The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3)

by Jillian Eaton

  Helena put a hand on her hip. “I should have come here to see you a long time ago. You’re withering away, Leo. Rotting from the inside out like a discarded apple left in a dark, dingy corner. But you are not some forgotten thing. You’re the bloody Earl of Winchester, one of the most honorable men I’ve ever met. It’s time you started acting like it again.”

  Leo raked a hand through his hair. He hadn’t spoken this much in ages. It was exhausting.

  “Are you done?” he said, crossing his arms. “You’ve given me a headache.”

  “I want my favor.”

  “I don’t owe you a damned–”

  “I want my favor.” She advanced on him with her finger extended and jabbed it fearlessly at his chest. Incredulous, he swatted her hand away.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Helping you, whether you want it or not. And helping another dear friend at the same time.” She paused. “Do you know what a doctor told me once?”

  He gritted his teeth. “I nearly certain I do not care.”

  “He said a broken bone is one of the most painful things a person can endure. But do you know what happens when the bone is set?”

  “I told you I don’t–”

  “It becomes stronger,” she continued. “A bit different than what it was the first time around, but stronger. I want you to attend the Galveston Ball tomorrow evening.”

  Leo was certain he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You want me to attend a ball?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow evening.” She lifted her chin a notch. “That’s the favor. Complete it, and we’ll finally be even. I will never ask you for anything else.”

  “Why is this ball so important?” he asked suspiciously.

  She shrugged. “Oh, no particular reason. It was very nice to see you again, Leo. I’ll see myself out.” But she stopped suddenly in the doorway, a faint line appearing between her brows as she looked back at him. “I almost forgot the second part of the favor. Silly me.” She tittered lightly. “At the ball there will be a woman. I want you to ask her to dance.”

  Leo scowled. “There will be lots of women at the ball.” Which was why he’d been avoiding them like the damned plague. “How will I know which one?”

  “Don’t worry,” Helena said with a wink. “You’ll know her when you see her.”

  Chapter Four

  Sixteen Days To Go

  “Lady Galveston’s ball?” Calliope shook her head. “The invitations were sent out months ago, and even Lady Shillington didn’t receive one. I’ve a better chance of flying to the moon.”

  Which, after the morning she’d had, seemed like an ideal location.

  If Calliope thought her aunt and cousin had been unbearable when her uncle was alive, it was nothing compared to how they’d behaved since his death. In a word, they were horrible. And she was giving serious reconsideration to taking Helena’s advice and burning the entire house to the ground.

  Preferably with Beatrice and Lady Shillington inside of it.

  “Don’t worry about an invitation,” Helena said matter-of-factly. “Worry about what you’re going to wear. Do you have time for a trip to the dressmakers? There’s a new little shop on Terrace Street in Mayfair. I’ve been dying to go.”

  Calliope glanced around the parlor. The very empty parlor. Beatrice and Lady Shillington had stepped out to run errands, leaving Calliope alone in blessed peace and quiet. Until Helena had come knocking on her door speaking nonsense about an elite ball Calliope had absolutely no hope of attending.

  She’d heard of Lady Galveston’s annual autumn ball, of course. Everyone had heard of it. The high class affair marked the unofficial beginning of the new Season, and invitations were as coveted as gold – and just as rare. Short of some unforeseen miracle, Calliope had no chance of securing one. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she’d want to attend even if she did have an invitation.

  Dances had never been her cup of tea. While she could climb to the top of a tree without a single misstep, the deliberate elegance of the waltz had always escaped her. Unfortunately, word had gotten out long ago that if a man wanted to leave a ball with all ten toes intact he’d best avoid Miss Calliope Haversham at all costs.

  “Well?” Helena demanded. “Do you have time or not?”

  “All I have is time. It’s not as if suitors are knocking down the door,” Calliope said with a wry twist of her lips. Which was ironic, of course, because she didn’t really have time. At least, not where it counted most.

  She was already down to sixteen days to find a husband. In the grand scheme of things, it might as well have been sixteen years because she’d no doubt the outcome would be the same either way.

  No one had wanted to marry her before her inheritance and no one was going to want to marry her after it. She was a shy, bookish wallflower who liked to sit in trees. The only thing worse than that was a shy, bookish spinster. And in sixteen days, that’s precisely what she would be.

  Perhaps it was just better to accept her fate and start preparing for the inevitable instead of planning for the impossible. Calliope wasn’t one to give up, she neither was she impractical. She knew the chances of meeting the terms of her uncle’s will were all but nonexistent. Which was why she was hesitant to spend money on a ball gown when she wasn’t going to a ball. But when she said as much to Helena, her friend just rolled her eyes.

  “Not with that demeanor you’re not. Chin up, my darling buttercup. As I said, leave the invitation to me. All you need to worry about is what you’re wearing.”

  Calliope followed Helena reluctantly out the door, and the two women struck out towards Mayfair. It would have been quicker to hire a hackney, but for once it wasn’t raining and Calliope wanted to stretch her legs. They cut through a small park, and as they passed by a cluster of blackthorns whose leaves were begin to yellow with the changing of the seasons, Calliope revealed what she’d thought of late last night when she’d been unable to sleep.

  “I believe the best thing to do is donate my inheritance to the St. James Orphanage.”

  Helena stopped so quickly she nearly tripped over an exposed root twisting up through the stone path. “Why the devil would you do that?” she said, clearly aghast.

  Calliope had expected resistance, and she was prepared with an explanation. “Because the orphans are desperately in need. If my uncle hadn’t stepped in, I might have been raised at St. James. I’ve donated my time, but what they’re truly in need of is more cots and new clothes and fresh food. I’d like to see the money go to a good cause.”

  “You’re a good cause and heaven knows you need new clothes.” Helena’s nose wrinkled as her gaze traveled down Calliope’s frumpy beige dress where the lace hem had been sewn and then resewn again. “That potato sack does nothing for your figure. With a new silhouette and some color to bring out your eyes, you’ll be positively ravishing. Winchester won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.”

  “But the orphans–”

  “Would be better served if you found a wealthy husband and donated to them regularly instead of just once. Besides, you don’t even know if you can give the money away. Have you talked to your uncle’s solicitor?”

  “Well, no,” Calliope admitted as they resumed walking. “But I don’t see why there would be an issue. It’s my inheritance to do with what I want, at least until my birthday.”

  “One gown,” Helena wheedled. “One gown, one ball, one chance to sweep the earl off his feet. If it doesn’t work, then you can give the rest of your money to the mice living in the pantry for all I care. They need beds too, you know.”

  Calliope frowned. “Shouldn’t I be the one being swept off my feet?”

  Granted, she hadn’t experienced very much romance firsthand (or any at all, really), but whenever she’d imagined meeting her prince charming he had been the one holding a bouquet of flowers and murmuring sweet nothings, not her. Helena had said the earl was a recluse, but Calliope needed someone who was at least amendable
to the idea of marriage. Which, if her friend’s guilty expression was any indication, Leopold Maven definitely wasn’t.

  “Leo isn’t exactly the sweeping sort,” Helena admitted. “At least, not since his first wife died.”

  “She died?” Now it was Calliope’s turn to look aghast. “Helena, I cannot pursue a widower. Especially one who doesn’t want to be pursued. That poor man.”

  “That poor man is my friend. At least, he used to be. And he’s wallowed in misery quite enough, if you ask me.” Helena tossed back her head. “What happened to Lady Winchester was tragic. I won’t pretend to know what Leo has gone through. But I do know this isn’t the life Heather would have wanted for him if she were still alive.”

  “Then why don’t you marry him?” Calliope asked.

  “I already told you, we’d never suit. It would be like marrying my own brother.” She made a face. “No, no, the solution to both of your problems is crystal clear. Leo desperately needs a wife, whether he is ready to admit it or not. Someone to care for him. To love him. To give him a reason to look towards the future. And you need a husband. One who will treat you like a queen. Which Leo is more than capable of doing, after a few…behavioral modifications.”

  “Behavioral modifications? Helena, I really don’t think–”

  “Oh look!” Her friend said cheerfully. “I see the dress shop. Step lively, darling. There’s lots of traffic out today.” Without waiting she dashed out of the park and across the busy street, leaving Calliope no choice but to follow after.

  “You – you’re going to a ball, my lord?” asked Robert blankly.

  “Trust me,” Leo growled as he stalked across his bedchamber and yanked open the door of his closet. “I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea. But I owe an old friend a favor, and I always pay my debts. Now is there anything in here I can wear or not?”

  Folding his arms, he stepped back from the row of elegant tailcoats and satin waistcoats and double-stitched cravats, then shook his head in frustration. He hadn’t looked inside this closet for years, and if not for the meticulous nature of his staff he’d no doubt the clothes would have been covered in a layer of dust. With no social functions to attend and no company to entertain, he’d gotten accustomed to a minimalistic wardrobe that consisted of breeches, comfortable linen shirts, and the occasional jacket. It was a hardly the attire of an earl, but then Leo hadn’t been a earl.

  Not since Heather and Henry died.

  Seven years, and his gut still clenched when he thought of their names. He mourned them like a prisoner locked away in a dark cell mourned the sun. And he missed them. He missed the sound of Heather’s sweet laughter. He missed the sight of Henry’s gummy smile. If only he’d known how quickly they would both be taken from him, he would have drunk in those sounds and sights until his ears and his eyes ached. Yet it still wouldn’t have been enough. Two years with the love of his life hadn’t been enough. Four wonderful months with his son hadn’t been enough.

  It would never be enough.

  As the pain he’d spent years pushing beneath the surface threatened to rise, Leo shoved past Robert and yanked out the first piece of clothing his hand encountered.

  “This,” he said roughly, tossing a sapphire blue tailcoat onto the bed. A black waistcoat followed, then a pair of black trousers. “I’ll wear this. See that they’re pressed and ready for tonight.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “A carriage,” Leo muttered. He lifted his head and met his valet’s wide-eyed stare. “I’ll need the carriage brought round as well. Do you know what time this bloody thing starts?”

  He’d forgotten all the little pieces that went into going out for a night. Mostly because it was Heather who had taken care of them. She’d selected his clothes. She’d ordered the carriage. She’d made sure they were either on time or fashionably late, depending on what sort of event it was. His only job had been to tell her how beautiful she looked, and to kiss her as they’d left house. Two things he’d always been more than happy to do.

  “I will find out, my lord.”

  “Good.” Still Leo hesitated as a familiar, clawing sense of urgency started to fill his chest. His breath shortened, his arms became heavier, and a knot of tension started to grow in the middle of his shoulder blades. It rippled across his skin, following the lines of his muscles until it spread onto the base of his skull. He clenched his jaw. “I’m going for a walk. See that everything is readied by the time I return.”

  Grabbing a hat and yanking it low over his brow, he stormed out, and as his stride lengthened and he drew in a deep lungful of air the tension slowly started to fade and the bands around his chest loosened, allowing his shoulders to relax and his heart to beat at a regular rhythm.

  The attacks (as he called them) had begun during the fever. As he stared down into the flushed faces of his wife and baby, helpless to do anything that might bring them comfort, that might save them, he’d felt a similar clawing deep inside of him, as if there was somewhere he desperately needed to be, but he didn’t know where it was or how to get there.

  After they died the attacks came almost every day. When he thought of leaving the house his heart began to thump. When he went to call on an acquaintance his skin felt too tight for his body. When he ventured out to one of his clubs he broke out in a cold sweat. Eventually, it became easier to just stay at home.

  Over time the attacks occurred with less and less frequency. This was the first one he’d had in nearly a year, and as he cut across the park he cursed Helena under his breath.

  Why couldn’t she have stayed away indefinitely? Yes, they’d been friends once. All three of them. He, Heather, and Helena. The women had been closest, of course. They’d known each other long before he had come into the picture. But now Helena was a part of his past he didn’t want to revisit. A part that was too painful to relive. And he despised her for bringing buried emotions bubbling to the surface once again.

  A dry twig snapped beneath the heel of his boot as he marched down a winding path. Leaves swirled down around him, their brilliant array of colors going completely unnoticed. He had no clear destination in mind. No idea of where he was going or where he’d end up. If he were in the country he could have traveled for miles over hill and dale. His estate was vast, the amount of acreage nearly immeasurable.

  But here, in the middle of London, open land was restricted to parks and gardens that were filled with too many people. People who stared and then whispered frantically to each other when he passed by them, for even with his hat pulled as low as he could manage while still being able to see, his countenance was instantly recognizable. And if not his countenance than surely his size, for at a towering six feet, three inches tall, Leo was easily one of the largest men in the entire city.

  A few of the braver pedestrians tried to greet him, including a trio of young ladies in matching pastels. He sent them scampering with a single stare, his ice blue eyes blasting a frigid gust of air so cold it had them clutching their parasols as they hurried away. A grim smile attaching itself to the sharp corners of his mouth, he continued on.

  The last thing Leo wanted – or needed – was the complication of a courtship. That wasn’t to say he’d remained celibate over the past seven years. Because he most definitely had not. And logically he knew that if he didn’t want the earldom and all of its properties to go to his sniveling cousin Bernard he would, at some point, need to produce an heir. But that ‘some point’ was a vague, as-of-yet undetermined date in the future.

  Quite bluntly put, he didn’t want to marry again. Not to some highborn chit in a peach dress and not to whomever it was Helena wanted him to meet at the ball. Mostly because no one could compare to Heather, and a little bit…a little bit because there was a part of him that regretted he’d gotten married so early the first time round.

  Barely nineteen years old, and already burdened with all of the obligations and duties that had accompanied being a husband. His friends had been incredulous w
hen he first announced his engagement. Heather’s family had been ecstatic. And Leo, who had always secretly yearned for a family of his own after his mother ran away and his father abandoned him at the most expensive boarding school money could buy, had been…content.

  Content to leave his bachelor ways behind him – what there’d been of them – and marry the woman he loved. Content to enjoy Christmases by the fire and holidays in Bath. Content to live a life of quiet leisure, first as a husband then (so quickly sometimes he feared he might blink and forget it all) as a father.

  And if he occasionally wondered if he’d acted too rashly, if he’d given up his independence too swiftly, if he’d sacrificed the excitement of bachelorhood for simple contentment, well…all he had to do was look at his wife holding his son to know he had everything he could ever possibly need. Until Heather was gone, and Henry with her, and his contentment turned to devastation.

  His gaze shadowed, Leo left the main thoroughfare for a smaller trail that followed a meandering stream. Eventually the trickling water would spill into the Serpentine, but he had no intention of walking that far. He only wanted a few minutes of solitude away from the prying eyes of a public that hungered for every little slice of the Earl of Winchester they could manage to grab. Or the Wicked Earl of Winchester, as he’d come to be known these past few years.

  Leo didn’t mind the moniker. It kept the timid at bay and was a warning to the rest to stay their distance. Which they’d more or less done after he’d made it clear he was not going to accept invitations, or host parties, or do anything that might be considered even slightly social in nature.

  Attending Lady Galveston’s ball was going to change all that. It would open the proverbial doors, so to speak, and he’d no doubt the manor would soon be inundated with callers, and cards, and crying mamas thrusting their unmarried daughters at him. Which was why he had already made arrangements to skip the rest of the Season and travel directly to his country estate, where he would remain in relative isolation until the furor died down and he could return to his life of self-imposed solitude.