The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3)

by Jillian Eaton

  “Calliope,” Helena said ominously.

  “Yes?”

  “Get my pistol.”

  “How are we going to decide who to shoot first?” Calliope wondered.

  “We’ll flip a coin. Heads, my stubborn idiot of a future husband. Tails, yours.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  Stephen threw up his arms. “No one is going to be shooting anyone.”

  “Then you can leave,” said Helena with an imperious toss of her head.

  “Leave?” The earl’s eyes narrowed. “This is my house.”

  “Yes, but you’re traveling to Sussex, and Calliope and I need to practice our embroidery and our dancing and whatever else well-behaved ladies are supposed to do when their brave men march off to war. So be gone with you. Shoo.” She waved a hand dismissively at the door. “And don’t even think about returning without Percy.”

  Calliope pressed her lips together to suppress a snort of laughter as Stephen glowered at his tempestuous bride-to-be. Although they tended to fight like cats and dogs, she’d never seen two people more in love.

  Just not at the moment.

  “Let’s go,” Stephen said with a curt nod at Leo, who gathered his jacket and stood up.

  “Please be careful,” Calliope whispered, resting her hand on top of his when he caressed her cheek. “Glastonbury is not to be underestimated.”

  “Neither are we,” Leo said matter-of-factly. Then his gaze softened. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Unconsciously Calliope’s hand drifted to her belly, where it remained until after the men had quit the room. She gathered a handful of muslin, then released it with a tiny, nearly imperceptible sigh. She dearly wanted to share her excitement with her husband, but she knew it would have to wait until after Percy had been found. There wasn’t anything more important than the safe return of their friend. Speaking of which…

  “Well?” she said as soon as Stephen and Leo’s footsteps had faded away down the hall. “What’s the plan?”

  Flouncing over to a large, gilt-framed mirror perched upon the mantle, Helena met Calliope’s expectant stare in the silvery reflection. A mischievous grin teased the edges of her mouth. “What makes you think I have a plan?”

  “Because you always have a plan.”

  “True,” Helena agreed. Then she sobered. “I have a feeling Percy may still be in London.”

  “Then why send Leo and Stephen to Sussex?” Calliope asked, confused.

  Helena tugged a tendril of hair from her coiffure. Lips pursed, she quickly pinned it up again. “Because they wouldn’t like my plan.”

  “Which is…?”

  The countess turned around. “It’s simple, really.”

  “You say that about all your plans,” Calliope reminded her.

  “This one’s no different.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “Except it could be a little dangerous.”

  “And by a little…”

  “I mean a lot.”

  “Helena–”

  “You’d do whatever it took to get Percy back, wouldn’t you?”

  “That isn’t even a question. But what makes you believe she’s here in the city?”

  “Call it a feeling.” Helena shrugged. “All I know is that whoever took her, it wasn’t Glastonbury. At least not directly. She was allowed to collect several of her belongings, including the pendant you and I gave her for her birthday. The duke would never have thought–or cared–to do anything of the sort. I’ve no doubt he’s somehow involved, but he’s not the one who physically kidnapped her, which means there’s a chance she’s being held somewhere in the city.”

  “But why wouldn’t Glastonbury just have her sent to him in the country?” Calliope asked.

  Helena scowled. “Do you not understand how feelings work?”

  “All right, all right.” From personal experience, Calliope knew arguing with Helena once she had her mind made up was only a waste of both breathe and time. “Let’s say she is here. Somewhere. This is one of the most populated places in all the world. How are we supposed to find her? It’s going be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Glastonbury’s not a fool. He would have hired an experienced criminal. And you know what they say about criminals.”

  “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

  Helena rolled her eyes. “Very amusing.”

  “I couldn’t help myself.” Calliope grinned. “But I’m listening. What do they say about criminals?”

  The countess rubbed her hands together. “If you want to catch a criminal, you need to hire a criminal. Fetch your cloak, darling. We’re going to Seven Dials.”

  Calliope gulped. “Seven Dials? But that’s–”

  “A crime-infested den of iniquity? I know. It’s perfect.”

  If Percy had known her friends were headed for London’s most notorious slum, she would have stopped them. In their little trio, she was the voice of reason, even more so than Calliope, who had the unfortunate habit of letting herself be drawn into Helena’s schemes.

  Instead, she found herself waking up in an unfamiliar room, and in those moments of grogginess between sleep and consciousness, she believed she was back at Glastonbury Park.

  With a cry of panic, she bolted upright, her gaze darting wildly as she searched for a way out. Then she saw the white baker’s box still sitting on the dresser, and her racing heart began to slow as she slumped back onto the pillows.

  Andrew didn’t have her.

  Yet.

  Her elbow brushed against something flat and smooth. Glancing to the side, she saw a thick catalogue from Beauchamp House, a new (and already renowned) store on Savile Row that sold everything from men’s cravats to armchairs.

  Lucas.

  He must have delivered it when she was sleeping, along with a pencil tucked between the pages, presumably to mark whatever furniture caught her eye.

  It was such an odd, intimate request. Something a husband might ask of his wife. Not a kidnapper of his prisoner. But with nothing better to occupy her time, she rolled onto her belly, flipped open the catalog, and got to work.

  By the third page, she was surprised to find she was actually enjoying herself. Maybe because even though she’d become the mistress of four separate houses when she married Andrew, he’d never let her pick out as much as a tea saucer. He had overseen every facet of their lives.

  Including her.

  By the time they celebrated their first wedding anniversary, his control over her had been absolute. He had successfully estranged her from her family and friends. He dictated what she wore. When she went out. Who she called upon. And the most pitiful part was that she’d let him.

  On the rare occasions she had tried to stand up to Andrew, he’d rapidly quelled any notions of defiance with a closed fist. So she’d learned to go meekly along, like a little duck paddling obediently downstream, never mind that the farther she paddled the more she isolated herself from all the things that made her feel safe and happy.

  But she’d survived, hadn’t she? Percy’s fingers tightened reflexively around the pencil as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She’d survived, and that wasn’t pitiful.

  That was strength personified.

  “Come in,” she called out when she heard a knock at the door. There was a brief pause, and then the door swung inward to reveal a plump woman with russet hair threaded with gray, sparkling brown eyes, and a warm smile that grew tenfold when she saw Percy.

  “Aren’t ye a dear?” the woman exclaimed. “Even prettier than Mr. Black said! No wonder ‘e is so taken with ye. My name’s Elizabeth, but you jest go right on ahead an’ call me Bessie. Everybody does.”

  “Hello, Bessie.” Bemused, Percy tucked the catalogue under her arm and slid off the bed. “Who is Mr. Black?”

  “Why, yer sweetheart, of course.”

  “My sweetheart?” Percy’s brow furrowed. “But I don’t have a–”

  “She means me,” Lucas dr
awled as he appeared in the doorway and gave Bessie a wink. He’d changed yet again, this time into a simple white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms and snugly fitting black breeches. His hair was pushed back off his temple, as if he’d been wearing a hat, and his Hessians were splattered with mud. “Did you enjoy your nap, love?”

  “As much as I could, given the circumstances,” she replied stiffly.

  “Excellent.” His teeth flashed in a grin. “I’ve brought Bessie in to be your lady’s maid. Anything you need, she’s your gal. Isn’t that right, darlin’?”

  “That’s right.” Bessie beamed when Lucas looped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I’ve never worked fer an honest to goodness duchess afore. It’s an honor, Your Grace. A real honor.”

  Percy’s lips parted. “Oh. I…that’s nice of you, Bessie, truly, but I don’t need a lady’s maid. And I’m not…that is to say…I prefer not to be treated like a duchess.”

  Bessie gave a peal of laughter and slapped her thigh. “That’s a good one, Your Grace. ‘Not be treated like a duchess.’ Aye, I’ll have to remember it.” She nudged Lucas with her elbow and gave him a sly smile. “Beautiful an’ a sense of humor. I can see why you’re smitten with the lass.”

  “Did I say I was smitten?” he asked mildly. “I can’t seem to recall.”

  “Maybe not in so many words,” said the maid with a conspiratorial glance at Percy. “But I’ve been around long enough to know a thing or two. Trust me, Your Grace, the man is as infatuated as they come.”

  Your Grace.

  How Percy despised those two words.

  They were a piece of a past she didn’t want to remember. A part of a woman she never wanted to be again. Her title was like a splinter under her skin. She would have yanked it out if she could, but it was buried too deep for her to reach.

  “Should we draw ye a bath, Your Grace?” asked Bessie, blissfully oblivious to Percy’s rising discomfiture. “I’ve some rose soap that will make yer hair shine like a mirror. Made it myself. Easy enough, if ye have the patience. And ye have enough roses. I’ve found it’s best to combine the petals with the lard before they’ve completely dried out. Brings out the sweetness in them. Unless there’s another fragrance ye would prefer, Your Grace?”

  “Please stop calling me that,” Percy whispered, her stomach twisting unpleasantly.

  Lucas’s gaze sharpened.

  “Bessie, darlin’,” he murmured without taking his eyes off of Percy, “could you give us a minute?”

  “O’ course,” the maid chirped. “I’ll be right downstairs preparing dinner if ye need me. Herb-roasted chicken with garlic potatoes and some of that asparagus ye like picked fresh from the garden this mornin’, so if ye do any hanky panky be quick about it.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” As soon as Bessie had left the room, Lucas walked up to Percy and gently took the catalogue from her trembling hands. Setting it aside on the bed, he nudged her chin up with his finger.

  “What’s wrong, love?”

  If he’d made some witty remark, she might have been able to hold onto her composure. But the genuine concern in those wolfish eyes proved to be her undoing. On a muffled sob she whirled away from him and would have run to the corner of the room like a wounded animal seeking shelter, had he not caught her in his arms and dragged her against his chest.

  Percy didn’t fight him. Oddly, the thought never crossed her mind. Maybe because some part of her recognized that Lucas wasn’t a threat, and as tears streamed down her cheeks she clung to his strong frame as if he were a mast in the midst of a wild, turbulent storm.

  When the worst of the clouds had rolled away and the seas had once again calmed, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and peeked up at him from beneath her wet lashes. “I’m sorry. I–I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You never need to be apologize to me.” He brushed her hair out her face, and although his touch was soft, his voice was stern. “Do you understand?”

  No, she didn’t.

  She didn’t understand what she’d ever done to deserve Andrew’s contempt. She didn’t understand why he’d derived such pleasure from her pain. She didn’t understand how she could have done everything so right and have it turn out so terribly wrong.

  Ever since she was a little girl, all she’d ever wanted was to fall in love.

  Instead, she’d fallen into a pit of misery.

  No, she corrected herself. She hadn’t fallen.

  She’d been pushed.

  And now a scoundrel…a…a common thief…was offering his hand to pull her back out.

  It didn’t make any sense. Then again, maybe it wasn’t supposed to. Maybe there was some grand plan she wasn’t yet aware of it, and all would be revealed in due time. But until that happened, there was one thing she did understand.

  She’d felt good when Lucas had kissed her.

  Better than good, she’d felt alive.

  And she was tired of being dead.

  “Persephone?” Lucas said cautiously when she dug her fingers into the collar of his jacket and rose on her toes. “What are you–?”

  She pressed her mouth to his.

  Chapter Seven

  Lucas could count on two fingers the number of times he’d been shocked by women. As a man well acquainted with depravity, it took a great deal to catch him off guard. The McMullan twins had managed to do it when they’d climbed into his bed one night.

  Naked.

  With rum.

  Truthfully, he never thought he’d be that surprised again. But then, he hadn’t counted on Persephone.

  Her kiss was completely unexpected, which only made it all the more delicious. Like finding a red apple in a bin of bruised fruit. Or a piece of ginger candy in the bottom of his pocket. Or stepping outside prepared for rain, and basking in the sweet glow of sunshine.

  He followed her lead, parting his lips only when she hesitantly ran her tongue across them, gathering her close only when she leaned into him, skimming his fingers down her spine only when she clutched at his hair and gave a tiny pull.

  As a lick of flame raged through him, Lucas was astounded to discover himself struggling with his self-control. As an experienced lover, as well as a skilled one, he prided himself on his exquisite restraint. He could linger over a woman’s body for hours. Days if he had the desire. All the while holding himself back from the brink. But with that little tug at the nape of his neck, Persephone had very nearly obliterated every ounce of discipline he possessed.

  With a snarl, he wrenched himself free of her embrace and staggered back, dragging his hands down his face as he sat numbly on the edge of the bed. What the hell was wrong with him? He was the Devil of Duncraven, for God’s sakes.

  And a doe-eyed duchess had just brought him to his knees.

  He was ill, he decided. On the brink of death, most likely. That was the only explanation that made sense. The alternative–that he actually was falling in love with his pretty prisoner–wasn’t even worthy of consideration.

  “I–I am so sorry.” Looking every bit as stunned as he felt, Persephone started to touch her lips, then tucked her hand behind her back as a guilty pink flush unraveled over her cheekbones. “I…I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “Stop apologizing,” he growled.

  Her face paled. “I’m sorry. Oh, dear. I did it again. I didn’t mean…”

  “I’m not him.” Lucas lifted his head, wanting–needing–her to look into his eyes and see the difference. To see that he might have been a ne’er-do-well, and a rogue, and a right bastard, but he wasn’t a monster. “You don’t need to grovel. You damned well don’t need to keep saying how sorry you are. Not to me. Not to anyone. And sure as hell, not to your husband.”

  The rest of the blood drained from Persephone’s countenance, leaving her as white as the bed linens he was sitting on. Linens that still smelled of her perfume, a delicate combination of lavender and vanilla with a touch of l
emon.

  The scent suited her. Floral at the onset. A bite of citrus at the end. He couldn’t recall her putting any small bottles into her valise when she’d been hastily packing, and made a note to retrieve her perfume at his earliest convenience. It would be dangerous, some might say even foolish, to return to the scene of the crime (such as it were). But such an alluring fragrance deserved more than to sit in a bottle collecting dust.

  Before he gave into temptation and buried his face in Persephone’s pillow (an indignity he’d never be able to live down), Lucas sprang off the mattress. His sudden movement caused the duchess to cringe away from him, and he cursed himself for his carelessness.

  “You don’t need to be afraid of me.” He held out his hand, with his palm turned upwards.

  She stared at it for a moment, then slowly lifted her head.

  “I’m not a dog searching for a treat,” she said scornfully.

  Lavender and lemon, he reminded himself.

  Sweet and sharp.

  Some might not have appreciated the distinction, but he did.

  He appreciated everything about Persephone.

  Her beauty. Her courage. Her gentleness. Her spirit.

  It would be easy to look at her and just see the frailty and brokenness. But there was so much more. She was so much more. And there were other ways to comfort than holding out a hand. Other ways to soothe. Other ways to gain trust. He’d do them all, if he had to. Hell, he’d crawl over shattered glass if it meant putting the light back into Persephone’s eyes.

  And that knowledge, that awareness, of just how far he was willing to go for a woman he’d just met, struck Lucas like a punch to the gut.

  “You’re right.” He dropped his arm. “You’re not. And if you don’t want to be a duchess, then I’ll tell Bessie to take it easy on all of the Your Graces. I will admit, they were a tad over the top.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be a duchess.” Persephone’s lashes swept down, concealing all the troubled thoughts swirling about in that brilliant, tortured mind of hers. “It’s more that…I’ve never felt like a duchess. Not really. And it feels like a mockery to be called one after the fact.”