Sir Colin Wilde was a man who aspired to be a rake. To become a good one, however, he enlisted the help of a friend: former notorious rake, Anthony Benson, Viscount Maddox. And he needed a lot of help.
Always blundering, never knowing what to say or do. Just like Christian in Cyrano de Bergerac.
Unfortunately, Maddox misled Wilde at every turn, frustrating his quixotic notions and leading him into epic failure every. single. time.
“She loves chocolates,” came the unmistakable voice of Viscount Maddox on Colin’s right.
“What the…?” He turned around and came face-to-face with Anthony. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Anthony grabbed Colin’s arm and pulled him away from the door. “I agreed to help you with your first seduction.”
“This is not my first—”
“Do you want my help or not?” Anthony demanded.
“I do.” Colin sighed his resignation. Though he was certain this particular girl wouldn’t take much convincing. He examined his friend, who seemed to be sweating profusely. “I say, are you all right?”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “Just thinking about my final resting place is all.” He sighed and straightened his shoulders. “Lady Priscilla is very sensitive. You must not offend her.”
“Right.” Colin nodded.
“Begin by comparing her to Lady Hawthorne. She adores her and has always aimed to be just like her in every aspect of life.”
“Cordelia? Ambrose’s wife? Truly?” Colin wasn’t entirely convinced.
Anthony scratched his head and looked away. “It is all truth. Also, and do not forget this lest you lose her before you even try to seduce the woman…” Anthony leaned in and whispered, “She loves poetry.”
“Poetry?” Colin repeated. “But I am no poet! I hate poetry!”
“Make it up.”
“Do you know me at all? I cannot simply make something up on the spot. I’ll look like an idiot.”
Anthony began to pace. “Allow me to help.” He cleared his throat and took a stance in front of Colin. “Your hair is like a cloud.”
“A cloud?” Colin interrupted.
“Have patience. I’m not finished,” Anthony ground out. “Your hair is a cloud, dripping with rain. Oh, if I were grass that I could drink up the water. You would soothe my soul and make me… smile.”
“It does not even rhyme!” Colin shouted.
“Poetry does not have to rhyme,” Anthony argued.
~ from Taming Wilde (Rachel Van Dyken & Leah Sanders)