend you improve your seduction techniques,” Lady Cordelia said. “Or is pointing out a woman’s lack of dance partners a practice common for Scottish lairds these days?”

  “I hadn’t realized your interest in the behavior of Scottish lairds,” he said.

  She frowned. “You’re irredeemable.”

  He forced his demeanor to remain jovial. Seriousness was not a feeling to cultivate. “I wanted to speak with you.”

  “I see.” Her cool blue eyes did not flicker from his face, assessing him as calmly and steadily as if she were the sky, and he were the only person beneath it. “Unfortunately I don’t possess a similar desire to speak with you.”

  Great Gods on Olympus.

  He should just walk away from her now. He’d never experienced such intolerable company before. And yet—

  He leaned toward her, and she fanned her face.

  “Really, my lord. Don’t you fear people might deem it untoward that you’re spending so long speaking with me, with no chaperone present?”

  He glanced toward her mother, the Duchess of Belmonte. Her rosy face was visible even from this section of the ballroom as was her laugh. And the woman was not known for being happy. “They probably think it more notable that your chaperone is inebriated. Or have they grown too accustomed to that?”

  She stiffened, and he sighed. She brought the worst of him out.

  “Forgive me—that was reprehensible.”

  “That was?” Her eyes were still wide, and he pulled himself away from them. No need to reflect now on how the blueness of their shade was visible even in the murky light of the ballroom.

  “It seems I have developed an expertise for offending you,” he said.

  “You can expect no congratulations from me.” She scrutinized him, and her nose crinkled as she concentrated. “Just what are you doing here?”

  His heart thudded, the force stronger than he would have thought possible for a woman he scarcely tolerated.

  This was the moment.

  He smiled slowly.

  He knew the smile was seductive. He knew it, because he’d flashed this smile at other women, and had normally been rewarded by pinkening cheeks and high-pitched giggles.

  Lady Cordelia’s face remained stony.

  Never mind.

  She didn’t need to like him. She just needed to marry him.

  He squared his shoulders. “I’ve come to propose.”

  “I won’t dance.”

  He blinked. “That’s not what I want to propose.”

  “Mm . . . hmm.” She waved her fan, and when he remained silent, she glanced at him. “Go on. What have you come to propose?”

  “Marriage.”

  The rhythmic motion of her strokes faltered, and the fan veered unevenly. She slammed the frilly lace apparatus shut and rested it on her lap.

  “Marriage to whom?” Her voice wobbled, and her already high-pitched voice seemed intent on tackling another octave.

  He steadied his gaze. “You.”

  She blinked. And then her lips swung upward into a crooked smile. “You needn’t jest, my lord.”

  “I’m not.” His voice sounded huskier than he desired. He wished he’d had the foresight to bring a ring with him. Something to let her know this was real. All men should be required to carry an engagement rin
g with them. Love—or a sense of duty—could strike at any time.

  He took her hands in his, noting the smallness of her figures, and not minding the roughness of her lace gloves. “I’ve come to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  “You are truly proposing?” Her voice was slow, but at least thank goodness, she was grasping the concept.

  He scrambled to the floor and knelt on the cold stones. “Marry me.”

  Her face whitened, and her body stiffened. Not, in truth, the preferred reaction of a woman about to be made a marchioness.

  He instantly missed the color on her cheeks.

  She darted her gaze around the ballroom and then leaned toward him. A golden lock spilled from her chignon, and even though he despised her, even though this would only be a marriage of convenience, he still wondered what it would feel like beneath his hand. Her scent, some floral concoction that signified femininity and sumptuousness wafted over him.

  This was when she was going to say yes. This was when the rest of his life was going to begin.

  Her face remained serious, and he shifted his knee against the floor. The woman was taking her time, and his heart thudded, more even than when on that balcony with Oggleton.

  Delayed reaction, he decided. Quite normal.

  “Please rise, my lord.” Her voice trembled, the way chits’ voices tended to wobble when addressing him, but no sparkle danced in her eyes. “Before everyone notices.”

  “I don’t mind if they notice.”

  “Well you wouldn’t,” Cordelia said, with a trace of bitterness that Gerard mused didn’t belong in the voice of a woman accepting marriage to a marquess. “I think you’ve humiliated me enough tonight.”

  He blinked.

  Lady Cordelia crushed her teeth against her lower lip. “I’ve already been engaged before.”

  Three times, but he refrained from correcting her.

  Lady Cordelia drew her legs toward her, crossing them in a dainty motion that shouldn’t have drawn his attention. She gave a nervous smile that didn’t mask the anxiety in her gaze. “I will not marry you.”

  He emitted a startled laugh.

  “I’m serious,” she said, her voice stern.

  She couldn’t—she couldn’t be refusing him? He grasped hold of her hands again. “I’m serious as well.”

  She blinked. “But you despise me.”

  “And yet there’s no other person I would rather have as my wife.”

  *

  Marriage.

  Cordelia knew she was required to speak. The marquess was gazing at her so expectantly.

  As was everyone else.

  The sight of a man kneeling before a woman did not go unnoticed. The musicians must still be playing, but the violins sounded softer as if the violinists had deliberately softened their strokes or had selected a quieter song. The silence was abetted by the fact that the majority of guests no longer thundered about the floor. Some of the gray-headed guests, the ones in the full throes of nostalgia, clutched their spouses. Even the footmen lowered their platters of food as if to obtain an improved view.

  She inhaled, but the sudden influx of air did nothing to calm her heart, and it took all her effort to keep her expression tranquil as an increasing number of guests pointed toward her.

  Lord Rockport grinned. “Now what do you say?”

  It was unlikely that she’d been swallowing dust for the past hour, but from the dryness of her throat, she wouldn’t be surprised to find that they were in fact in a desert. Energy rolled through her as if her body were tempted to leap into his arms, just as a woman would who actually adored the man proposing.

  A husband required greater qualifications than a firm figure and a chiseled face.

  At the very least a husband needed to possess some modicum of seriousness.

  She didn’t trust him. Not one bit. He might say he desired to marry her, but he’d also said he’d desired to dance with her. Perhaps that dreadful man outside had truly stolen him from the ballroom floor, but Cordelia suspected that Matchmaking for Wallflowers would not recommend that women tied themselves to men who were being pursued by ruffians.

  Her hands shook, and she tightened her grip around her now closed fan. “Forgive me, but I’m somewhat puzzled. You never gave any indication that you desired to marry me.”

  “Only because it never occurred to me to ask before.”

  “I’ve had more romantic proposals.”

  He clasped her hands in his. The man seemed to have developed a habit of doing that. The sensation of his sturdy hands encompassing hers sent a shiver, not entirely of displeasure, straight through her. He unnerved her.

  “We’re talking about a marriage, Lady Cordelia. Not a poem. Romance has no place in it. We’re suited together.”

  She nodded, and she knew she should be feeling relief that he hadn’t inexplicably fallen in love with her, since that would signify that he’d lost his mind, a fact would unlikely be an improvement on his personality, but her shoulders still tumbled downward in something that felt like disappointment.

  Obviously she wasn’t actually disappointed.

  “We’re both practical,” he said, and she nodded at the term people frequently used to describe her.

  “Apart from your ability to get yourself into precarious positions,” she said.

  He shrugged. “We’re suited. I am in need of a wife, and there’s no woman more qualified than you. And everyone knows your desire to be married. If you can condescend to not marrying a duke.”

  He laughed, but nothing about his statement was amusing, and she removed her hands from his.

  “Practically engaged,” she insisted.

  His chuckle stung. She’d been made out to be more calculating and marriage-minded than she deserved. The ton didn’t care for the actual details.

  And the marquess, a man who claimed to be proposing, was even now laughing at her. Even as the whole ballroom looked on.

  She’d made hasty decisions before. She wouldn’t do so again. She knew the humiliation that would happen when Rockport decided he didn’t need to marry her after all.

  “You don’t have to accept,” he said, his tone more serious. “I hope you do.”

  “And why not one of any of the other women in the ton? The women you don’t profess to despise?”

  “I don’t want to break anyone’s heart. Look—I am deeply in debt. I’m not looking for love. And Lady Cordelia—I’m not sure you have a heart to break.”

  She gave him a weak smile.

  “You don’t want to sit on the sidelines,” he continued. “Your reputation is not what it once was.”

  “I cannot marry you.”

  His face sobered immediately, and he clambered up.

  She wondered whether she should be relieved that the man no longer kneeled before her.

  Naturally.

  “Please ponder it. You can take my estate near Canterbury,” he said. “I never visit, and you will never see me.”

  She nodded. “The ideal sort of husband.”

  “I knew you would see it that way.”

  “I still won’t marry you.”

  “Do you think you might change your mind?” His tone was matter-of-fact, aloof.

  She gazed at him. The man was handsome—dangerously so. The thought of tying her life with him—he would answer all her problems.

  But he wasn’t safe. Carlisle had been safe. Aged, certainly. But safe. He hadn’t riled her emotions. He wouldn’t have been able to.

  “No.”

  He stiffened, but then gave her his normal cocky smile. “Never mind then.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “No matter.”

  She was silent, and he strode away.

  One of the giggling wallflowers approached her. “He wasn’t—he wasn’t proposing, was he?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “Oh.” The wallflower’s shoulders slumped. “It rather looked like it. What with all the kneeling.”

  Cordelia
gave a weak smile. “The marquess has a tendency to jest.”

  “Right.” The wallflower nodded. “But he was kneeling—”

  “Only to beg for forgiveness for wearing such inappropriate attire to a ball.”

  “Well, that does make sense.”

  Yes, it did. The proposal made rather less sense. Lord Rockport said he required a wife, but she didn’t even know he’d been searching for one.

  No.

  She was glad she’d resisted the temptation to accept. He might be in possession of a title, but she doubted his ability to keep the engagement. Another broken betrothal was just what she didn’t need, and he was mad if he thought she would attach her future to someone as unstable as him.

  Chapter Nine

  A constant drizzle pattered against the glass panes of Cordelia’s bedroom windows. Cheerful depictions of the Dales lined the wood-paneled walls, and the lush colors of the images gleamed against the paintings’ golden frames. Given the propensity for rain in the area, she wondered how any painter had ever managed to venture outside, much less paint anything.

  Her father’s decision to visit Harrogate had startled her mother and her, but her mother had made use of the time by indulging in the spa. The place was less crowded than Bath though the quality of the guests decreased in an even more striking ratio. Papa was the only duke in attendance.

  She wanted something to distract her from thinking of that dreadful ball. She didn’t want to devote any attention to Lord Rockport, but her mind mulled over the proposal. The man resided in Scotland and was merely visiting his half-brother. She might not ever see him again. Somehow that fact did not relieve the ratcheting in her heart.

  Irritation swept through her, and she fought the desire to pace the room. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to remain here, in this tiny spa town, where the only activity consisted of sitting in water or sitting on the sidelines of a ball.

  She pulled at her necklace and brushed her fingers down the stones.

  Her lady’s maid would be appalled to see her like this. She hadn’t bothered to change from her gown yet, and the silk crushed against the bed.