A Wallflower's Folly: Fated for a Rogue , Book 1 (Fortunes of Fate 6)

by Amanda Mariel

  He pushed the loose tendrils of her silken hair from her cheek as he gazed at her, half in awe and half in admiration. “You have made me the happiest man in all of Christendom.”

  “Not yet, I haven’t.” She gave a saucy grin. “Take me home before we miss our wedding.”

  “Your wish is my command.” He scooped her into his arms then laughed at the little squeal she emitted.

  “In that case,” she angled her chin, bringing her lips close to his. “I command you to kiss me.”

  William had never been so happy to obey.

  Excerpt

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the book in the Fortune’s of Fate series by Sandra Sookoo, Lady Isabella’s Splendid Folly. And be sure to watch for my next installment in the Fated for a Rogue series where Emma, Juliet, Catherine, Elizabeth, and Louisa will all get their own happily ever afters.

  Chapter 1

  Late May, 1818

  London, England

  Lady Isabella Fortescue was celebrating her twenty-eighth birthday and she wished to do so with something fun, perhaps even slightly scandalous, for what was the point of attaining such an advanced age if one couldn’t do something gossip-worthy?

  So, she and her two older sisters had taken themselves through London where they visited a fortune teller who was part of a gypsy camp operating in part of Hyde Park. It was the last day the caravan would linger there, for they were due to depart for the country, and since Isabella and her sisters would do the same soon, it was fortunate indeed that she caught them.

  Very much into herself, Isabella didn’t take stock of her surroundings, for all she wanted was her fortune read and for her life to finally begin. Being eight and twenty, still living with her parents and sisters, was rather a bore and quite stifling, when all she wanted to do was cause a splash that would, perhaps, catch the eye of a dashing gentleman who’d whisk her away to adventure and love.

  She stepped up to a gypsy’s colorful wagon and approached a woman clad in gay skirts. A bright orange scarf covered the woman’s dark hair. Golden spangles and sequins tossed back the brilliant early summer sun in tiny flashes. “Will you read my palm?”

  “Of course.” The woman smiled at her and pointed to an embroidered red cushion that perched on top of a tree stump. “Sit.”

  With a glance at her sisters, Isabella promptly sat and offered the requisite coins, which the gypsy then tucked away in a clever pocket sewn into her skirts. In short order, Madame Zeta took one of her hands and began tracing the lines of her palm. Seconds later, she uttered a short, generic fortune that had a frown pulling down the corners of Isabella’s mouth.

  “Are you having me on?” She snatched her hand away from the gypsy, feeling foolish. “Is this folderol after all? Is that the best you can do?”

  “What do you mean, child? You gave me two farthings and asked for a fortune. For the slight, that is what you get.” A faint smile curved the madam’s full, pretty lips.

  “Ah.” Isabella narrowed her eyes. Then she tempered her ire. Gypsies must make a living the same as anyone else. She fished about in her reticule and this time offered the woman two half crowns, which would severely make a dent into her pin money. “Better?”

  “Much.” The gypsy’s brown eyes flashed with amusement. “Give me your hand, miss.”

  Again, Isabella offered her hand, palm upturned, and this time when the woman took it in hers, warmth ebbed over her skin, but she held her breath in anticipation. “Well?”

  A sly look gathered over the fortune teller’s creamy mocha-hued face. “You are after love?”

  Heat sank into her cheeks. “Perhaps. Else I’ll be firmly on the shelf. Many think I already am; my sisters do, certainly.” As if not marrying by now was such a crime.

  “You have had chances with men?” The gypsy drew a forefinger along the lines of Isabella’s palm as she spoke.

  “A few, but—”

  “None of the men touched your heart, yes?” Her brown eyes sparkled.

  “Yes.” It was wonderful to have someone finally understand. She wanted love or nothing at all, and if the man was titled and wealthy, all the better, for it would make her father—an earl—proud.

  It was her parents’ fault, really. They were blissfully happy in their union, and were a good picture of what marriage—love—should be. Why shouldn’t she wish for that in her own life?

  “Ah.” The gypsy tightened her hold on Isabella’s hand. “I do see something in your future,” she finally said.

  “Oh?” She sat forward, breathless.

  Madame Zeta nodded. “I foresee much joy in your life. Much hope, but there are plenty of paths for you to trod in order to find true love.” The gypsy fingered a golden pendant that sat at her collarbones. “So many paths. Which is the right one?” she asked, almost to herself, her eyes seeing something far away.

  Isabella frowned. “How will I know which path is mine?”

  The fortune teller gave herself a little shake and her eyes were once more clear like a cup of black coffee. “You will know here.” Madame Zeta touched her forehead. “And here.” She touched her stomach. “And here.” She touched her heart. “If these do not align, it is not the right path and you must try again.”

  That sounded like an awful lot of work, but the fortune teller said no more. With a sigh, Isabella stood and thanked the gypsy. She left the caravan feeling… odd. Not quite hopeful yet not exactly worried.

  In fact, she rather doubted she’d gotten her money’s worth at all.

  Silly girl, you should know better than to glean romantic advice from a fortune teller. Life and love doesn’t work that way.

  With the self-admonition chasing through her mind, Isabella’s joined her sisters for a bit of birthday shopping in Mayfair. They planned to enjoy an ice at Gunter’s, and when they did, Isabella vowed to give all attractive, passing gentlemen greater scrutiny. For truly, love could bloom anywhere and it would behoove her not to miss it.

  Late May, 1818

  Buckinghamshire, England

  Another birthday rolled around, and once more, Lady Isabella Fortescue bickered with her sisters, for, like that time three years prior, she wanted to visit a gypsy caravan that had planted itself in Buckinghamshire for a couple of weeks.

  “Why, for the love of everything wonderful, do you wish to visit the fortune teller again?” her oldest sister, Louisa asked with her eyes lifted to the heavens.

  “I’m curious,” Isabella replied with a smile as they walked toward the gypsy fair that sprawled through a meadow beyond the village proper.

  “But it’s so pointless,” her other sister, Mariana, complained with a huff.

  All the Fortescue girls, as tradition dictated, had converged upon their father’s country estate to spend three months together in an effort to reconnect as a family. Ever since their mother had nearly died years before from a particularly nasty bout of pneumonia, they’d vowed to never take each other for granted. When their father was free of his duties in London, he would join them, as was also tradition. When Parliament and the Season reopened, they would all remove to their Mayfair townhouse once more, and in Louisa’s case, her own.

  “Of course you’d say that, since you’ve had no end of suitors filling Father’s parlor these past weeks, even as the Season concluded.”

  “As have you; the flowers given to you alone could fill a bower, but yet you insist on having your fortune read, as if there is some mysterious man still waiting undiscovered,” Louisa inserted. She fussed with a wrinkle on the bodice of her mint green frock and along the barely noticeable rounded bump of her belly. For in the past three years, perfect Louisa had married a viscount and was now enceinte with her first child. “I simply don’t have the time to waste loitering at this fair; Donald will arrive soon from London. Parliament is in turmoil this year and he’ll only have a week with me before having to return to Town for an extended session. No doubt Father will need to do the same.” A wistful sigh followed the announcement.<
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  Isabella rolled her eyes and bit off the gagging sound she wished to make, for Louisa and her new husband were forever mooning about each other, holding hands and stealing kisses when they weren’t talking about plans for their nursery.

  Love was quite disgusting when it happened to a member of one’s family.

  So why am I so interested in it for myself?

  Perhaps that was the exact problem. She alternately wanted a relationship but she didn’t want love. The knowledge she’d gleaned these past three years had told her it was too much… work. And that made it annoying. Having young bucks filling one’s parlor, each bearing some sort of tribute to their feelings was more than a bit stressful and… disappointing.

  Why, though? Three years ago, she would have done anything for such attention. Now? Her dowry was large enough that any of those men would consider themselves set for life, but beyond that, none of them appealed.

  Knowing her sisters waited upon an answer, she sighed. “I merely wish to know if my fortune from three years ago has changed.” For though the multiple paths promised in that last fortune had proved to be true and she’d had many suitors, none of those men had struck her fancy or tugged at her heart, much to the dismay of her sisters and her parents.

  And, possibly more to the point, none of those men set her aflame or made her heart race with anticipation or mystery.

  There was something to be said for that. Marriage would be long indeed if there wasn’t attraction present.

  Mariana took up the threads of the conversation. “You won’t find a suitor at a country fair, Izzy. Or if you do, he won’t be a man of the ton.” She snorted as if such a thing were a tragedy. “Imagine, marrying a man who works for a living.” Her tone suggested it was not to be borne.

  “What difference does that make?” Three years had been a long time, and her personal tastes had changed. She no longer cared if a man possessed a fortune or held a position or title within the ton. Neither did she give a jot that she was an earl’s daughter and expected to marry well. None of that mattered. She wanted love, and it was nowhere to be found within the bevy of eager suitors that had come to call.

  “It makes a huge difference,” her middle sister asserted, her expression scandalized. “A man who works a trade is somewhat rather… less, don’t you think? He’ll never settle into domestic life and will forever be tempted.”

  Isabella pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “Tempted by what? The amount of coin he could possibly make for himself? Tempted to not rely on old money or the traditions found within the ton?” She purposefully dropped her voice to what she hoped was a thrilling whisper. “Tempted by perfumed arms and come hither glances only found in the workaday world?” Then she emitted an unladylike snort. “In the event you hadn’t realized, sister dear, a man encounters those temptations all the time, no matter the circles he resides in, but if he is any man at all, he won’t indulge once his heart is engaged.”

  That was the trick, though. How to engage a man’s heart so that it stuck unerringly to hers? No, perhaps love wasn’t in her future at all, and if that were the case, she wanted scandal, something she could look back upon in her dotage and say with satisfaction that it was the most splendid folly, and that she was glad she’d done it.

  “Don’t be droll, Izzy,” Louisa said, but there was a decided smile upon her lips.

  “Fine.” Isabella shrugged. “Visiting the fortune teller is fun, and as it’s my birthday, it’s my prerogative. The two of you do not need to accompany me.” If love wasn’t part of her path, she was ready to embrace spinsterhood, for being firmly on the shelf kept unsavory men away. The eager young bucks would realize that soon enough as well.

  Mariana linked their arms. “Of course we’ll go with you. Then we’ll enjoy the rest of the fair.” She smiled. “That’s what sisters do. But the fair will run for ten days, at least, so if you don’t wish to go today…”

  “No, I do.” Isabella shot her a grateful glance. Then a sobering thought occurred. “No doubt you’ll be married soon, and then what with Louisa’s impending motherhood, our lives will shift and change. No longer will we have this time together, for other interests will pull you both away.” Would she still visit Buckinghamshire in the summer if she was alone?

  “No more maudlin thoughts,” Mariana declared and it was she who pulled Isabella along toward the brightly-colored wagons of the gypsies. “Marriage and children won’t break our bond.”

  As they drew nearer, sights and sounds and smells enveloped Isabella. The gypsy wagons were cozy, tiny houses on wheels. With round tops and a door at the end and painted in all manner of bright, happy colors, the wagons were arranged in half moon-shaped arcs. Each gypsy sat either on the steps that lowered from the back end of the wagon or on a chair in front of the vehicle. Small tables were draped with colorful scarves; some had crystal balls, others contained tarot cards, while still others were scattered with tea cups. It seemed each fortune teller had a different way of diving the future—for the right price.

  Isabella skimmed her gaze over the various vendors, and when her notice alighted on one in particular, her breath caught. “Can it be?” She broke away from her sisters. “It is!” The same gypsy she’d talked with three years ago sat at one end of the half-moon curve, her skirts just as bright and flowing as the last time, the scarf and spangles about her head as cheerful. “This one,” she urged and led the way toward Madame Zeta.

  When she stood in front of the woman with the beautiful creamy mocha skin and the soulful brown eyes, she smiled. Behind the seated woman, on a wooden placard affixed to the side of the wagon, a pretty hand-painted sign read: Fortunes by Madame Zeta. “I saw you three years ago in London. For my birthday,” she tacked on as if it mattered. “You read my palm.”

  “Ah.” Interest twinkled in the other woman’s eyes. “Did you find your true love?”

  “No.” Isabella chuckled. It was all so very amusing. “I found everything but—fortune hunters, men who are looking to gain a higher foothold in the ton, men who want a new mother for their brood, men who must marry for appearances, and even men who might be devoted husbands…”

  “But none who connect with your soul,” the fortune teller finished for her.

  “Indeed.” Isabella nodded with enthusiasm. She waved a hand and her violet reticule swung from her wrist. “However, my mindset has changed since I last saw you. I don’t believe love is in my future. And I… might wish for something else.”

  A mysterious grin tugged at the corners of Madame Zeta’s mouth. “You haven’t found your path.” She gestured to a matching chair. “Sit.”

  Isabella did so with a sigh while her sisters stood off to the side, a few paces away to give her privacy. She arranged the skirts of her jonquil dress about her legs. It was a pretty color and contrasted nicely with the violet spencer, reticule and dainty umbrella. “I fear my path is straight to spinsterhood.”

  Madame Zeta arched her eyebrows. “If that is where fate guides you.”

  “Don’t misunderstand. I am perfectly fine with things as they are.” Liar. But only she knew the truth.

  “Fate isn’t in agreement with that statement, miss,” the gypsy said in a soft, melodious voice. Slowly, she slid a small, shallow bowl of red-painted clay over the tabletop toward Isabella. “Offer what you believe a fortune is worth.”

  More mature than she’d been the last time she sat with the woman, Isabella promptly pulled a gold sovereign from the depths of her reticule. She dropped it into the bowl with a satisfied smile. “I saved my pin money for just this occasion.”

  “Very well.” Madame Zeta pulled the bowl back toward her side of the table. “Let’s move on to your fortune, miss.” She held out a hand, the long slender fingers calloused from years of work. “Your palm, please.”

  With a sense of anticipation, Isabella slipped her hand—palm upturned—into the other woman’s. “I hope it’s a good one.”

  Madame Zeta’s eyes took o
n a faraway look, as if she saw, not exactly into the future but someplace not quite in the present. “Many paths still stretch before you,” she said in a quiet, sing-song voice.

  In silence and with a rapidly-beating heart, Isabella waited, for there had to be more.

  Then the fortune teller spoke again. “A dark-haired man will not arrive by traditional means, and he will have a mark only you will recognize. Heed me, girl: he is dangerous. You must make a choice.”

  “A choice? What sort of choice? And how will he be dangerous?”

  “That is not for me to say, miss. Many paths are present for you.” Madame Zeta blinked. With a slight shake of her head, she returned her focus to Isabella’s face. “I trust this fortune is more to your liking than last time?”

  “No, actually.” Isabella took her hand back with a frown. “It tells me nothing, so is there some sort of insurance I could procure in the event my fortune falls flat or goes afoul?” After all, a gold sovereign should have bought a better, more insightful fortune.

  “Of course not. Life doesn’t work that way.” An enigmatic grin lingered on the gypsy’s lips.

  Isabella’s huff ruffled the baby fine curls on her forehead. “I want protection from disappointment and possible hurt.” And boredom. Definitely that.

  “Don’t we all, miss?” The madam shook her head. “Fate and fortune don’t work that way either. We must weather what we’ve been given and shine regardless.”

  The muscles of her stomach clenched. “Nothing you saw in my palm told of romance or even a grand passion?”

  For long moments, Madame Zeta held Isabella’s gaze. “What are you afraid of, miss?”

  “I am not afraid.”

  One finely arched eyebrow rose. “You can lie to me but not to yourself.”