Waltzing With the Wallflower

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “She certainly didn’t think her wardrobe through. There’s not a self-respecting gentleman in the ton who would dance with her looking like that, let alone give her the time of day.”

  Cordelia glanced back at the girl in front of her. The debutante had turned away and was wiping at her eyes, sobbing silently. Cordelia took the seat next to her, offered her a handkerchief from her reticule, and then took her by the hand. With a gentle squeeze and an encouraging smile, Cordelia gave a light toss of her head to indicate they would enter together.

  The girl’s deep brown eyes widened in fear. Cordelia smiled again and nodded her head. “It will be fine,” she whispered and coaxed her to follow in spite of her reticence.

  As they rounded the corner into the main room of the salon, the conversation abruptly ceased. All the eyes in the room fell upon Cordelia and her companion.

  “Good evening, ladies,” Cordelia said. She widened her smile more than usual and met each of the ladies’ gazes in turn. “I have the most wonderful thing to show you.” Her exuberance surprised even her. “This gown! Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  The girl who stood beside her stared at her with a look of absolute horror. A surge of concern shot through Cordelia, and she rushed to correct the girl’s assumption. “This is a gown straight out of the most recent designs in Madame Lanchester’s fashion plates! I’ve seen only one like it since I returned from Paris. I cannot believe my good fortune to see another.” A collective gasp seemed to suck the breathable air from the room.

  Naturally they would believe her. It was common knowledge Cordelia had served a dressmaker in Paris to fulfill her indentured contract. If anyone would know about fashion straight from France, it would be she. The fact that everything she said was true was immaterial. They would believe her regardless.

  Stepping back, Cordelia made room for the other ladies to swarm the poor girl, all talking at once, asking her about her dress and how she came into possession of such a marvelous treasure. Through the crush, she caught sight of the large brown eyes once more, glowing with thanks but thoroughly overwhelmed by the sudden attention.

  “If you will excuse us, ladies,” Cordelia interrupted, casually stepping back into the fray. “I believe Lord Maddox will be upset with me if I fail to introduce him to this lady this evening. He does love new fashions.” Taking the girl’s hand once more, she rescued her for the second time, and led her back through the salon to the ballroom in search of Lord Maddox.

  As they stepped out into the great hall, Cordelia caught Maddox’s eye and gestured for him to join them. “Thank you,” the girl’s soft voice offered.

  “Think nothing of it, dear girl. Lord Maddox does indeed love new fashion.” Her preference for not drawing attention to herself surged back to the surface, and Cordelia drew a deep breath, feeling her legs grow weak with the realization of her performance in front of the gossiping debutantes. Her eyes scanned the room for the perfect place to which she could beat a hasty retreat.

  “Good evening, Lady Cordelia,” came the viscount’s rich voice. “And who is this vision?” He gestured towards the debutante waiting beside her.

  “My lord, this is…” she paused, suddenly realizing she had not asked the girl her name. She glanced to her companion for help.

  “Cristina,” she whispered.

  “May I present Lady Cristina, my lord?”

  “Lady Cristina.” Maddox smiled and bowed, hovering above the girl’s hand with a light kiss. When he rose he asked, “Care to dance, my lady?”

  Cristina’s brown eyes lit with joy, and Cordelia gazed after them for a moment as they sauntered onto the dance floor. Then she looked once again for shelter from the marauding eyes, hoping for a few moments to herself.

  The gaggle of debutantes in the ladies’ salon had returned to the ballroom, and with secret pleasure, Cordelia recognized their envious glances glowering after Lady Cristina as she danced with the desirable Lord Maddox.

  There was not a free corner in the room. No haven of any sort to be had in the great hall. And as luck would have it, Sir Bryan was scouring the room for her once more. She knew Hawthorne had told her never to chance it, but the balcony grew more and more inviting with each step nearer the aromatic would-be suitor took.

  And then the waltz began playing again.

  Chapter Seven

  The Rumor

  Ambrose had done his best to ignore Cordelia, subsequently ignoring his growing feelings about her all together. Yet he saved every waltz for her. His gaze quickly found the lady, as it so often did. It seemed his body, his eyes, … everything in him was fine-tuned to pick up her laugh or her presence without him knowing it.

  As he slowly made his way to where she stood with her back facing him, he heard whispers of how she had single-handedly saved a young debutante. It seemed the closer he got, the more split the room was. Several other debutantes, the wallflowers, thought Cordelia to be the sweetest lady to grace the ton in years. Others, though their respect for Cordelia was still intact, thought she should have stayed out of the ordeal altogether.

  Then he glimpsed the girl in question dancing with his brother, a gleeful smile on her face. Immediately he realized what side he was on, for Cordelia saved the girl from the vicious tales that would have ruined the girl’s first Season. Her dress wasn’t of the same fashion the other ladies wore, but her face was beautiful, especially when paired with the smile she now wore.

  Cordelia had stepped outside of her insecurity. She sacrificed herself in order to appease another young girl. It was a rare thing to behold in his social circle, and he found the feelings he had carefully pushed aside flared to life all at once, nearly choking him as he reached her side.

  “I believe this dance is mine,” he whispered behind her.

  She turned and flashed a smile. “But, my lord, you haven’t written your name on my card.”

  “I didn’t think I had to, considering it is our dance. Shall we?”

  Blushing, she curtsied and took his proffered arm. He could hear the fluttering of tongues and fans as he escorted the lady to the middle of the dance floor. With a brooding expression he silently wondered if the chatter about them was good or bad.

  As he took her hand in his and looked into her eyes, he realized for once in his life, and for once since the bet, he couldn’t care less what people were saying. All he wanted was to hold the girl who had managed to creep inside his heart, and he hoped the dance would never end.

  Ambrose pulled her closer than usual, relishing the feel of her satin gown on his gloved hands, closing his eyes as if to memorize the scent of her skin and the way her body curved in his outstretched hand.

  “Ambrose?” she whispered. “I believe we are causing a stir.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” He opened his eyes and noticed his brother talking with several women, their eyes ablaze and horror-stricken. Was he really holding the girl that close? Devil take it! He loved the girl. It shouldn’t matter.

  Ambrose froze. Did it count that he said he loved her in his head rather than out loud? He hoped not, because it was a mistake—a terrible mistake. Men didn’t fall all over themselves after only a few weeks. Did they?

  Cordelia sighed, and he found himself holding his breath. Did she think about the kiss? All evidence pointed to her forgetting about it completely, which quite bothered him. Was it not her first kiss? The thought that it hadn’t been flashed through his mind, causing him to hold her arm tighter. If any other gentleman touched her, he would kill him.

  Ambrose swallowed and pursed his lips, trying to think of something witty to say to get the girl to confess her thoughts aloud. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind save to ask the girl outright if she enjoyed the kiss. What was happening to him? Was it possible the girl had broken down so much of his defenses that he no longer knew how to flirt or manipulate a woman’s affections?

  “Cordelia,” he blurted her name then inwardly cursed, for now he needed to finish his thought.
/>   Her eyes met his. “Ambrose?”

  His gaze fell to her full lips, which she delicately nibbled on in thought.

  “I…” He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  “You…?” She prompted, squinting towards him.

  “The kiss.” His voice was hoarse. “Do you think of it?”

  Cordelia’s gaze darted away without answering the question. He felt like a fool until she leaned in and whispered so lightly he almost missed it, “Every day.”

  The intense need to kiss her again washed over him as the dance ended, and he noticed her blushing again. Bet or no bet, it mattered not. The importance of showing her how he felt was at the forefront of his mind.

  “Shall we take some fresh air?” he managed to choke out as he led her in the direction of the balcony. She flashed him a knowing smile and nodded her head.

  “I believe this is my dance, Lady Cordelia.” A young man interrupted their escape plans with stars in his eyes for the lady. Ambrose knew it would cause more whispering if he didn’t allow the man to dance with her. He stepped aside and nodded, then whispered in Cordelia’s ear for her to join him on the balcony as soon as the dance was finished.

  Ambrose made his way to Anthony. The last thing he desired was to watch Cordelia dance in another man’s arms. He winced from the pain of the image, then located Anthony and Wilde and joined them.

  “Is it true then?” A man in the group asked.

  “What am I missing?” Ambrose asked, looking at his twin brother. Something had transpired. He wasn’t sure what it was, but a sickening feeling told him it had to be something important, for the look on Wilde’s face was absolute horror.

  “Are you her protector then?” the man continued.

  “Who are you?” by the tone of his voice, Ambrose made it clear that he didn’t care to even know the individual.

  “You didn’t answer my question. You see, I’m looking for a new mistress, and I was wondering if you planned on keeping yours.” His smug grin made Ambrose want to stab him where he stood.

  “Mine? Obtuse idiot, I don’t have a mistress!”

  Anthony choked. Wilde appeared ready to lose his dinner, and the rest of the men looked curious.

  “Of course you do. Weren’t you just dancing with her?”

  Ambrose looked to Anthony for help, but his twin brother was now staring at the ceiling as if a silly painting were on display.

  “You are mistaken, sir.” Ambrose kept his voice curt, his answer polite, though he wanted nothing more than to pummel the man with his bare fists.

  “I heard it from a reliable source, Hawthorne. It’s common knowledge. Lady Cordelia appears to be your mistress. It makes perfect sense. I mean no ill will towards the chit, but her reputation isn’t quite shining. I can imagine at least a hundred young women who would be a better fit for a titled lord. As an indentured servant, you can be sure she was no stranger to a man’s attention. So, I ask again. Is she under your protection, or is she in need of a protector?”

  His pulse thudded against his ears as Ambrose grew dizzy with rage. He drew a slow, steady breath and blew it through pursed lips, forcing his balled fists to remain at his sides. Mustering all the self-control he possessed, he muttered, “You are mistaken. Lady Cordelia is in no need of a protector. Not now, not ever. Assume what you must, but stay away from the lady.”

  Cursing, Ambrose spun on his heel and left the group of idiots in his wake, making his way to the balcony, ignoring the whispers of those around him. It seemed his good intentions turned out to be nothing more than one more thing for the ton to trod on. Well, it would end here and now. Not good enough? She was already more than all of the women in his acquaintance put together!

  Irritated, he made his way to the balcony and noticed Cordelia already waiting for him. He released the breath he had been holding and reached out to touch her arm.

  She whipped around so quickly he stumbled backwards.

  “Is it true?” she asked, tears streaming down her soft face.

  “Pardon?” It was truly a night from Hell.

  She hiccupped and wiped a tear from her eye. “Is it true? Are you only paying me attention for your own personal gain?”

  “Of course not!” Feeling fierce and out of control he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her body into his. “You know me better than to be that type of man. I care for you deeply. I would never harm you in that way, Cordelia,” he added. She lifted her face to his, and he forgot the eloquent speech he was about to make on her behalf.

  “Cordelia, I—” He reached for her, wiping more stray tears from her cheeks, and then his lips followed. Her cheeks tasted of salt and rosewater. Losing his already unstable control, he drank her in—all of her.

  She stopped the kiss, gently pushing against his chest. “So none of it is true then?”

  “Cordelia, I think you would know if you were my mistress. In fact, I guarantee you would know, and you wouldn’t be as scandalized as you look right now. Though perhaps a bit more satisfied.”

  She blushed and pushed at him. “I’ve been the object of many conversations tonight, but being your mistress was one piece of gossip I wasn’t made privy to. Though I am relieved to know you don’t wish to proposition me. That wasn’t what I was referring to.”

  Ambrose pulled her into his arms again and kissed her, murmuring against her lips, “Then what has you so put out? For I won’t have you crying in my arms unless it’s from joy, my dear.”

  She sighed, nestled against his chest. “The bet. I was told you made a bet and that if I became the toast of the ton you would win.”

  He froze, unable to speak, move, or do anything except continue to hold her and try to think of a way he could either lie or distract her from the truth.

  “Let’s not talk about gossip,” he finally said as he lifted her chin to kiss her again.

  This time she pulled back, pain glistening in her eyes. “Tell me it’s not true, Ambrose.”

  He cursed, and looked away. “Cordelia, it isn’t important anymore. I care for you—you must see that!”

  “You care for me?” she echoed in a tiny voice.

  “Of course I do; you know I do.”

  “Then tell me the truth.”

  She had him there. “I was a fool! I wanted to help you, to pull you away from the wall. Anthony and I—”

  “Anthony was in on it too?”

  “Don’t forget Wilde as well, brother,” Anthony said as he joined them on the terrace.

  “Helpful,” Ambrose muttered under his breath. “Cordelia, as I said, what’s done is done, but it is of no importance anymore.”

  “Oh?” She lifted an angry brow. “Pray tell me why it isn’t important that you’ve lied to me for over three weeks. I’m in such suspense!”

  “It’s difficult when you look so angry! Nothing else matters now. As I said before, I care for you! I, I….” Why couldn’t he say love?

  “You what, Ambrose?” Her eyes looked hopeful.

  “I… It wasn’t just a bet. It isn’t just a bet anymore. This is about us, can’t you see? It’s more than a silly bet.”

  “A silly bet? Can I assume you’re labeling me as the silly part of this bet? Silly that I would be such an easy target? Naïve because of my family? Or just plain stupid because I fell for it so readily? For what other reason would a titled lord pay any mind to me? Or bother to kiss me senseless?” Tear sprang into her eyes. “You say you care for me—you really were going to ask me to be your mistress!”

  It had crossed his mind, but this was not the time to say it out loud. Furthermore, as soon as the idea had cropped up, he pushed it immediately out of his mind and realized she deserved more than that. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Don’t, Ambrose, just… leave.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Fine, I’ll leave. Good evening to you both.”

  She pushed past Ambrose and Anthony.

  When Ambrose looked up, it was just in time to greet his brother�
��s fist. Expletives flew out of his mouth as he sailed to the hard ground. “What was that for?”

  “You idiot. You fool!” Anthony yelled. “Could you have handled that any worse?”

  “Could you have helped me handle that?” Ambrose shot back.

  “I cannot believe you! You kiss her senseless, dance every waltz with her. Half the ton thinks you’re to be engaged, and the other half thinks she’s already your fiancée and here you are on the ground because you can’t very well defend her honor and pride? Is I love you really too difficult coming from your mouth?”

  Ambrose scowled. “In my defense—”

  “You have no defense! You’re a coward! The girl is going to be ruined; I hope you realize that! You’d be an idiot not to know that the sudden drop in attention from you will destroy anything she’s accomplished.”

  “None of this is my fault!” Ambrose defended.

  “Not your fault? Not your fault?” Anthony cursed. “She loves you! You love her! When such things happen, you apologize and propose!”

  Ambrose didn’t have an answer to that. Instead, he held out his hand for his brother to help him up. But his twin made no move to take it. Instead he offered an icy glare.

  “Name your seconds,” Anthony muttered.

  Ambrose froze. “You can’t be serious. Are you challenging me to a duel?”

  “I am.”

  “Over a bet?”

  Anthony ran his fingers through his hair. “If you think this is over an asinine bet, then you are beyond help, and I hope the bullet gives you a quick death, brother.”

  “Where are you going?” Ambrose struggled to his feet.

  His brother paused in the doorway. “If you aren’t man enough to fix this, then I shall do it. I will clean up your mess and propose to Cordelia myself. I won’t have her ruined because of your failures. Name your seconds, Ambrose.” Anthony stormed from the balcony, leaving Ambrose alone to nurse his bloody lip and wonder what the devil had just happened.

  Chapter Eight