The Wallflower Duchess

by Liz Tyner

  ‘You booby-head,’ she’d called out, eyes blazing into him.

  Booby-head? He’d stared at her. Booby-head? Apparently little girls swore differently from other people.

  ‘You booby-head. You made me fall.’

  ‘You—’

  He’d been planning to explain again how she’d been going to fall from a much higher limb and he wouldn’t have been able to catch her, but the blood on her face stopped his words.

  At that moment, she put her hand to her lip, lowered her fingers so she could see the crimson liquid and wailed out a terrifying sound. She’d raced into her house before he could stand.

  Later, he’d seen the thread-like scar, resting a finger-width from the bow of her mouth. Lip stain covered it when she grew older, but he always checked for it. Only now her mouth was hidden behind a gauzy screen. It irked him.

  ‘Your governess should have been punished,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Smith was a dear, dear governess. Not like the next one.’ The bonnet tilted back and the veil dusted against the outline of her chin. ‘I think I turned out quite well.’

  ‘Of course.’ He’d known she would. ‘You don’t have to hide from me.’ He stared at the black cloth.

  ‘I’m not. I’m being discreet.’ Her tone rose.

  ‘Then keep your voice down.’ He moved closer and carefully reached out, lifting the cloth, holding it up like a tent between them.

  He looked at the uncovered blemish on the challenging lips, then up at the brown eyes, and he felt like a youth—which was odd because even when he was a child, he’d never felt like one. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked and fought to keep his voice distant. He waited for her to say she’d wanted to see him.

  ‘Edge,’ she reprimanded and tilted her head back. The cloth slid from his touch.

  She’d called him by the nickname his brothers and cousins had begun using right after the old Duke had passed on. Much better than being called a booby-head, he supposed.

  ‘I’d hoped to catch you in the gardens for a word, but—’ A prim sentence.

  He nodded, frowning. The gardens. He’d not been into the sun since he’d been burned. He’d barely been able to move and he’d had no care about anything else. He’d put off leaving town for the summer, deciding he’d wait to see if he lived or died. If he died, he’d let someone else see to carting him to the family crypt.

  She turned away. Inwardly, he smiled. She turned to hide her expression—as if he could see it under the gauzy fabric covering it.

  He stared at her shoulders and his eyes drifted downward. At that second, he realised Lily had become Lillian. He took in a breath and turned his gaze to the wall.

  ‘You are a determined person. You’ve always done exactly as you should and you have a considerable amount of duties to keep up with...’ She cleared her throat. ‘One in particular.’

  ‘To what particular one might you be referring?’

  ‘You really are the only person who can answer the question I have.’

  His gaze washed over her. ‘You are here to ask a question?’

  She turned and lifted the veil again, staring straight into his face. ‘I don’t know exactly how I would word this and I would hate for a note to fall into the wrong hands, so I had to arrive myself. It’s far easier to deny a spoken word than a written one.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I suppose I did want to see for myself that you’re up and about,’ she added.

  He kept perfectly still, his mind’s eye seeing the little girl who would stare at him when he studied out of doors. He soon discovered he could look at her, grumble a growl and she’d laugh and run back into her house, leaving him alone with his books the rest of the day.

  ‘What question could you have for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you going to propose to my sister?’

  The feeling of a boulder landing on his stomach returned. He leaned forward, staring. ‘Pardon?’ Confusion—then irritation—flooded him.

  ‘Soon?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve not given it any thought,’ he said, snapping out the words.

  ‘You nearly died,’ she accused. ‘Twice. And where would that leave her? She’s not getting any younger.’

  ‘None of us is.’

  Brown sparked in her eyes. ‘I would hope our connection of knowing each other years and years and years would allow you to appreciate my honesty and understand my concern for my sister,’ she said. ‘I would think we have a bond.’

  ‘We do.’ His gaze dropped to her lips, again. That tiny vertical scar, hardly bigger than a thread and only visible at close distance, ran upwards from her top lip.

  Her attention wavered and her black gloved hand touched the mark. ‘Makes me look like a pirate,’ she said.

  ‘No. I can only see the scar because I know where—to look.’

  Her eyes became solemn. ‘Are you going to court my sister? I need to know.’

  ‘Why?’ He shook his head. He’d thought that nonsense of his interest in her sister had died long before. It had been his father’s talk and he’d never encouraged it. Never. In fact, he’d thought it long forgotten.

  He knew that on occasion when he’d planned a day at home, his mother had arranged things so the Hightower sisters would arrive for tea. But his mother planned a lot of teas with young, unmarried women when he was at home.

  Her words about him marrying her sister slid in under his ribs and irritation bit into him. He didn’t mind so much when his mother dangled the names of young women in front of him, but Lily—she should know better. ‘You realise I nearly died,’ he said, chin forward. ‘Marriage has not been foremost on my mind.’

  ‘You are all recovered now. Aren’t you?’ Her eyes locked with his.

  ‘I’m alive, at least.’ Not that it appeared to make a great deal of difference to her, except where her sister was concerned.

  ‘Another reason for a marriage, I’d say.’ Hopeful eyes stared at him.

  ‘But if I die, it wouldn’t matter to me whether I have a wife or not.’ Well, it might. Lily should not wear black.

  ‘But it might matter very much to your lineage and to a woman wanting a family. A duke needs an heir. Simple fact. But I don’t expect you to die, however, I expect you to live a long and healthy life.’ Her eyes sparkled in jest. ‘You’ve no choice. Duty.’

  ‘I hope you don’t overestimate me, Miss Hightower.’

  He’d wanted to make his mark in life by the time he reached thirty. He’d thought he’d be able to use his influence in Parliament to produce more jobs for the people put out of work by the mechanised looms, but his progress was much slower than he’d expected. Marriage had seemed the logical next step after his work. And he’d just assumed Lily understood. The few times he’d spoken with her as an adult and told her how much progress he was making, and had said personal duties would come afterwards, she’d nodded her head in complete understanding.

  He’d thought.

  Now Lily stood in front of him and she must have seen something on his face. She put her hand out, not touching him, but hovering above his sleeve. She smiled. ‘So you will be at our soirée next week and consider courting my sister?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ She stepped back, eyes widening before the lids lowered, her hand falling to her side. ‘No?’

  Neither spoke.

  ‘Are you certain?’ The words came out carefully, hesitant. ‘You’re not going to marry Abigail?’ She examined him closer than Gaunt had when he’d been checking Edge to see if he had a pulse.

  ‘I can’t believe you ask that.’

  She took in a breath and somehow managed to hold it. ‘Do you have any plans for marriage?’ Her voice rose, her arm moved out and she patted as if touching the top of small heads. ‘A family of your own. Little heirs. A li
ttle group all snuggled together at bedtime.’

  ‘I do not think of it quite the same as going to a litter of kittens and picking out the one with the healthiest yowl.’ Then he thought of Lily falling from the tree and hid his smile. ‘Although I’m not opposed to a healthy yowl.’

  ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But you have to admit my sister would make a good duchess.’

  ‘Your sister is a pleasant person. But I’ve never seen her as a duchess. Ever.’

  Mouse-brown eyes stared up at him and a flutter in the area of his heart gave him pause. His mother was right. Lily had grown into her eyes, although he did not think her comment about his marrying her sister deserved explanation.

  Because of his father’s words claiming it to be true, people had assumed Edge would marry the younger Hightower sister. It had suited Edge’s purpose to let people believe the tale. It deflected false hope in mothers angling their daughters to catch his eye and kept him from having to dodge flirtations. Besides, he’d always known he would some day marry Lily. He’d decided it and the idea had flickered through his thoughts on occasion, seeming more perfect each time, and he’d just known Lily felt the same way. How could she not? True, he always danced with her sister first, then Lily last so he could linger with her without Abigail fluttering around waiting for her dance.

  And they’d not said much, but he’d not thought there was a need. They’d stood by each other, companionably, watching the others. If that did not signal a deep interest then he did not know what could have. He’d stayed late at a noisy soirée with music and chatter drowning out all words so he could spend a few moments at her side. Never had he done that with another woman.

  ‘Stop looking so grim.’ She mocked his face, a forced snarl to her lips. ‘It hasn’t hurt my sister to be considered as your potential bride. Quite the opposite. She received the best education and the envy of so many people.’

  He shrugged internally, realising he didn’t quite understand women as well as he’d thought. ‘So, on the day you mentioned that your father would be so happy to have a duke in the family...’ Well, he’d misinterpreted that statement. Her sister had been the last person on his mind as he’d waltzed with Lily that night.

  He knew without question she’d always been pleased to have a private word with him. And when she’d spoken about how well Abigail was growing up, he’d noted it as a statement of how well Lily had taken care of her sister and how Lily would be a good mother...to his children. He’d not imagined her as assuming he had any interest in Abigail. Abigail?

  ‘Edge.’ This time her lips pressed firmly before speaking and he knew she didn’t jest. ‘I know you’re an honourable man and, since you’ve said nothing, I started to worry we’d misunderstood. No one will court her because they think you have her planned for a bride. Father has frowned upon any other suitors. She’s going to end up a spinster if she waits almost for ever for you and then after she’s rejected everyone else you look in a different direction.’

  ‘I have never once indicated any intention to marry Abigail.’ He’d treated her with extra notice because he did plan for her to be family. His wife’s sister.

  ‘Well, Father has so much money I suppose we could purchase a husband for her later on.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I do feel you should have told me, though.’

  ‘I thought I indicated my intentions to you.’

  ‘That you intended to marry Abigail.’ Her words accused. ‘Yes. And she’s said she’s tired of waiting on you and she’s determined to wed before the year is out. It is on her list.’

  ‘Her list, or your list?’

  ‘It is on her list, above finishing the embroidery sampler. That sampler will never make it to the wall. However, Abigail will make it to the church... And it is on my list, too. Finding my sister a suitable match.’

  ‘I will attend the soirée, but—’ The same feeling of the ground crumbling beneath him he’d had when he’d fallen into the water overtook him. His breath shortened. What if Lily didn’t—wouldn’t marry him?

  She walked closer, a form he could not decipher behind the dark clothing, and reached out, again stopping just before touching his arm. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said. Her voice quavered.

  ‘Lily—’

  She smoothed the edge of the veil and the view of black covering her eyes shot into his body, the same as another brush with death. Darkness choked him at the thought of her not being in his life.

  Lily moved away, walking towards the door. The air stirred and a light floral scent swirled around him.

  The whiff of the perfume jarred him to his boots. He couldn’t have spoken even if he could have thought of something to say.

  He kept from moving forward. He’d thought himself delirious after he’d been burned and when he recovered he’d shoved the memory aside, not wanting to accept that his mind had been so addled.

  But it hadn’t been an angel sitting at his bedside. He knew the second the trace of flowers touched his nose that Lily had been in his sickroom, comforting his mother.

  He slightly remembered his mother leaning over his form in bed and wishing him a happy birthday and dripping a tear on his face and then smudging it off and bursting into loud sobs and running from the room.

  Foxworthy had spoken from somewhere in the chamber and said that there wasn’t anything to worry about because Edge’s brother had three sons to pass the title to.

  Anger had blasted over his last embers of life, giving him strength to move his hand. He was going to do one last thing and then die.

  He’d tried to curl the fingers down, except for the middle one, but he didn’t think he’d made it before an angel had taken his hand, pressing, covering his fist. A feminine touch held his fingers. The skin was cool—refreshing after the heat that smothered him. An angel to ease his pain and take him from life.

  He’d squeezed the fingers twice.

  The angel had grabbed him and jostled him, sending aches throughout his body. But then she’d hugged him, pressing closer. A wisp of her hair had tickled his nose and the flowery soap she used had masked the sickroom scent. Her touch worked better than laudanum and the pain had abated. He’d breathed in, trying to keep the scent of her locked inside him and the feel of her cheek imprinted on his.

  ‘Hurry and get better,’ she’d whispered, her lips at his ear.

  The touch made his blood flow and his heart beat, but when her hands left him, he’d been unable to move to follow her.

  He’d wanted her to stay. Ached for her to stay, but it was a different kind of pain than the jagged throbs that had sliced him.

  She’d told him to get better and he’d done it. For her. For the angel. For Lily. And he’d be damned if he didn’t ask her to marry him.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Gaunt.’ Edgeworth stepped from the window when his valet entered. ‘Are my things prepared?’

  ‘Your Grace?’ Gaunt tilted his head forward in question.

  ‘For my neighbour’s little...’ he waved his hand in a circular motion and sat at his dressing mirror, pleased that his face had regained the look of health ‘...soirée. Surely you have my clothes ready.’ Keeping his eyes on the mirror, Edge asked. ‘You do have my clothing ready. You have not forgotten?’

  ‘Um, yes, Your Grace. Of course.’ Gaunt stepped away, feet brisk.

  Edgeworth didn’t move. In one brief moment, he’d seen Gaunt’s eyes reflected in the mirror. Even as he answered with the usual unruffled respect, the valet’s eyes had briefly looked heavenward. Exasperated.

  Edgeworth stared at the looking glass. Gaunt had been Edgeworth’s only valet—ever. And the servant never forgot a—Edgeworth thought back. He’d not told Gaunt of the soirée. No. He had no memory of mentioning it. He’d been busy catching up with all the duties that had fallen by the wayside while he recovere
d and he’d been planning his proposal. But it didn’t matter. Gaunt was always prepared.

  When Gaunt returned, he had the same stoic expression as always—except for the few moments before when he’d not known himself observed. Now Gaunt whipped things about just as if he’d been told earlier of their need. Warm water appeared. Clothes were readied. Shaving was quickly accomplished, with the little splash of the scent which Gaunt said was nasturtiums and Edgeworth suspected was merely an ordinary shaving soap put in an expensive container.

  Edgeworth gave a final perusal of himself, though he knew the valet would have alerted him to any flaw.

  ‘I can’t believe you forgot the soirée,’ Edge said.

  ‘Nor can I.’

  No flicker of irritation. Perhaps Gaunt did think he’d forgotten.

  Edge took the comb and did another run through his hair, then set the comb on the edge of the tabletop, absently letting it fall to the floor. When he stood, he picked up the dry cloth on the table, brushed it at his cheek, wadded it into a ball and tossed it over the soap pot. On the way out, he glanced at Gaunt’s expression. Calmness rested in his eyes.

  The Duke paused outside the door, shutting it, but then he stopped and opened it quietly. Gaunt retrieved the comb, putting it in the spot it belonged. Then retrieved the flannel and his cheeks puffed. He wrung the cloth once, and then again, and again, as if it were—perhaps, a neck. Then he precisely smoothed it before returning it to the exact spot Edge preferred.

  Pulling the door softly shut behind him, Edgeworth paused. The towel had not been wet, but if it had been his neck, he wouldn’t be going to the soirée.

  * * *

  Lily walked to Abigail’s room and peered in. Her sister had the face of her mother, a perfect heart shape, and her father’s fair colouring and blonde hair.

  Lily supposed her colouring came from her true father. At the one time she’d seen the blacksmith, she’d not been aware that men could pass their resemblance on to their children. She was thankful for that.

  Her mother had jerked Lily’s hand forward, pulling her into the invisible wall of heat and charred odours which separated the shop from the alive world. A blacksmith had appeared, standing like a gruff ogre at a fire where his next meal could be roasted—or a fire where a little girl who’d stepped too near could be tossed.