They enjoyed an amiable dance, content to be in one another’s arms.
“How much talk do you think we would create if we were to dance every waltz together?” he asked, his voice low in Rebecca’s ear as they left the dance floor.
She laughed softly.
“Even an unconventional duke such as yourself would have a difficult time in doing such a thing,” she said. “You would be the talk of all of London.”
“I believe I already am,” he said ruefully.
They had nearly made it to the end of the dance floor when a rotund, balding man stopped them.
“I say!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger at Valentine. “I know you.”
Val arched an eyebrow. “This is my home,” he said carefully, “and as you are an invited guest, I would hope that you know my identity.”
The man shook his head. “No, no, I’ve seen you before. Somewhere else. Somewhere… I’ve got it!”
Val waited expectantly, his stomach slightly churning. Don’t say it, he thought. Please don’t—
“You’re the fighter! The pugilist! Val Vincent!”
Heads began to turn their way, and Val could sense Rebecca stiffening beside him.
“You must be mistaken, sir,” she said, attempting to defend him. “This is the Duke of Wyndham. He—”
“No, no, there is no doubt about it,” the man continued. “I saw Bucky Brown best you two months past, out in Hungerford. Didn’t we, Johnson?” he asked one of his companions, who began to nod slowly in recognition.
“You say you are the duke?” the man continued, as a slight crowd began to form around them, more and more eyes turning toward them.
“Your grace!” his mother, her white hair perfectly coiffed and wearing the very finest gown London had to offer, sailed through Valentine’s accusers.
“These gentlemen must be mistaken, for I know such a thing could never be. Now, please come with me to greet Lord and Lady Hycliffe and their family. Excuse us!”
Then Valentine was whisked away, with a chorus of onlookers staring after him, Rebecca falling away from his side.
“I am not a child, Mother,” he said sternly once they were out of earshot. “I can fight my own battles.”
“You were doing a terrible job of it,” she scolded him. “As it is, your name is going to be on the lips of all in attendance, until this news hits the scandal sheets tomorrow.”
“Does it matter?” he challenged her. “They are correct. I am the fighter they are speaking of. It’s who I am — more so than the Duke of Wyndham, that is for certain.”
She fixed him with a look of disdain.
“You know how upset your father always was about your fighting. Well, I feel no different, as you are well aware. It is because of your fighting that we lost your brother. I told you to be done with it, now that you are the Duke of Wyndham. It will sully your reputation, and the family’s along with it, even more so than it already is. Valentine, you must find yourself a respectable woman to wed.”
“In all honesty, Mother, I care very little about what these people think anymore,” he said in exasperation, and she turned to him, aghast.
“But what about me?”
“What about you?” he challenged. “I give you the finest things one could ask for. You are the mother of a duke, and you certainly act in the style one would suppose.”
“Well, of course, I do,” she said. “Matthew would—”
“I am not Matthew,” he said sternly, loud enough that a couple of people turned to look at him, and he quieted his tone so as not to embarrass his mother. “I am sorry, Mother. I wish Matthew was here instead of me, truly I do. But while I may be forced to take his title, I cannot become him. I am who I am — Valentine, the fighter. And it’s time I begin to fight for what I want.”
She looked at him with equal parts respect and disappointment.
“You are remaining the man we always expected you to be,” she said with a sniff. “But there is one thing you cannot argue with.”
“And what’s that?”
“You need a dowry — and a significant one at that. You best come around and realize that yourself before it’s too late.”
Then she was off, striding away from him with her nose held high in the air, more lady that she actually was in name.
Aware that he had somehow bungled nearly every situation this evening, Valentine could do nothing but watch her go and wish, not for the first time, that his brother was still with them.
22
“Miss Lambert, might I have a word?”
After stopping for a drink, Rebecca had nearly found her way back to her seat with her newfound friends, but Mrs. St. Vincent intercepted her.
“Of course,” she said politely. “Thank you so much for having me this evening.”
“Yes, well, my children were insistent,” Mrs. St. Vincent said in a way that told Rebecca she clearly would have chosen otherwise. “Miss Lambert,” she said, leading Rebecca into a corner of the room, “I am not a fool. I have come to realize that you and my son hold… affection for one another.”
Rebecca turned to her, rather stunned. She hadn’t realized Mrs. St. Vincent was so perceptive. Or perhaps Rebecca and Valentine had been much more obvious than they would have imagined.
“I suppose there is some truth to that,” she said cautiously, unsure of what Valentine would want her to say.
“You must realize, however, that my son is not for you,” she continued, quite forthright. “He is a duke now, and while I am aware that you were raised with much propriety, you are not what he needs, Miss Lambert. You are an intelligent woman and I hope that you can understand this, even if he cannot.”
Rebecca’s heart and mind swirled with opposing emotions. She was not exactly pleased with Mrs. St. Vincent’s words, and yet she was insinuating that Valentine had not given up on her. Of that, Rebecca was more pleased than she could have imagined.
“I believe that is for Valentine to decide,” was all she could manage. And truly, she wished he would. He was a grown man, and she was becoming quite frustrated by his lack of ability to stand up to his mother. Though, who was she to tell him such a thing when she had been covering her father’s mistakes for years now?
“Men can be idiots,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, rolling her eyes. “They cannot be trusted to make the right decisions. Which is why you must do so.”
“Oh, Mrs. St.—“
“Don’t be a fool, Miss Lambert,” she said pointedly. “Besides the fact that you are not of noble birth, you more than anyone should be aware of the costs of living the life we are expected to live. If we want the ability to pay anyone — which would include our architect — then we require funds to do so. Funds that would come from a dowry.”
“Or a properly managed dukedom,” Rebecca returned.
“That will be some time away,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, then narrowed her eyes slightly at Rebecca. “A woman from a family whose father has debts of his own would be the last woman who might make a match with my son.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”