Waltzing with the Wallflower(14)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

“Helpful,” Ambrose muttered under his breath. “Cordelia, as I said, what’s done is done, but it is of no importance anymore.”

“Oh?” She lifted an angry brow. “Pray tell me why it isn’t important that you’ve lied to me for over three weeks. I’m in such suspense!”

“It’s difficult when you look so angry! Nothing else matters now. As I said before, I care for you! I, I….” Why couldn’t he say love?

“You what, Ambrose?” Her eyes looked hopeful.

“I… It wasn’t just a bet. It isn’t just a bet anymore. This is about us, can’t you see? It’s more than a silly bet.”

“A silly bet? Can I assume you’re labeling me as the silly part of this bet? Silly that I would be such an easy target? Naïve because of my family? Or just plain stupid because I fell for it so readily? For what other reason would a titled lord pay any mind to me? Or bother to kiss me senseless?” Tear sprang into her eyes. “You say you care for me—you really were going to ask me to be your mistress!”

It had crossed his mind, but this was not the time to say it out loud. Furthermore, as soon as the idea had cropped up, he pushed it immediately out of his mind and realized she deserved more than that. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Don’t, Ambrose, just… leave.”

He didn’t move.

“Fine, I’ll leave. Good evening to you both.”

She pushed past Ambrose and Anthony.

When Ambrose looked up, it was just in time to greet his brother’s fist. Expletives flew out of his mouth as he sailed to the hard ground. “What was that for?”

“You idiot. You fool!” Anthony yelled. “Could you have handled that any worse?”

“Could you have helped me handle that?” Ambrose shot back.

“I cannot believe you! You kiss her senseless, dance every waltz with her. Half the ton thinks you’re to be engaged, and the other half thinks she’s already your fiancée and here you are on the ground because you can’t very well defend her honor and pride? Is I love you really too difficult coming from your mouth?”

Ambrose scowled. “In my defense—”

“You have no defense! You’re a coward! The girl is going to be ruined; I hope you realize that! You’d be an idiot not to know that the sudden drop in attention from you will destroy anything she’s accomplished.”

“None of this is my fault!” Ambrose defended.

“Not your fault? Not your fault?” Anthony cursed. “She loves you! You love her! When such things happen, you apologize and propose!”

Ambrose didn’t have an answer to that. Instead, he held out his hand for his brother to help him up. But his twin made no move to take it. Instead he offered an icy glare.

“Name your seconds,” Anthony muttered.

Ambrose froze. “You can’t be serious. Are you challenging me to a duel?”

“I am.”

“Over a bet?”

Anthony ran his fingers through his hair. “If you think this is over an asinine bet, then you are beyond help, and I hope the bullet gives you a quick death, brother.”

“Where are you going?” Ambrose struggled to his feet.

His brother paused in the doorway. “If you aren’t man enough to fix this, then I shall do it. I will clean up your mess and propose to Cordelia myself. I won’t have her ruined because of your failures. Name your seconds, Ambrose.” Anthony stormed from the balcony, leaving Ambrose alone to nurse his bloody lip and wonder what the devil had just happened.

Chapter Eight

The Aftermath

The absolute arrogance. She didn’t need his help, but even as she told herself that, she scoured the room for the closest indoor plant to hide behind. What was wrong with these people? Why did they have no plants?

The impending tears stung her eyes, and she knew she had only seconds before someone noticed her puffy eyes and scarlet nose. The telltale signs of her broken heart and injured female dignity.

She swallowed back the rising knot in her throat and glanced towards her aunt sitting amongst the matrons. The woman was busy gossiping with her circle. She would not want to leave.

The murky despondence that enveloped her with Ambrose’s rejection had to be set aside. In her mind, Cordelia would have to envision her future without him, force herself to accept the truth and move on. Though the pain stole her breath and burned like a twisting knife in her stomach.

Cordelia bit back a curse. When it really came down to it, she was all alone in this world. Her aunt and uncle were her sponsors, but they had no genuine concern for her situation. The three men who she felt most comfortable to confide in had been toying with her. She was an object to them. The spoils of a bet and that was where it left her. Their bet. Her spoil.

Here she was, right back where she started. In the corner and hiding from the devouring eyes of the ton. Nothing gained but perhaps a bit wiser for the wear.

An excellent reason to be more careful in the future.

Though after this, she feared her only future was that of an old spinster maiden.

Or worse. Sir Bryan.

God have mercy, he spotted her.

A frantic search revealed no quick escape. She would have to speak with the man. In all fairness, he was a kind gentleman. It’s just that she couldn’t breathe when he was near. Swallowing her sensibilities, Cordelia drew a deep breath and awaited his arrival.

“Lady Cordelia, I have been trying to gain an audience with you all evening.” He stepped into the crowd beside her. “You have been highly sought after all night. Have you any space on your card for me?” His warm smile brought her an odd mixture of guilt and comfort. It might not be so bad. She could pray her married life would be blessed with a perpetual head cold.

With a sigh, she lifted her card and scanned it. Anthony’s name was scrawled across the next line. Certainly he wouldn’t be claiming his right after what had just transpired. And if he did have the gall to ask for it, she had no intention of giving him the pleasure of humiliating her further.

“As it happens, Sir Bryan, I do.” She returned his smile and took his offered arm, following him onto the dance floor. She would have to get used to his close proximity if they were to spend the rest of their lives together. May as well learn to breathe the fetid odor now.

“I have been hoping to speak with you,” Sir Bryan whispered as they took their place in the dance, “concerning the lady, Cristina.”