Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  She looked closely at the gift. Not a lump, but an enameled sphere. A pendant, about the size of a grape, yet perfectly round and dotted with tiny sapphires and diamonds. There was a tiny clasp on one side and a delicate hinge on the other. Carefully, she squeezed the clasp, and the pendant opened to reveal an ivory jonquil, limned in gold leaf.

  A rush of warmth swept through her body. A smile bloomed on her face. “Magic,” she whispered.

  She quickly slipped the chain over her head and tucked the pendant in the neck of her gown so the cool weight of it rested between her breasts.

  Nicholas offered her magic, a counter to her own logical bent, and she felt its allure. Yet she was a rational creature at heart. She brushed aside her silly wager with Bella and made one with herself: she would uncover the true murderer or she would flee. Either way, the stakes were her life.

  Chapter Five

  CORNWALL—JUNE 18, 1809

  As the miles wore on, Mira became more and more convinced they weren’t going to Upper Bidwell at all. They were descending into hell. Bella grew more and more sick from the motion of the carriage, Kitty grew more and more snappish about the length of the journey, and George grew more and more foxed as the miles past. The carriage had become a miasma of unpleasant smells and spite.

  Mira reached up to twine a lock of her hair about one finger. In addition to revitalizing her sorry wardrobe, the dressmaker—Madame Dupree—had insisted on taking her scissors to Mira’s hair. Without the excess weight, the natural curl was released, and now her locks—though still the same shameless color—formed a cloud of loose curls about her head.

  The sun had already dipped below the horizon as they drew closer to Upper Bidwell. The last traces of daylight limned the rosy clouds in the western sky with delicate ribbons of gold. With luck, the Fitzhenrys would descend upon Blackwell shortly after dark—only one miserable day late.

  God help them all if the Ellerbys wished to entertain tonight. Mira longed for a bath and a bed so badly she thought she might cry. The family had spent the night before at an inn, but there had been no tub in which to bathe and the beds were so lumpy and bug-infested that Mira had settled for setting a ladder-back chair in the corner and sitting there, cheek pressed to the cool plaster wall. She had hardly slept at all, and she was giddy from fatigue.

  At long last, the sleepy village of Upper Bidwell emerged from the gloom, an array of tiny cottages and brick shop fronts clustered about the roadway.

  The coach driver rapped on the side of the carriage and called out, “We turn a bit here, heading due north toward the coast. Only another two miles or so to Blackwell Hall.”

  “Thank heavens!” Kitty huffed. “It is hard to fathom that such a refined man as Blackwell comes from this hideous little corner of nowhere. Cornwall, indeed.”

  “There!” she cried. “It is Blackwell, I am certain of it.”

  At the top of a rise, between the road and the sea, sprawled an imposing and rather ancient-looking castle. It was an unusual hodgepodge of structures. What appeared to be an old stone keep dominated the crest of the hill, but a smaller, more elegant Palladian manse sprouted from the front of the hulking structure, as though the owners sought to hide the true nature of their home. Rather like draping a doily over an elephant, Mira thought.

  From the south side of the stone castle, an enormous crenellated wall followed what must be the line of the cliff, and then extended out onto a rather treacherous-looking promontory. Out upon this spit of inhospitable rock there arose a forbidding tower, a stark and ominous edifice right out of the pages of a gothic novel. Nicholas’s tower.

  As the rest of Mira’s family fell over one another in their efforts to get a glimpse of Blackwell, the carriage took an abrupt turn and began the ascent from the main road to the manor house. Mira bit back an unladylike oath when Aunt Kitty, struggling to keep her balance in the wildly swaying coach, planted a boot firmly on Mira’s toe.

  The Fitzhenrys had only just righted themselves when the carriage rocked to a halt. They looked at one another in silence for a moment. Mira realized that, in that instant, she felt more of a familial bond with George, Kitty, and Bella than she ever had before. As much as they might dislike, even despise, one another, at that precise moment they were united by the tacit realization that they were wholly out-classed by the Ellerbys. George might play cards at White’s, Kitty and Bella might be accepted at Almack’s, and Mira might be welcome to tea in the home of a few titled bluestockings, but at heart they all knew they were frauds—interlopers in a Society that only just tolerated them. But the Ellerbys, murderers or not, were the genuine article, full-fledged aristocracy that could trace its lineage to the Domesday Book. If they chose to, the Ellerbys could eat the Fitzhenrys alive.

  Collectively, the weary travelers took a fortifying breath and began to pile out of the carriage and into the heaven of fresh air. As soon as her feet were planted on the rocky Cornish soil, Mira found her gaze drawn to the tower, the tower in which she knew Nicholas resided. A dim and flickering light shone through the narrow windows encircling the top of the tower. From there, her eyes drifted inexorably to the curtain wall running between the tower and the main house.

  With a sudden, icy blow, the realization struck her: Olivia had died there.

  Mira stood staring at the merciless rocks that had ended Olivia’s life. She shivered with a sudden chill and, looking up from the rocky ground, saw a figure atop the curtain wall, standing in the gap between two battlements.

  Despite the dark, Mira knew it was Nicholas, and she felt his stare on her even from that great distance. His presence held her captive. Of its own volition, her hand rose to her breast, and she gently brushed the tips of her fingers over the bulge of the blue enameled pendant she had worn inside her gown since the day she had received it. After a few moments, she timidly raised a hand in greeting.

  She thought she saw a shiver of movement, as though perhaps Nicholas had waved back at her, but she could not be certain, and he abruptly turned and retreated toward the tower, his movement exaggerated by his limp, his figure flashing erratically between the battlements.

  Clasping her hands to still their trembling, Mira forced her attention back to her family. Aunt Kitty was directing the coachman and a footman who had emerged from Blackwell in the unloading of luggage, while George strutted about shaking the cramps from his legs and Bella leaned against the side of the carriage in weary misery, her chest heaving as she took in great gulps of clean air.

  Just as the last of the luggage was laid out on the drive, a short, square figure appeared at the door. Atop a solid body, with a bosom like an anvil, the woman had a dark Cornish complexion and a dour look to match.

  In a flat, heavy voice she announced, “Mrs. Murrish. Housekeeper.” When no one else appeared behind her, Mira determined that the woman was introducing herself. Before Mira could return the courtesy, Mrs. Murrish executed a sharp, almost military turn, and forged a path back into the house. Kitty grabbed Bella’s hand and hurried to follow Mrs. Murrish. George, too, tottered up the steps and disappeared into Blackwell Hall.

  With one last glance to the now-vacant curtain wall and a silent prayer for strength, Mira followed her family into the intimidating house that would, one day soon, be her home.

  …

  The Fitzhenrys had arrived.

  Mira had arrived.

  When they had not shown up on the appointed day, Nicholas had decided that they were not coming. Perhaps Mira had run away, perhaps the whole family had. Whatever the reason, they were not coming.

  Nicholas had told himself it was for the best that Mira should stay away. He should not marry her, or any woman, yet he did not know if he could bear to push her away. Yes, it was for the best, Nicholas told himself as he tried to ignore the pain in his gut and the urge to saddle a horse and ride like the devil for London to fetch her.

  But now they were here—she was here—and Nicholas wished them gone again.

  He sat
before the fire in his cavernous tower room, his left leg propped on a small upholstered footstool. He was alone with the rhythmic roar of the waves and the cracking of the sappy wood in the hearth. He was often alone in this room, his personal sanctum sanctorum.

  Nicholas sighed and took another deep pull on his port. His leg burned like fire, the twisted bone and tortured sinew pushed past their limits by his recent travels and his late-night wanderings.

  With his father home, Nicholas got little sleep, and now, when he finally had a chance to nap a bit and give his shattered leg a chance to rest, the troubling Miss Fitzhenry had arrived.

  She was never far from his mind. The rare sunlight flashing on the waves would remind him of the brilliant blue of her eyes. A fiery sunset over the leaden gray of the ocean would remind him of the intriguing contrast between her blazing hair and her drab clothing. The whisper of the wind through the camellias and magnolia trees reminded him of her gentle, throaty laugh. The creamy, succulent petals of the magnolia blossoms reminded him of the luscious texture of her skin. Every unexpected beauty of the Cornish wilds now conjured thoughts of Mira.

  There was no question about it. He was maddeningly, infuriatingly preoccupied with Mira Fitzhenry. In the presence of her earnest intensity, he found himself abandoning his usual reticence in favor of talking at length and more candidly than he had to any person he had ever met. He had only met the girl three times, yet he had already divulged—quite without forethought—one of his most treasured memories of his mother. In Mira’s presence, he became a new man.

  It was a luxury he could ill afford.

  A light knock on the chamber door interrupted Nicholas’s reverie. “Yes, Pawly,” he called out, “come in.” The door creaked open, and Pawly Hart, the young man who served as Nicholas’s valet and all-round manservant, strode in.

  Pushing a shock of sandy curls from his eyes, Pawly announced, “They’re here. Mrs. Murrish took them to the blue drawing room where everyone was waiting for them.”

  A pang of guilt jolted Nicholas as he envisioned Mira wandering defenseless and unaware into the hostile territory of the Blackwell drawing room. Nicholas’s stepmother, the Lady Beatrix, was furious at having this upstart chit and her boorish family dumped on her doorstep. She would not welcome Mira with open arms. Quite the contrary, she might very well give the poor girl the cut direct.

  Jeremy, Nicholas’s half-brother, took his cues from his mother. If Beatrix was unhappy about Mira and her relations, Jeremy was sure to follow suit.

  What’s more, Nicholas’s uncle, Harold Ellerby, Lord Marleston; his wife Elizabeth, Lady Marleston; and their vague and mousy daughter, Lady Phoebe, were all visiting. Over the last few years, they came for a fortnight at least every other month and would not wish to run afoul of their hostess. So they, too, would lend their support to Beatrix’s condemnation of the Fitzhenrys.

  “Are there no friendly faces to greet the girl?”

  Pawly shook his head morosely.

  Nicholas groaned. “Oh, Pawly, my man, what a fiasco this is. I still cannot believe my father had the audacity to promise me to some girl without consulting me. What was he thinking? Bloody hell, he didn’t even bother to meet the girl himself before he had the announcement sent off and a messenger dispatched to summon me to London.”

  Pawly said nothing, but his expression was one of pained male commiseration.

  “I really ought to greet Miss Fitzhenry this evening,” Nicholas muttered.

  Pawly raised an eyebrow in question.

  “With my father rushing the wedding, I have little time to persuade Miss Fitzhenry to cry off,” Nicholas explained, “and I cannot very well do that if I do not see the girl. But I cannot go to the main house. I cannot face my family in the state I am in. How could I explain this?” he queried, pointing to the scratches on his face.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but no one will think much of you not socializing tonight. Everyone will assume you are being unforgivably rude, just like always. I cannot see that one transgression more or less on your part should make much of a difference.”

  Nicholas barked with laughter at Pawly’s insightful assessment.

  “And,” the younger man continued, his voice heavy with meaning, “I imagine your young miss will be tired from the road. She will probably retire soon.”

  Now, it was Nicholas’s turn to quirk a brow. “Pawly, are you suggesting that I visit Miss Fitzhenry in her bedchamber? I hardly think that is appropriate.”

  A sly smile crept across Pawly’s face. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but I have never known you to care much about what is and is not ‘appropriate.’”

  …

  Mira sat on the edge of the enormous tester bed, and stared at the bedchamber in stunned silence. She still could not believe this exquisite room was to be hers. It was certainly a far cry from her spartan room on the top floor of the shabby Fitzhenry townhouse, and it was a pleasant surprise after the misery of her first meeting with Nicholas’s family.

  After Blackwell had made a cursory round of introductions, there had been a brief exchange of pleasantries. The Ellerbys were civil, but coolly so and there were many strained silences in the conversation. What’s more, the vicar was quite shamelessly staring at every bosom in the room, and George was swaying on his feet. As soon as etiquette would allow, Aunt Kitty had offered apologies and suggested they retire.

  Mrs. Murrish had led Kitty, George, Bella, and Mira into the older portion of the house, up a sweeping stone staircase, to their bedchambers. She had been most insistent that Mira was to have this room, this incredible, magnificent room.

  Mira struggled to take it all in. The thick, brilliantly colored carpets that festooned the floor. The lush velvet upholstery covering the graceful Queen Anne rosewood furniture. And, the most remarkable feature, the flock of exquisite painted birds that covered the walls, their plumage in every color imaginable.

  A light knock at the door startled Mira. Assuming the maid Mrs. Murrish had promised had arrived, Mira dashed to the door and jerked it open. While the iron-banded door was heavy enough to require all Mira’s strength to open, once it started moving on its well-oiled hinges, it had a startling momentum. Still clasping the handle, the force of the door swinging wide caused her to stumble backward, and her efforts to maintain her balance sent her reeling in the opposite direction…right through the door.

  She gasped as she fell against a hard male chest, her hands coming to rest on the slightly damp fabric of Nicholas’s waistcoat. His hands rose to her shoulders to steady her. She looked up into his face, took in the angry scratches on his cheek, the lock of jet-black hair falling across his forehead to mirror the stark white scar marking his face, the raw power reflected in his eyes. Some deep intuitive force recognized the danger he presented, even as she was enveloped in the brisk scent of sea spray and the warm spicy smell she was coming to associate with Nicholas himself.

  “Oh, my lord,” she choked out, her face burning with mortification and something more unnerving, “I—I am so sorry. I thought you were the maid.”

  Nicholas chuckled, and Mira felt the vibration beneath her fingers. “I confess I am rarely mistaken for a maid.” Nicholas’s voice dropped to a mesmerizing caress as he continued, “and I had no idea you were on such intimate terms with the house servants.”

  She was suddenly acutely aware that she was still leaning against Nicholas, pressed against him in a most improper fashion. But when she attempted to right herself, his hands tightened on her shoulders, holding her still as his smoke-and-shadow eyes gazed deeply into hers, searching for something.

  Mira held her breath as Nicholas’s grasp softened, and he began brushing his thumbs over the skin of her arms, his touch slipping just beneath the edge of her sleeves to stroke her tender skin. Fear and excitement coursed through her, turning her knees to jelly, and she let out the tiniest little moan as he bent his head ever so slightly.

  A thought flashed through her mind, clear
and sharp and certain. Nicholas is going to kiss me.

  “Ahem.”

  Nicholas’s head jerked up, Mira jumped away from him as though she had been burned, and they both turned to see who had interrupted them. Not three feet away stood a tiny, reed-thin woman, certainly no older than Mira herself, her head encircled by a wild halo of blond curls that defied gravity. Her face was tilted downward in an aspect of respect, but Mira noticed the woman studying Nicholas through her lashes, her small body tense and her gaze wary.

  The small woman bobbed a quick curtsy. “My lord, my lady, Mrs. Murrish sent me up. I am Nan Collins, your lady’s maid.”

  Mira stared mutely at the woman. She had never had a lady’s maid, saw no reason she needed one now—after all, she had been dressing herself for years—and this particular lady’s maid had just caught her in an illicit embrace. She did not have the faintest idea what to say.

  Finally, Nicholas broke the tense silence. “Very good, Nan. Mira, I am pleased that your journey was comfortable.” Mira’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. Had she mentioned her trip? She had no recollection. “I shall bid you goodnight, then,” he added, before turning on his heel and disappearing down the darkened hallway, his shadow bobbing wildly along the wall as his left leg dragged along the carpet.

  Mira stared at Nan.

  Nan stared at Mira.

  “Oh, dear,” Mira said, “you must… I mean, I… We…”

  Suddenly, Nan smiled, timidly at first, but it quickly bloomed into a genuine grin that put dimples in her cheeks and an impish glint in her eye. “Never you mind, miss. You must be right weary. Perhaps we should get you ready for your bed.” Nan slipped past Mira and hurried across the bedchamber to the dressing table.