Waltzing with the Wallflower(2)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

“Frown,” Ambrose repeated sourly, throwing back the contents of his flute. “I venture that if I were to suddenly exclaim that the sky was falling, I would receive nothing more than peculiar stares from those around me. No emotion. Not any of them. It is akin to staring at a blank canvas.”

“Shall we paint then, dear brother?” Anthony held out his hand as if for Ambrose to lead the way.

Ambrose walked toward the desserts. “Ah, therein lies the problem. It seems we have nothing to paint. Not one thing.” He bit back a curse and pasted a smile on his face as they passed a few of London’s venerable matrons, all looking at them as if they were some sort of delicious apple tart.

“I take it you’re bored then, brother?” Anthony asked once they were out of earshot from the gossip-mongers.

“Whatever would give you that idea?” Ambrose teased through hooded eyes. “Has my cynicism put you in a foul mood? My apologies. It isn’t your fault. Maybe it is my old age, and I’ll deny this if you ever repeat it to anyone, even Wilde. It just seems it should be different. One of these years it has to be, wouldn’t you agree?” He hated that he confessed it to his brother. Out loud, nonetheless, but as competitive as they were, family ran thick as blood.

Anthony’s face took on a more serious expression. Though identical, it was still possible to tell them apart. Anthony, for one, had very expressive eyes that showed his every emotion. They had the same green eyes with a striking yellow outline—a very peculiar color that women swooned over when introduced to the twins. Anthony’s rich brown hair was cut a bit closer to his head, whereas Ambrose wore his longer. It was his undying mercy on others, because he believed it simply wouldn’t be fair to look so much alike.

As the light faded from Anthony’s face, he squinted and looked to Ambrose with a smug grin. “How about a little wager then? To make things, shall we say,” he cleared his throat, “interesting?”

“Anthony,” he groaned. “The last time you wore that expression I was shot in the leg with your favorite pistol.”

His twin scowled. “Yes, but it was through no fault of mine that you happened to fall from your horse and direct your body in line with my shot.”

“Still not taking responsibility for your actions, eh, Anthony?” A male voice cut in.

“Ah, Wilde, good of you to join us! And just in time it seems.” Anthony patted their mutual friend on the back.

“Brilliant. You do know your brother has that look in his eye again, don’t you, Ambrose?”

“You know I can never stop Anthony when he sets his mind to something.” He shook his head and smiled. Whatever his brother had up his sleeve, he did not have a good feeling. Maybe it was the way that the wind seemed to suddenly pick up through the open doors to the balcony. Or the sudden chill that ran down his spine. Tonight, it seemed, would be different; he just hadn’t a clue why.

Though part of him, the sane part, told him to flee, he stayed glued to the floor, concentrating on his brother who at that moment announced, “We are to have a bet.”

Wilde laughed while Ambrose cursed and gave his brother a stern look. “A bet, Anthony? We gamble all the time, why would this be more exciting than last night when I relieved you of five hundred pounds?”

“Not that type of bet.” Anthony grinned.

“I hate it when he grins like that,” Wilde said.

Ambrose nodded his head. “Yes, I hate to admit how much it frightens our dear mother as well.”

“Do you want to hear about it or not?” Anthony asked, clearly agitated.

“By all means.” Ambrose laughed then elbowed Wilde to stop laughing.

His overconfident twin cleared his throat. “First, you must answer some questions for me. Can you do that, Ambrose?”

“Insulting my intelligence now?”

Wilde threw his hands in the air. “Just get on with it, will you?”

“Fine.” Anthony shot Ambrose a dirty look then pasted that ridiculously frightening look on his face again. “How long have you been known as one of the most famous bachelors of the ton?”

“As long as you have.”

“Years, if mathematics isn’t too difficult for you.”

Ambrose thought for a second. “I would say around eight years, putting me at the ripe old age of one and thirty.”

“Brilliant. Now in those eight years, how many women have you successfully made just as famous based on association alone?”

“One per Season,” Wilde chimed in. When Ambrose gave him an irritated look, he shrugged. “It’s common knowledge. Why do you think women wait with bated breath for you to dance with them?”

“My devilish good looks?” Ambrose offered.

“That is true. In fact, the only time I’ve seen anything better is when I’m fortunate enough to gaze upon my own reflection in the mirror,” Anthony joked.

Wilde rolled his eyes then added, “I’ll admit it does seem to help…both of you.”

Anthony cleared his throat. “One lady of good breeding per Season it is. And in all this time have you ever chosen a woman of scandal? Or perhaps a woman who isn’t the prettiest of the bunch?”

“Can’t see why I would waste my time—”

“Exactly!” Anthony cut in. “So you understand then?”

“Does he often imagine everyone has taken to mind reading then?” Wilde squinted and tilted his head.

Ambrose laughed, but it was hollow. Just what was his brother getting at? “You want me to choose a woman based on…”

“Need. I want you to choose a woman based on need. What woman needs to be the toast—needs to be saved from scandal? Needs to find a wealthy husband? What woman deserves it?”

“Not that I’m known to be the vainer of the two of us.” Ambrose grinned. “But I could turn the Dowager of Marsaille into the most sought after woman in London, and you know it.” As if on cue the elderly lady laughed, sending shivers throughout Ambrose’s body. The men gave each other a look of disdain.

“Of course I do, so you shouldn’t have any trouble with her.” Anthony pointed to the other side of the ballroom where several potted plants stood lining the wall.

“A plant? You want me to turn a plant into the toast of the ton?” Ambrose asked, confused and simultaneously wondering how much champagne Anthony had already consumed.

“No, you fool. I want you to turn her into the toast of the ton.” He pointed again.