Waltzing with the Wallflower (Waltzing with the Wallflower #1)(3)

“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.

Ambrose rubbed his eyes and strained to see what his brother was pointing to. “Do you see her, Wilde?”

Wilde shook his head and then paled. “Anthony, are you sure this is a good idea? Say, Ambrose, why don’t we go to the tables and—”

“Where the devil is she? I don’t see a thing. All I see is Lady Markham drinking her weight in sherry and the little chit in that awful green…um, yellow… what color is that dress? Oh, no—” he said all in the same breath. “Her? You want her to be the toast of the ton?”

“I think the color you’re looking for is putrid,” Wilde said in a helpful tone.

Ambrose cursed, ignoring his friend.

“Her name is Lady Cordelia.”

“I know her bloody name, Anthony. What game do you play at? The chit nearly blends into the wall! The plant looks more inviting than the girl standing next to it!”

All three men watched as the lady in question appeared to be frozen, nay, paralyzed in her place. She gave the word wallflower a new meaning. Ambrose tilted his head to the side; surely she would look more inviting from another angle. After waiting several seconds, he gave up and cursed. Then he saw Anthony and Wilde doing the exact same thing.

“Doesn’t help,” he muttered, reaching for another glass of champagne. “Well, it seems you have outdone yourself.”

“So I have.” He rubbed his hands together. “Shall we gain you an introduction?”

“You cannot be serious,” Ambrose scoffed.

Anthony crossed his arms. “Is that fear I smell, Wilde? It seems my brother reeks of it. Though he never has been one to back down from a challenge. This must be a humbling moment indeed.”

Ambrose took a deep breath and looked away, seeking control over his competitive nature. Unfortunately, Anthony hadn’t found him at his best. Doing something this stupid did have its appeal. Curse his twin for knowing how much he enjoyed a challenge.

“Our lady,” Anthony said, ignoring his brother’s inner battle, “arrived at the start of the Season. It is believed that the girl served out an indentured contract to a wealthy family in France to pay off some of her father’s many debts. Now that her parents are no longer accepted in polite society, her aunt and uncle have graciously offered to sponsor her launch for one Season… certainly out of pity.”

“I pity her,” Wilde admitted. “The poor girl is embarrassingly past the marriageable age and looks about as out of place as a cow at Carlton House.”

“So it is her first Season?” Ambrose asked, trying to feign a lack of interest when his gaze greedily scanned the girl across the room. Her dress was awful. But her story made it even more impossible for him to say no. If anyone deserved a stroke of luck it was she.

“Her first, and if anyone in this room has a say about it, her last,” Anthony answered.

“Why her last?”

“Her reputation? The scandal with her parents? She was sold into human slavery, brother. What earl wants to be seen with the likes of her?”