Waltzing with the Wallflower Trilogy

WALTZING WITH THE WALLFLOWER

Book One

To every wallflower — may you dance every dance.

PROLOGUE

The Duel

Do you think it best to fight your brother so deep in your cups? Wilde asked a foxed Ambrose.

Ambrose's head continued to pound to the rhythm of the blood coursing through his veins. His brilliant plan had not, in fact, been to challenge his own brother to a duel over a woman.

A blasted woman.

He took another sip of whiskey before he cursed and faced his friend Sir Colin Wilde. Unfortunately, his vision was blurred to the point of making him dizzy. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on how things had gone so horribly wrong.

Maybe if you talked about it, Wilde suggested.

Ambrose opened his eyes. Talk about it? Like a ninny-headed woman? You want me to talk about my feelings?

Wilde shrugged. I take it you believe your solution to be better?

Ambrose grumbled and motioned for another drink while Wilde simultaneously shook his head at the proprietor, informing him that his friend was done drinking for the day.

Was the man insane? The last thing he needed was to feel. And the quickest way he knew to help numb the surprising pain of the news was to drink himself into oblivion or possibly allow his brother to shoot him. The Good Lord knew he deserved it after the way he had treated Cordelia.

That name. That blasted name. He swore he wouldn't think about it — to think about it brought on too much pain. Pain he didn't want to acknowledge, because then it would mean he had been wrong all this time.

Just as he opened his mouth, to quite possibly spill his feelings as Wilde encouraged, the door to the establishment crashed open.

Where is he? Viscount Maddox, Ambrose's younger brother yelled above the rest of the patrons. "I ask again! Where is he?"

The jolly men around the poorly lit establishment quieted down; someone cleared his throat as another man pointed to Ambrose.

He cursed.

Not that he was a coward — he just didn't feel like marching to his death just yet. Not when her name was so fresh in his mind and the pain of loss so new to his memory. It seemed he owed her that much, at least to think of her during his last few minutes alive.

Is it that time already? Ambrose asked.

Wilde made a stand in front of him and faced Anthony.

Are you his guard dog then, Wilde? Anthony sneered. He placed his hands on the table and leaned in.

Nothing of the sort. I simply don't make it a habit to participate in illegal duels between brothers, especially when one brother is so foxed he can't see straight.

It's not my fault he's foxed. Nor is it my fault that he finds himself in this predicament. He lost the bet and ruined everything! The least I can do is take his sorry excuse of an existence away from him!

So that's it, brother? You've come to kill me when I'm at my weakest, all over a silly bet?

Anthony sneered. This isn't about the bet. It's about her. About what you did to her. I should have killed you then, but mark my words, brother. I will kill you now, for not only destroying the one woman capable of capturing your heart, but for snuffing out the spirit of the best lady to grace London in years.

His speech was followed by cheers throughout the room. Cordelia, it seemed, had not only won him over, but the rest of London and it was all his fault. All because of a bet. He lost her — lost everything. And because of that, he found himself saying to his brother, Do your worst.

CHAPTER ONE

The Bet

Four weeks previous.

Ambrose smirked as Anthony received another invitation from Lady Burkhead. The old widow had been giving the brothers bedroom eyes since the beginning of the Season. They had taken it in stride, knowing that the woman just wanted to have some fun before the Season became monotonous.

Which was exactly, to Ambrose's dismay, what he was experiencing. Though he couldn't speak for his twin Anthony, he felt that any minute he would start shedding his clothes merely to add to the entertainment of the most boring Season to plague the halls of London.

The dresses were void of any bright color. It seemed, after much debate amongst the fashion plates, that this Season's color was to be a pasty yellow. Of all the colors God created, why did the debutantes choose that one? It made all of them look sickly and when they smiled, he observed, a trifle mad.

It could not possibly get any more tedious, Ambrose was certain. But then it was discovered that Anthony and Ambrose had already met every debutante worth knowing that Season and all of them were found lacking. Oh, they had proper manners. They smiled and handled their fans with perfection. Their fingers were covered, their gowns plain and virginal. Not that Ambrose found anything wrong with virgins as a whole, but to blatantly display your lack of charms to the male population didn't, in his humble opinion, seem to be the quickest way to gain a husband. Alas, the marriage mart was in full swing, and Ambrose was feeling the all too familiar itch to do something stupid.

His brother, the younger by three minutes, could usually sense when Ambrose was growing agitated and would be at his side with a drink in hand or a good joke about one of the widows who had just attempted to seduce him out of his good sense. The brothers would toast to their brilliant fortune of having the ladies of London at their fingertips, then set about to see how many women they could flatter. It was with great pride that both Anthony and Ambrose picked out the toast of the ton each Season. In a way, they made her, for they would find an unsuspecting debutante who deserved the spotlight more than the others and reward her with their highly sought after attentions.

Men would flock, because if one thing was certain, if either of the twins were interested in a woman, it was for good reason. But as Ambrose's gaze scanned the same stifling crowd as he had seen at every event before, he could do nothing save shake his head and entertain the depraved thought of removing his dinner jacket or his gloves in public.

Don't, Anthony said, approaching with a drink.

Ah, you're just in time, I see. Tell me, how is Lady Burkhead this evening?

Old. Anthony handed over the drink he held and winced. By my calculations, and mind you I've had three glasses of champagne before said calculations, this Season is quite possibly the worst to befall the city of London since the days of King Arthur.

By Jove, Anthony! And to think I just finished telling Wilde what a nodcock you are, and here you stand, repeating the very same words I just thought.

I'm ignoring your slight to my intelligence, but only because you're older, and I don't wish to agitate your old age further. Now, drink the champagne before you get a silly notion in your head to do something polite society would frown upon.

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.

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?

Looking heavenward, Ambrose cursed and closed his eyes before he answered. This one. The Earl of Hawthorne. The moment the words were free of his lips, the chill that plagued him earlier returned with a vengeance. Ignoring the feeling and the nagging need for caution that accompanied it, he took a step towards the girl, all the while knowing that within moments the name on everyone's lips would be Cordelia.

CHAPTER TWO

The Lady

Cordelia was miserable. Her aunt and uncle insisted on sponsoring her return to London. After seven years of indentured servitude, however, she was grossly unprepared for societal expectations. Yet here she stood, pushed aside by the crush and trying desperately to blend in with the wall behind her.

Since her debut four weeks ago, she attracted only one man's attention. Sir Bryan had been following her far too closely, and though she knew she should be grateful for his interest, the man smelled like a medieval knight. Any time he was near, her eyes watered and she fought to keep her stomach from lurching. Cordelia found herself hiding from him and from every other man in the hall.

Unfortunately, the corner she chose for her hiding place was also the home to several indoor plants, which offered some lovely camouflage to match her dress, but when she backed into the foliage, her dress snagged and she was stuck fast. Mortified, she looked across the ballroom, desperate that no one would be the wiser to her plight. She scanned the room, and then froze when she noticed three men tilting their heads in her direction. It was just her luck that the very three men staring at her had the power to destroy her marital chances with one word.

Not that her chances were enviable now. Her family was steeped in scandal. She hadn't been trained for London Society, and at one and twenty years of age she was not highly sought after company. Even merchants' daughters turned their noses up at her misfortune.

It didn't matter that her family was titled. Her father's bad investments and his insatiable taste for gambling had driven them to the poor house, and as the only child, Cordelia was forced to bear the burden of repaying his debts.

She stared down at her skirt and struggled to free it from the branch with one hand. Even the small movement brought heat to her cheeks, and she hoped no one would notice her predicament. The last thing she needed right now was attention. Turning her focus to the snag, she tugged gently, trying to draw as little notice as possible.

May I be of some assistance, m'lady? A rich baritone startled her from her task and her head jerked up to ascertain who was speaking to her. She had been introduced to only one man present at this ball, and surely she would have sensed his approach long before he was close enough to engage her in conversation.

She recognized him in an instant. It was one of the well- known Benson twins. She dared not look long enough to determine which. They were nearly identical, and Cordelia had heard the only way to tell one from the other was by the length of his hair. Unfortunately, his unexpected notice of her brought an immediate mortification constricting in her throat and burned into her neck and cheeks. What was he doing over here? Why was he speaking to her?

No! she yelled then remembered herself. Uh, no. Thank you, my lord. She focused on her skirt while working frantically to free it from the entanglement.

His attention meant everyone in the room would also be staring at her. The warmth in her cheeks spread to her ears. If only she could melt into the marble floor and disappear.

When a large gloved hand reached around her and twisted the skirt free from the branch, brushing her hand as it did so, she retracted hers quickly with a gasp. Her gaze darted to his and to the floor again. Her words tangled in her throat and tripped over one another on their way out of her mouth. I'm sor— Thank y—I mean, pardon me, my lord.

Not at all, m'lady. Glad to be of service. Cordelia dared not speak again for fear of humiliating herself further.

Undoubtedly another mess of undecipherable utterances would only speed her already determined fate as an old maid. So she did the only thing she could think of. She spun on her heel and fled, weaving in and out of the throng of debutantes, having no real direction until she caught sight of her aunt sitting among the other matrons.

The sea of debutantes began to part as if she were being led by Moses himself. Cordelia realized she failed in her effort to escape. Fear gripped her, making it impossible for her to look up. She kept her gaze on the path before her and made a beeline to where her aunt waited, imagining she could feel the heat from the man following close behind her.

As she neared her sponsor, the woman's eyes widened in recognition and a patronizing smile spread across her red lips. She did not return Cordelia's gaze but rested hers instead on the man behind her.

Lord Hawthorne, so lovely to see you again, she crooned with a low curtsy, dropping her fan in a most inappropriate fashion.

Lady Trowbridge, he said then reached for her hand and kissed it chastely. How do you fare this evening? Cordelia peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. His brown wavy hair hung unfashionably long, teasing the edge of his collar. That would make him the elder of the two men, the Earl of Hawthorne, though both men were regarded highly by the bulk of the ton. What could he possibly want with her?

She wasn't so daft as to believe she would be of interest to anyone other than Sir Bryan, the stench of Cumberland. Which would leave only the man's pure morbid curiosity.

Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your lovely charge? Cordelia again felt the surge of embarrassment warm her neck and cheeks. Her gaze dropped to her hands. She busied herself with straightening her gloves and pretended not to hear Lord Hawthorne's request.

Certainly, my lord, Lady Trowbridge replied. Cordelia's gaze darted to her aunt's face just in time to catch her wicked grin. May I present my niece? Lady Cordelia Edwards. She nudged Cordelia with an elbow.

Cordelia curtsied awkwardly, losing her balance. Flailing her arms forward, she caught Lord Hawthorne's arm at the last moment and saved herself from falling flat on her face.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she righted herself and realized at the same moment she still clutched his arm. She released her hold immediately, snapping her shaking hand behind her back with a gasp.

Then he laughed. Her humiliation was complete.

The only thing worse would have been if she had fallen prostrate, throwing her skirts up in the air and offering the whole of the ton a brilliant view of her drawers.

She closed her eyes to hold back the barrage of tears, which were certain to come.

Lady Cordelia, he said as he reached for her hand. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. His mocking smile made her stomach churn. Once more she prayed she would melt into the marble floor, never to be heard from again.

Manners, Cordelia, her aunt said with another sharp poke to Cordelia's ribs.

The honor is mine, my lord, Cordelia managed to squeak out, keeping her gaze firmly on his Hessian boots as he pressed his lips to her gloved fingers.

Will you dance, my lady?

Cordelia shook her head in adamant refusal, but Lady Trowbridge shoved at her from behind with surprising force.

Of course she will, my lord! Cordelia, dance with the gentleman!

He offered his elbow. She stood paralyzed. Her aunt grabbed her hand and settled it firmly on his arm. Then with another push, sent her onto the dance floor with the Earl of Hawthorne as the orchestra began to play.

Oh, sweet Mary. A waltz.

Her heart felt wedged in her throat. She swallowed against it to no avail. Why was he dancing… no, why was he waltzing with her? And why, in Heaven's name, did her aunt give permission for such a scandalous display? She was supposed to be protecting her!

As Cordelia's mind raced, Lord Hawthorne escorted her to the center of the dance floor. He stopped and turned to her, placing his hand on her waist. She felt her whole body tighten in response, stiffening against the far too familiar touch. He took her other hand in his, clutching it in his vice grip.

Cordelia's heart beat a hollow rhythm. She could feel the burning gazes of everyone in the great hall boring into her with disgust. The man would surely be ruined after this blatant disregard for the opinion of the ton.

Curiosity began to nag at her, competing with embarrassment for attention. Almost involuntarily, she glanced at his face again. A mistake. The man was startlingly handsome and he stared directly at her, something she was not expecting.

He was also smiling. Not a mocking smile like before, but true and genuine. For an instant, Cordelia lost herself in his sea green eyes. Eyes so green but for the golden corona that outlined them to perfection.

ʺI believe the idea is to move one's feet," he whispered, startling her from her perusal of him.

Somehow she managed a weak smile and dropped her gaze again, then stepped to follow his lead. She had never waltzed before, though she had seen it done many times in the past four weeks from her hiding place near the wall. The pace was faster than she expected.

When Lord Hawthorne tightened a hand on her waist,