Waltzing With the Wallflower

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Cordelia was miserable. Her aunt and uncle insisted on sponsoring her return to London. After seven years of indentured servitude, however, she was grossly unprepared for societal expectations. Yet here she stood, pushed aside by the crush and trying desperately to blend in with the wall behind her.

  Since her debut four weeks ago, she attracted only one man’s attention. Sir Bryan had been following her far too closely, and though she knew she should be grateful for his interest, the man smelled like a medieval knight. Any time he was near, her eyes watered and she fought to keep her stomach from lurching. Cordelia found herself hiding from him and from every other man in the hall.

  Unfortunately, the corner she chose for her hiding place was also the home to several indoor plants, which offered some lovely camouflage to match her dress, but when she backed into the foliage, her dress snagged and she was stuck fast. Mortified, she looked across the ballroom, desperate that no one would be the wiser to her plight. She scanned the room, and then froze when she noticed three men tilting their heads in her direction. It was just her luck that the very three men staring at her had the power to destroy her marital chances with one word.

  Not that her chances were enviable now. Her family was steeped in scandal. She hadn’t been trained for London Society, and at one and twenty years of age she was not highly sought after company. Even merchants’ daughters turned their noses up at her misfortune.

  It didn’t matter that her family was titled. Her father’s bad investments and his insatiable taste for gambling had driven them to the poor house, and as the only child, Cordelia was forced to bear the burden of repaying his debts.

  She stared down at her skirt and struggled to free it from the branch with one hand. Even the small movement brought heat to her cheeks, and she hoped no one would notice her predicament. The last thing she needed right now was attention. Turning her focus to the snag, she tugged gently, trying to draw as little notice as possible.

  “May I be of some assistance, m’lady?” A rich baritone startled her from her task and her head jerked up to ascertain who was speaking to her. She had been introduced to only one man present at this ball, and surely she would have sensed his approach long before he was close enough to engage her in conversation.

  She recognized him in an instant. It was one of the well-known Benson twins. She dared not look long enough to determine which. They were nearly identical, and Cordelia had heard the only way to tell one from the other was by the length of his hair. Unfortunately, his unexpected notice of her brought an immediate mortification constricting in her throat and burned into her neck and cheeks. What was he doing over here? Why was he speaking to her?

  “No!” she yelled then remembered herself. “Uh, no. Thank you, my lord.” She focused on her skirt while working frantically to free it from the entanglement.

  His attention meant everyone in the room would also be staring at her. The warmth in her cheeks spread to her ears. If only she could melt into the marble floor and disappear.

  When a large gloved hand reached around her and twisted the skirt free from the branch, brushing her hand as it did so, she retracted hers quickly with a gasp. Her gaze darted to his and to the floor again. Her words tangled in her throat and tripped over one another on their way out of her mouth. “I’m sor— Thank y—I mean, pardon me, my lord.”

  “Not at all, m’lady. Glad to be of service.” Cordelia dared not speak again for fear of humiliating herself further. Undoubtedly another mess of undecipherable utterances would only speed her already determined fate as an old maid. So she did the only thing she could think of. She spun on her heel and fled, weaving in and out of the throng of debutantes, having no real direction until she caught sight of her aunt sitting among the other matrons.

  The sea of debutantes began to part as if she were being led by Moses himself. Cordelia realized she failed in her effort to escape. Fear gripped her, making it impossible for her to look up. She kept her gaze on the path before her and made a beeline to where her aunt waited, imagining she could feel the heat from the man following close behind her.

  As she neared her sponsor, the woman’s eyes widened in recognition and a patronizing smile spread across her red lips. She did not return Cordelia’s gaze but rested hers instead on the man behind her.

  “Lord Hawthorne, so lovely to see you again,” she crooned with a low curtsy, dropping her fan in a most inappropriate fashion.

  “Lady Trowbridge,” he said then reached for her hand and kissed it chastely. “How do you fare this evening?” Cordelia peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. His brown wavy hair hung unfashionably long, teasing the edge of his collar. That would make him the elder of the two men, the Earl of Hawthorne, though both men were regarded highly by the bulk of the ton. What could he possibly want with her?

  She wasn’t so daft as to believe she would be of interest to anyone other than Sir Bryan, the stench of Cumberland. Which would leave only the man’s pure morbid curiosity.

  “Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your lovely charge?” Cordelia again felt the surge of embarrassment warm her neck and cheeks. Her gaze dropped to her hands. She busied herself with straightening her gloves and pretended not to hear Lord Hawthorne’s request.

  “Certainly, my lord,” Lady Trowbridge replied. Cordelia’s gaze darted to her aunt’s face just in time to catch her wicked grin. “May I present my niece? Lady Cordelia Edwards.” She nudged Cordelia with an elbow.

  Cordelia curtsied awkwardly, losing her balance. Flailing her arms forward, she caught Lord Hawthorne’s arm at the last moment and saved herself from falling flat on her face.

  Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she righted herself and realized at the same moment she still clutched his arm. She released her hold immediately, snapping her shaking hand behind her back with a gasp.

  Then he laughed. Her humiliation was complete.

  The only thing worse would have been if she had fallen prostrate, throwing her skirts up in the air and offering the whole of the ton a brilliant view of her drawers.

  She closed her eyes to hold back the barrage of tears, which were certain to come.

  “Lady Cordelia,” he said as he reached for her hand. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.” His mocking smile made her stomach churn. Once more she prayed she would melt into the marble floor, never to be heard from again.

  “Manners, Cordelia,” her aunt said with another sharp poke to Cordelia’s ribs.

  “The honor is mine, my lord,” Cordelia managed to squeak out, keeping her gaze firmly on his Hessian boots as he pressed his lips to her gloved fingers.

  “Will you dance, my lady?”

  Cordelia shook her head in adamant refusal, but Lady Trowbridge shoved at her from behind with surprising force.

  “Of course she will, my lord! Cordelia, dance with the gentleman!”

  He offered his elbow. She stood paralyzed. Her aunt grabbed her hand and settled it firmly on his arm. Then with another push, sent her onto the dance floor with the Earl of Hawthorne as the orchestra began to play.

  Oh, sweet Mary. A waltz.

  Her heart felt wedged in her throat. She swallowed against it to no avail. Why was he dancing… no, why was he waltzing with her? And why, in Heaven’s name, did her aunt give permission for such a scandalous display? She was supposed to be protecting her!

  As Cordelia’s mind raced, Lord Hawthorne escorted her to the center of the dance floor. He stopped and turned to her, placing his hand on her waist. She felt her whole body tighten in response, stiffening against the far too familiar touch. He took her other hand in his, clutching it in his vice grip.

  Cordelia’s heart beat a hollow rhythm. She could feel the burning gazes of everyone in the great hall boring into her with disgust. The man would surely be ruined after this blatant disregard for the opinion of the ton.

  Curiosity began to nag at her, competing with embarrassment for attention. Almost involuntarily, she glanced at his face a
gain. A mistake. The man was startlingly handsome and he stared directly at her, something she was not expecting.

  He was also smiling. Not a mocking smile like before, but true and genuine. For an instant, Cordelia lost herself in his sea green eyes. Eyes so green but for the golden corona that outlined them to perfection.

  "I believe the idea is to move one’s feet," he whispered, startling her from her perusal of him.

  Somehow she managed a weak smile and dropped her gaze again, then stepped to follow his lead. She had never waltzed before, though she had seen it done many times in the past four weeks from her hiding place near the wall. The pace was faster than she expected.

  When Lord Hawthorne tightened a hand on her waist, pulling her closer to him, the breath caught in her throat. Gathering her courage, she looked him in the eye and with a trembling breathless voice she demanded, “Why are you dancing with me?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and she looked beyond him to the piercing stares directed at her. Her ears burned with humiliation, and the tears threatened from behind her eyes. “Will you please…” She faltered, but found her voice again. “Please. Leave me alone.”

  What was she expecting him to do? An honor bound man would never leave her standing alone on the dance floor. Even she, with her little knowledge and experience in such matters, knew that. Her throat constricted again, making each intake of breath a struggle. Would the dance never end?

  “I will not. Not until your dance card is filled.”

  Terror gripped her, and her gloves grew moist with her perspiration.

  The stares. The mocking glares and a full dance card. Her living nightmare. Everyone would be looking at her.

  The music ended not a moment too soon and the earl escorted Cordelia back to her aunt and bowed low, kissing her fingers once more.

  Just beyond the matrons, the debutantes whispered. Cordelia could hear her name. Why would he dance with Lady Cordelia? Isn’t she the indentured servant? She closed her eyes against the fire creeping up her neck again.

  “And why wouldn’t the Earl of Hawthorne dance with the most interesting woman in the room?” Another man’s deep voice broke past the whispers. Cordelia turned to see who had spoken.

  The mirror image of the man she danced with stood beside Lady Trowbridge. Viscount Maddox took her hand and kissed it. She stared at him with wide eyes, and then he winked at her.

  What a forward display! Had he no idea people were watching them?

  “Shall we, my lady?” he asked, taking her hand and leading her back onto the dance floor before she had a chance to protest.

  “And I will take the next dance, my lady,” the third man of their party shouted after them.

  The night continued in that same fashion until its conclusion. Cordelia had never danced so much, and never with the same man a second time. What was happening to her? Everyone watched her, but she hardly had time to think about them. As her uncle helped her into their carriage at the end of the evening, her feet ached and her back screamed for rest.

  Settling into the seat, Cordelia closed her eyes and thought, Truly all of London has turned on its ear.

  Chapter 3

  The Terms

  Ambrose found he couldn’t stop whistling as he made his way towards the rented townhouse where Lady Cordelia resided. The previous night could not have gone better. He had half a mind to congratulate his brother on his sheer genius. Ambrose hadn’t felt this excited about a Season in years, and that included the time Wilde announced he was going to marry the first woman he laid eyes on. Unfortunately, that woman had been a mature ninety years old.

  As he approached the regal mansion, Ambrose exhaled in relief. He wasn’t certain he could rely on the rumors that although Lady Cordelia’s parents had no money, the aunt and uncle were quite well off.

  He took the steps two at a time and clanged the knocker three times. The butler answered, tray in hand. Ambrose threw his hat onto the empty silver surface. “Lord Hawthorne to see Lord Trowbridge. Is he available?”

  The butler narrowed his eyes, and then opened the door wider, allowing Ambrose entry. He was led into the salon where a maid promptly brought tea. She too gave him a skeptical look, as if he were on display at the museum. Ignoring the help, he leaned back on the sofa and waited.

  Within minutes Lord Trowbridge swept into the room. He was a tall man, dignified in his appearance. An afternoon jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. Brown hair thinned on his head and combed neatly to the side. An even darker mustache curled above his lips, giving him the look of a man not to be crossed.

  It was of no consequence. Ambrose was used to dealing with peers from all walks of life. They still put on their breeches one leg at a time. All, he concluded, were human and easily dealt with. He just needed to placate the man’s sense of self-importance.

  “Lord Trowbridge. It is an honor that you would take time for a meeting.” The first step was always to compliment one’s opponent, make them relax.

  Trowbridge smiled, the muscles in his body seemed to loosen, especially those around his jawline.

  “A lovelier home I haven’t seen in ages. If the state of it is any indication of the rest of your estates, it seems the rest of us could learn a great deal from you about keeping things in impeccable condition.” Ambrose smiled and leaned back, one hand facing up on his lap while the other rested against the sofa mimicking a look of vulnerability. He then turned his head to the side and waited.

  “My lord,” Trowbridge started nearly jumping over his words. “The honor is mine! For truly, I have heard a great deal about you but never had the opportunity, nay, the great fortune of meeting your acquaintance. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

  Music to his ears. “So good of you to ask, my lord. You see, it has come to my attention that your niece has made her debut this Season.”

  Trowbridge tensed and gripped the side of the chair until his knuckles turned white. “Yes, well, you see… her parents were, or that is, they are…”

  Ambrose waved his hand flippantly in the air. “I am well aware of Lady Cordelia’s situation, Trowbridge. It is because of the...” He searched for the correct word. “Magical meeting we had last night that I am now sitting in your home.”

  “Oh?” Trowbridge leaned forward in interest, his gaze clearly taking in the ramifications of what Ambrose was communicating.

  “Yes. Though I am aware it isn’t necessary for me to spout off all of her many accomplishments. It seems Lady Cordelia and I would be a brilliant match. I wanted to make my intentions known. I wish to court her.”

  At that announcement, Trowbridge spat out the tea and began coughing. Motionless, Ambrose merely watched as the man’s face took on a purplish hue before Lady Trowbridge burst into the room.

  “You wish to court Lady Cordelia?” Lady Trowbridge asked, smiling and patting her husband on the back. “So sorry, my lord. My husband has coughing fits often.” She nudged him with her elbow as he nodded emphatically.

  “Happens,” cough, cough, “all the time,” cough, “my lord.”

  If only Ambrose would have bet money on the Earl and Countess’s response. He could have easily taken more money from his brother.

  “My apologies. Perhaps another time would be better.” Ambrose rose.

  “No!” they said in unison.

  Lady Trowbridge tittered, “Ah, my lord. I am so very sorry. It has been an odd afternoon. Did I hear you correctly before? You truly wish to court Cordelia?”

  Ambrose held their gazes for a few seconds before answering. “With all my heart. She wouldn’t happen to be available for callers, would she? I know many men have probably expressed similar interest—”

  “No!” Lady Trowbridge yelled again. This time she placed her hand against her heaving bosom. “That is to say… I mean, yes. There has been much, er, interest.”

  The earl began choking all over again.

  “Is she otherwise engaged?” Ambrose ignored the horrifying sound coming
from the earl’s throat, wanting more than anything for their uncomfortable display of shock to be done with.

  “No. I’ll just go fetch her, shall I?” To say Lady Trowbridge floated out of the room would be a gross understatement. Ambrose felt almost sorry for her obvious excitement. Her shoe caught on the Persian rug as she whizzed past the door.

  Within moments she returned, Lady Cordelia in tow, hiding behind her guardian like a lamb would from a wolf. Smart girl.

  He inclined his head to the side much like he had the previous night. It seemed the only logical thing to do, given the fact that she was half concealed.

  “Cordelia,” her aunt scolded. “Greet your guest.”

  Cordelia stepped from behind her aunt. Ambrose’s mouth went completely dry. A first for him, to be sure.

  The girl was dressed in a simple white muslin that draped quite brilliantly over her voluptuous body. Why the devil had the girl chosen such a ridiculous dress as she had worn the night before? It was akin to hiding a flower underneath a dark storm cloud.

  Stepping forward, he bowed and took her hand, lightly kissing her fingers. Irritation plagued him when he found himself quite without a single acceptable thing to say other than good day, which sounded incredibly boring.

  “Lady Cordelia,” he crooned. “It is such a pleasure to see you again.”

  A piece of hair fell across her cheekbone, without thinking his hand twitched to brush it back, and then he realized they had an audience. Surely that would not do.

  “Would you be so kind as to accompany me on an afternoon ride through the park?” He hadn’t planned to take her out in public, but it would do more good than harm to have the ton gossips see them together. He would need complete participation from her if he was to pull this off without a hitch.

  “I, um….” Cordelia’s eyes flickered for a moment before she nodded mutely.

  “Lovely, darling! This is just lovely!” Her aunt clasped her hands together in glee. Ambrose would bet his best horse that the woman already picked out names for all their children.