Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  Mira followed. “To be honest, I’ve never had a lady’s maid before. I…don’t know that I particularly need any help.”

  Nan’s smile widened. “Well, aren’t we a pair? To be honest, myself, I’ve never been a lady’s maid. I was hoping you could tell me what to do.” Both women began to laugh, the absurdity of the situation dissipating what little tension remained.

  A relieved smile still playing on her lips, Mira plopped down on the bench before the dressing table. “Nan Collins, I must say I am pleased to meet you. While I haven’t a clue what to do with a lady’s maid, I find I am in dire need of a friend. After all, it seems I am to marry soon, and I am quite out of my depth.”

  Nan’s smile vanished as quickly as it had come. A worried frown creased Mira’s brow. “Nan, you seemed…guarded, anxious even, when Lord Ashfield was here.” No sooner were the words out, than Mira remembered something her friend Delia had once said—about Delia’s brother and the maids—and a horrible thought crossed her mind. The blush returning to her cheeks, she choked out, “Oh heavens, are you and Lord Ashfield… You are not…”

  Nan, too, colored at the suggestion. “Oh, no, my lady, I would never.”

  Sighing with relief, Mira interjected, “Please call me Mira.” Seeing Nan’s skeptical expression, Mira rushed on. “I do not believe friends should use titles, and, besides, I am still just a ‘miss.’”

  “All right, then. If you are certain.”

  “Absolutely. As I said, I truly need a friend just now. I do not have a single one of my friends here to help me through my wedding.”

  Nan’s smile returned, though it seemed strained now. “Well, Miss Mira, I may not know much about being a lady’s maid, but I know plenty about being a friend. And I have seen a few of them through weddings, too. So we’ll get through this one together, Miss Mira. That we will.”

  Miss Mira, indeed. Mira supposed it was the best she could hope for. And Nan seemed even better than she had hoped for, a warm and generous young woman to stand by her side during the trying week to come.

  Chapter Six

  Despite her fatigue from the trip and the exquisite comfort of the thick down mattress, Mira tossed and turned most of the night. A nagging idea was teasing at the edge of her mind. Something was amiss, some element of the equation did not add up, but she just could not place her finger on exactly what it was.

  As she lay awake in the luxurious warmth of the bed, she tried to puzzle it all out, but to no avail. Of course, she realized that her powers of logic were not at their peak. Every time she would try to review what little she knew about Olivia Linworth’s death, memories of Nicholas’s embrace would intrude.

  She was certain that, if Nan had not arrived when she did, Nicholas would have kissed her. Kissed her, Mira Fitzhenry. And despite the impropriety of it all, she discovered that she was deeply disappointed they had been interrupted. Perhaps she had more of a taste for adventure than she thought.

  When the morning light began streaming through the gaps between the curtains, Mira gave up on sleep and rose to dress. She chose her gown carefully, with the hopes of making a better impression on her hosts. After much consideration, she settled on a pale blue sprigged muslin with long sleeves that flared from a point just above her wrist into soft folds of lace with a modest neck edged with darker blue ribbon. Madame Dupree had said the color set off her eyes.

  Nan was nowhere in sight, so Mira pinned a lace-edged cap to her hair herself and ventured out to attempt to find the dining room. After one dead-end and three wrong turns, she succeeded.

  Lady Blackwell, Lady Marleston, and Lady Phoebe were clustered at one end of the long cherry table. Lady Blackwell’s rigid posture and pinched expression suggested that her disposition had not improved overnight. She really was a beautiful woman, though she looked as though life had taken a toll on her. Her blond hair, showing only a few threads of silver, was scraped back from her face, and the fine white powder she used on her complexion made her look brittle, as though she were made of porcelain. And even her careful cosmetics could not conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes and the lines of tension around her mouth.

  Lady Blackwell’s elegant austerity stood in sharp contrast to Lady Marleston’s overblown exuberance. Lady Marleston was a plump woman, the soft flesh of her breasts and arms swelling from the confines of her startling green dress like warm yeast dough. She was leaning forward over her plate of baked eggs and kidneys, gesticulating grandly as she recounted some story to Lady Blackwell.

  As quietly as she could, Mira crept to the sideboard, where a bored looking maid held her plate while she chose her breakfast. The Ellerbys apparently preferred fortifying foods. In addition to the eggs and kidneys, the breakfast consisted of sardines with mustard sauce, cold veal pies, and beef tongue with horseradish sauce.

  As exhausted and nervous as she was, Mira could not trust her stomach with such rich and spicy foods, so she selected two rolls and a dollop of strawberry preserves. She took a seat next to Lady Phoebe, who was sullenly pushing slices of tongue around her plate.

  Lady Blackwell greeted her with reserved civility. “Good morning, Miss Fitzhenry. I trust you were comfortable last night?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady, I was quite comfortable. And the room is beautiful.”

  A cat-in-the-cream smile spread across Lady Blackwell’s face. “Ah yes. ‘The Aviary.’ You must thank Nicholas. He is the one who insisted that you should have that room. It belonged to his mother.” She uttered the word like a curse. “She was an artist, like her son. Painted the birds herself. Quite spectacular, wouldn’t you say?” She cast a sly, sidelong glance at Lady Marleston before adding, “I have often heard that madness and artistic genius frequently go hand-in-hand.”

  Mira blanched. Nicholas’s mother had been mad?

  “Madam, I will not tolerate you slandering my mother.” Nicholas had not raised his voice, but all of the women at the table started when he spoke. He stood in the doorway, his stance tense and faintly menacing, a faint beard shadow on his face lending his countenance a sinister quality. Even in the cheery morning sunlight, he appeared a creature of the night.

  No one spoke. Lady Marleston, Lady Phoebe, and Mira sat perfectly still, only their eyes moving back and forth between Nicholas and Lady Blackwell, who stared intently at one another, the animosity between them palpable.

  At last, Nicholas relaxed slightly and moved to the sideboard. Ignoring the cowering maid and foregoing the nicety of a plate, he selected a scone from the tray of breads. He sat at the end of the table directly opposite Lady Blackwell, the entire expanse of the dining table separating them. Mira had the distinct impression that battle lines were being drawn—and she had an almost overwhelming urge to move to the other end of the table to sit by Nicholas.

  Propping the ankle of his bad leg on the knee of his good one, Nicholas began lazily breaking off bits of scone and popping them in his mouth. When he finished, he brushed the crumbs from his fingers, leaned back, and raised one eyebrow in silent challenge.

  Lady Blackwell finally spoke, her voice calm but clipped. “There was no slander intended, Ashfield. Your mother was only, well, a bit fragile. Which,” she rushed on when he would have interrupted, “is perfectly understandable under the circumstances.” Some of the starch seemed to go out of her posture, and her voice took on a wistful tone. “Spending so many years here in the wild, far from her family, with no one to talk to, no one to keep her company.”

  Nicholas’s expression softened a bit. “Yes,” he murmured, “the role of my father’s wife is a difficult one to play.”

  Lady Blackwell inclined her head slightly in recognition of the olive branch Nicholas had offered. It appeared a truce had been called.

  “Well,” she said crisply, signaling that the entire episode was over, “I promised Mrs. Thomas that I would visit today to discuss some charitable endeavor she has in mind.” She rose from the table with dignified grace. “Elizabeth? Phoebe? I assume you are coming?
” Lady Marleston practically jumped out of her chair, the nervous glances she directed at Nicholas indicating that she would go just about anywhere, so long as it was away from him. Lady Phoebe heaved an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes, but at her mother’s stern look she, too, rose to leave.

  “Miss Fitzhenry,” Lady Blackwell said “Would you care to join us?”

  Mira knew she should go with Lady Blackwell, that showing an interest in good works might raise her a notch in the woman’s estimation. But she had barely slept at all the night before, and she sorely wanted a nap before taking up her investigation in earnest. “Thank you, Lady Blackwell, but I find I am still fatigued from the journey, so I believe I will beg off.”

  “Very well, then. Ashfield?”

  Nicholas smiled.

  “No, I suppose not,” Lady Blackwell muttered. “Miss Fitzhenry, I trust you and your family can keep yourselves occupied in my absence?”

  “Of course, Lady Blackwell,” Mira responded, but Lady Blackwell had already stepped into the hallway and was donning her pelisse.

  Mira turned to find Nicholas watching her, amusement glinting in his eyes. She blushed under his scrutiny.

  “Do not take it personally,” he finally said, all traces of anger now gone from his tone. “My stepmother has little patience for anyone, and your association with me is hardly a mark in your favor.”

  “She said you were an artist, like your mother,” Mira prompted.

  “It was not really her place to inform you of my pursuits. But, yes, I dabble in the arts.”

  He seemed disinclined to pursue the subject further, so she returned to the issue of Lady Beatrix’s animosity. “Do you always get on like that?” she asked.

  He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Alas, yes.”

  She knew she was prying, but she pushed on. “She seems to resent your mother. Is that because Lord Blackwell loved your mother first?”

  That elicited a short, bitter laugh. “Good God, no! She harbors no affection for my father. No, poor Beatrix resents my mother for dying. And she resents me simply for being. You see, my father is not a sentimental man, and he has little concern for hearth and home. But the one exception is his firm belief that a child needs a mother. If my mother had not died, or if she had not left me behind, my father would not have sought out another wife, at least not so quickly. He might have waited until Beatrix herself was safely married off to some kinder, more considerate husband.

  “As it was, my father decided he needed a wife right away, and Beatrix happened to catch his eye. Her parents could hardly turn down an offer from the Earl of Blackwell. It was a far better match than they had hoped for. So poor Beatrix married Blackwell at the tender age of eighteen and was promptly deposited in Cornwall. Miles from her friends and family, miles from parties and balls, miles from anything at all. Stranded in Cornwall, with the charge of another woman’s child and quite soon one of her own, while her husband, my father, continued his life of debauchery in London—which was a tremendous blow to her pride. Under the circumstances, I believe she is entitled to resent someone.”

  Mira frowned in consternation. Without stopping to think, she blurted out, “But she should resent your father, not you. He is the one responsible, so it is only logical that she should direct her anger at him.”

  “Well, I suppose that would be logical, my dear, but logic rarely has a place in matters of the heart. My father is never here. He returns to Blackwell exactly twice a year, for a fortnight at Christmas and for a fortnight to a month at the end of the Season, to partake in the local Midsummer’s Eve revelries and to catch up on estate business. If Beatrix hoarded all of her anger during the year, with no outlet save for those few weeks, I believe she would go quite mad. I, on the other hand, am here. So it is more satisfying, less frustrating, if she blames her lot in life on me.”

  As he spoke, Nicholas rose, took another scone from the buffet, and moved down to the other end of the table, to sit next to Mira. That was when she realized the maid had disappeared. They were alone.

  His sudden nearness made it difficult to concentrate, difficult to breathe. “Yes,” Mira choked out, “I suppose you are correct. But it still does not seem right.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “Speaking of ‘right,’ I must apologize if I startled you last night.” The heat rose in her face as his voice lowered to an intimate vibration. “That was certainly not my intent.”

  Mira had no idea where the impulse came from, but she could no more resist taking his bait than she could resist the pull of gravity. “And what exactly was your intent, sir?” She stammered, her voice little more than a whisper.

  Nicholas reached out a hand to run one surprisingly soft finger along the curve of her jaw. His touch made her insides turn warm and soft. The sensation was unsettling. Primitive. Delicious. “You may be innocent, Mira-mine, but you are not a child. I believe you know exactly what my intent was.”

  She gasped, just a tiny inhalation, and at that moment he leaned forward and kissed her. Her eyes drifted shut as his mouth moved softly over hers, barely touching her yet consuming her. All of her sensation was focused on those gentle brushes of his lips, every other feeling stripped away.

  It only lasted a moment, but during that moment time seemed to stretch out forever. When he pulled back and a whisper of cool air caressed her mouth, still warm from his breath, she sighed.

  When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her, a troubled look on his face. He cleared his throat and stood abruptly. “If you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to.” As suddenly as he had appeared, he vanished out the door.

  Mira sat stunned. Stunned and bereft. She stared at Nicholas’s half-eaten scone, lying forgotten on the table.

  She was still sitting at the table staring dazedly at the abandoned scone, when Nicholas’s half brother, Mr. Jeremy Ellerby, sauntered into the dining room.

  In the bright morning light, the contrast between Jeremy and Nicholas was even more pronounced than it had seemed the night before. Jeremy’s build was thicker, less feral, his hair fair like his mother’s, his eyes a piercing blue. The ladies of the ton probably swooned over him, but, from their brief introduction the night before, he put Mira off. His animated good humor, so contrary to Nicholas’s temperament, struck her as forced.

  “Hallo. If it isn’t the little bridey. Sitting all alone. Now why is that?” he queried snidely.

  Mira pretended she did not take his meaning. “Lady Blackwell, Lady Marleston, and Lady Phoebe have gone to town to visit with the reverend’s wife. My family is, I believe, still sleeping… Our journey was long and tiring. I have not seen Lord Blackwell or Lord Marleston this morning. I could not hazard a guess where they may be.”

  “Ah. And Nick, the rogue?”

  “Nic…Lord Ashfield had some matters to attend.” She couldn’t keep the chill out of her voice.

  Jeremy helped himself to the food, still out on the buffet but all quite cold. He heaped his plate with tongue and kidneys and sardines, balanced three rolls on the top, and came to sit across from Mira. When he caught her eyeing his plate with mild alarm, he laughed. “I confess I eat like this all the time.” His voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “I have very large appetites.”

  She could only stare at him, wondering if she had imagined the innuendo in his voice.

  “So. My soon-to-be sister. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  She said nothing, still at a loss for words. His manner, while ostensibly jovial, struck her as aggressive. She was not certain what tack to take with him.

  Jeremy finally answered his own question. “Apparently you have very little to say for yourself. Well, I suppose in that, you and Nick are well suited. He’s a cold one, all right. Rude, some might say. But you have surely made that observation yourself.”

  A fierce rush of protectiveness steeled her spine. “Quite the contrary,” she declared, her voice clipped, “I have found your brother—”

&
nbsp; “Half,” he cut in, “he’s my half-brother.”

  “Yes, well, I have found your half-brother to be a perfectly delightful companion. And he has never lacked for conversation. Perhaps his reticence has less to do with his nature than with his company.”

  He fixed her with a knowing look, and his mouth turned up in a mocking smile. “Well, well, well. I see the kitten has a claw or two. And all on behalf of Nick. Fancy that.”

  Mira forced herself to remain civil while she struggled to control both her anger and her humiliation. “Sir, if you will excuse me, I wish to retire. At the moment, I am feeling quite unwell.” Without waiting for a response, she stood and began walking stiffly toward the door.

  “He killed her, you know.”

  Mira froze in the doorway, not daring to look back at Jeremy.

  “I cannot be certain of the others, but he killed Olivia. And I would have seen him hanged for it, but our father chose to protect him. Better to harbor a killer than to endure scandal, after all.”

  In a small voice, Mira forced herself to ask, “Why do you believe he killed Miss Linworth?”

  “Miss Fitzhenry, Nick killed Olivia because he was jealous of us. Because she and I were in love.” His voice was thick with bitterness, yet there was a note of truth there that Mira could not dismiss.

  The words hung in the air, a noxious cloud enveloping Mira and cutting off her air. With a small, desperate, choking sound, she lifted the hem of her dress and fled.

  Chapter Seven

  Nicholas stormed into his tower room, his anger increasing with every step.

  Pawly was performing his duties as valet, in his own lackluster way, by desultorily brushing one of Nicholas’s evening coats. As he brushed away the nearly invisible specks of lint, he ignored the blaze of ochre paint sweeping down the right sleeve.