Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

  Clare contemplated the vicious throbbing of her foot. The wallflower line was the furthest thing from a refuge, but it was also becoming increasingly obvious her ankle would be unlikely to tolerate more than a turn or two around the dance floor. “I think I should be recovered by the first waltz of the evening,” she replied, eyeing an empty chair as if it might have teeth. “If you speak with Mr. Alban, you might offer him such a hint.”

  Sophie’s smile deepened as her own partner arrived to collect her for the first dance. “Of course,” she tossed over one shoulder, already gliding toward the dance floor. “You know I would do anything for a friend.”

  DEATH WAS RARELY—IF ever—a laughing matter.

  Pity, that.

  Daniel supposed it took a man with a sense of humor to prefer to stay with a decomposing corpse and a room full of eager young medical students rather than attend a ball. Still, he had promised Lady Austerley he would come tonight, and a promise made to a lonely, ailing countess was one you oughtn’t break, unless the death you contemplated was your own.

  Newly scrubbed and dressed in his best jacket, he greeted the dowager countess with a clinical eye, noting the pale fragility of her skin and the way her hands shook slightly through her gloves. Though the overhead chandeliers blazed with light, her pupils were dilated, providing some reassuring evidence the atropine he had given her earlier was still working.

  “You look well tonight,” Daniel lied, lifting her hand to his lips. “I see you have chosen to partially heed my advice and greet your guests while seated. Still, I would be negligent in my duties if I did not advise you that lying down would be the preferred course of action.”

  Lady Austerley’s lips twitched. “If I were forty years younger I would blush to hear such a thing from a handsome gentleman, Dr. Merial.” She squeezed his hand. “Now. You may have come out of medical necessity, but I very much hope you will enjoy yourself this evening, because I have no intention of embarrassing myself with anything so gauche as a fainting spell. Perhaps you would do me the honor of a dance later?”

  Daniel smiled down at the older woman. “Of course,” he agreed, though they both knew the countess would not be dancing tonight, and probably never again.

  As he moved on, searching for a space along the wall that would permit him a good view of his patient, he recognized a peer he had recently treated, a man whose various health woes he could catalog down to a resting heart rate. “Good evening, Lord Hastings,” Daniel nodded.

  The gentleman stiffened and turned away. For a moment Daniel was perplexed. Had he been incorrect in his address? Somehow rude in his delivery? But then he overheard another person greet the man, and he knew he’d had the right of it.

  Ah, so that’s how it was going to be.

  When he was summoned to their homes to deal with a medical complaint, he was greeted with the sort of desperation reserved of a savior. But let him step among their ranks with an invitation in his pocket, and such niceties were lost.

  The ladies in attendance, however, were a decidedly different story. Several among the painted and perfumed crowd ducked their heads behind their fans, then came back for a second, surreptitious look. Daniel had been in London only six months now, but already he understood why these women—women who had husbands and wealth and boredom to burn—looked at him with hooded eyes, fluttering fans, and undisguised interest. It was not comfort they were seeking.

  He was young. He was handsome. He was here.

  And those were apparently the only criteria to be considered.

  He’d sidestepped their bold offers until now, but perhaps he’d been going about this all wrong, courting the male heads of these households in his bid to win more clients. He didn’t doubt he could leave tonight with several new female patrons, if he applied a modicum of charm.

  Or—given the way several smiled invitingly—an eager new bed partner or two.

  Though he was tempted to test this theory by smiling back at them, Daniel aimed for the east side of the ballroom instead, where the crowd opened up and a row of chairs lined the wall. As he threaded his way there, he realized that Lady Austerley had been right to be concerned she might suffer one of her increasingly frequent dizzy spells tonight. The heat from the overhead chandeliers was stifling, and the mingling scents of beeswax and floral perfume made his own stomach feel off-kilter.

  Worse, however, was the noise. All around him nonsensical conversations swirled like eddies of dust caught in the wind. This blond-haired chit felt another’s gown was a simply awful shade of puce. That one shuddered to hear such a third-rate cellist sawing on the strings. One graying matron loudly bemoaned the fact the heads had been left on the prawns, no doubt to mock those guests possessed of more delicate sensibilities.

  Though on the surface everyone was smiling, the undercurrent of female malcontent caught him by surprise. He could not help but feel there was something unhealthy about smiling to one’s hostess in one moment and disparaging her in the next. Hadn’t they come here tonight to honor the dowager countess, who, in her day, had been a widely admired figure? Though he knew she preferred to keep the details of her diagnosis private, anyone with a pair of functioning eyes could see the signs of the countess’s declining health and realize this was Lady Austerley’s last annual ball.

  He wedged himself against a wall and scowled out at the crowd. Though it was difficult to credit the emotion, given that he was at a bloody ball, boredom began to creep in. Lady Austerley, bless her bones, was holding her own from her chair near the entrance to the ballroom, and looked to require no immediate assistance. He had no desire to dance, and refused to consider the horrors of puce or prawns, one way or the other.

  Indeed, he had no desire to sample any of the diversions on offer here tonight.

  Step, thump. Step, thump.

  A sound cut through the drivel of small talk, and Daniel turned his head to search for its source. In the midst of such glitter and polish, that incongruous sound seemed his greatest hope to encounter something more thought-provoking tonight than third-rate cellists. He suffered an almost irrational disappointment to see nothing more interesting than a young lady approaching. A brunette, slim, and exceptionally attractive young lady, to be sure, but really no different than any of the other tittering flora and fauna on display tonight.

  Step, thump. Step, thump.

  Well, except for that.

  His clinical skills flared to life. A few inches over five feet, but probably less than seven stone. She was within a year or two of twenty, though on which side she fell was little more than an educated guess. He had always been an ardent student of the human form, favoring symmetry over chaos, and his eye was drawn as much to the finely wrought curve of this girl’s bones as the rich brown hair piled on top of her head. Her neck alone was an anatomist’s dream, long and elegant, drawing the eye to the prominent line of her shoulders.

  She flashed a half smile at someone who passed and he caught a glimpse of not-quite-perfect teeth, though the minor misalignment of her left cuspid did little to lessen the impression of general loveliness. If anything, it heightened his sense that she was real, rather than a porcelain doll waiting to be broken.

  His eyes lingered a moment on the stark prominence of her clavicles, there above her neckline. She could stand to gain a few pounds, he supposed.

  Then again, couldn’t they all?

  Step, thump. Step, thump.

  That part was deucedly odd. She didn’t appear outwardly lame, though her shuffling gait lacked the smooth refinement he expected in young ladies of the fashionable set. She settled herself into an empty seat along the wall and carefully arranged her skirts, but not before he caught the edge of one hideously ugly shoe, peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown.

  Now that she was sitting still, her symptoms told him a far different story than the one delivered by her fixed half smile. Her gloved hands sat on her lap, the picture of feminine innocence, but as he watched, they knotted and unknotted in t
he shimmering green of her skirts, seeking traction against some unseen force. Her forehead was creased in concentration, and beads of perspiration had formed above her upper lip.

  He well knew the signs. Either the chit was constipated or in severe pain.

  He was betting on the latter.

  And just like that the evening’s entertainment shifted toward something far more promising than Lady Austerley’s staunch refusal to faint.

  Or even, God help him, the corpse.

  Chapter 4

  What was taking Alban so long?

  Clare could see that he’d moved on from his earlier conversation. Now he was picking his way around the periphery of the ballroom, stopping here, smiling there.

  He shimmered like a wish, but he was a wish that would not be realized, however much she willed him to glance in her direction. As the orchestra embarked on the third song of the evening, she knew a moment’s panic. If her future duke was going to claim the first waltz, shouldn’t he have already placed his name on her dance card?

  She leaned back against her seat in frustration. Someone really ought to say something to Lady Austerley about this chair. Oh, there was nothing objectionable about the embroidered cushion or the gently curving back, but the view it offered of the dance floor was a matter of acute discomfort. She could see Sophie and Rose laughing in their partners’ arms, spinning and shining like the view at the end of a kaleidoscope toy.

  Envy burned a hot trail down the back of Clare’s throat. No one was approaching her to ask for a space on her dance card. Not even poor Mr. Meeks was offering her a second glance, choosing instead to dance with a horse-faced heiress from Lincolnshire.

  By the opening strains of the fourth song, Clare’s palms had started to sweat beneath her gloves. It seemed her position along the wall screamed out her unavailability to the crowd.

  Either that, or her undesirability.

  Good heavens, she hoped it wasn’t permanent.

  Why was she even here? No matter her friends’ encouragement to sit and rest, there’d been mischief in Sophie’s smile, and perhaps a bit of malice. She eyed the girls sitting on either side of her, a veritable herd of young ladies with unfortunate chins and thick waists. She ought to move. Leave the wallflowers to their misery and lurch back into the fray. But even as she contemplated it, her ankle throbbed a violent protest. If she couldn’t even think about standing without cringing, how on earth was she going to dance?

  Clare fingered one diamond ear bob, even as she scanned the crowd for her mother. Surely going home and being put to bed with a hot brick and a tisane would be better than abject humiliation, which was the only thing looming on her present horizon.

  “Might I be of some assistance?”

  Clare jumped. The motion made her injured ankle knock against the leg of her chair, and she gasped out loud from the shock of pain.

  “Steady on,” the masculine voice said next. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Didn’t you?” She glared up at the commenter. He was startlingly attractive—enough so that her limbs wanted to soften, for no reason other than feminine instinct. Refusing to give in to the impulse, she forced her gaze downward from his dark hair and eyes, only to realize the rest of him was every bit as befuddling as his face. Trim waist, well-proportioned limbs, and none of the softness inherent to most gentlemen of the ton.

  The man’s clothing, at least, provided an easier landing spot for her disdain. He was wearing a necktie far more appropriate for an office than a ballroom, suggesting he spent his days bent over books or ledgers. Clare narrowly suppressed a shudder as she cataloged the coarseness of his cheap wool jacket.

  “I do not know you, sir. It is improper for you to speak to me.” She fixed her gaze straight ahead again.

  The stranger stepped closer—too close, really, for someone who had not been properly introduced. No matter his pleasing features, he was what Sophie and Rose laughingly called a “lurker.” And according to Sophie, one did not encourage a lurker’s interest, not if you wished to retain the title of “incomparable.” She cut another glance in his direction. She was caught in this chair like an insect in amber, and he appeared to know it by the way his gaze still scraped across her skin. “You are staring, sir.”

  “That is because you ought to be home resting your turned ankle, rather than contemplating your next dance.”

  Clare peered up at her tormentor in horrified surprise. How had he known? Not even Sophie had guessed the reason for her discomfort this evening, and Sophie saw everything. The night’s success with Mr. Alban depended on her to be sound—or, at the very least, to appear so for the length of a waltz. “There is nothing wrong with my ankle,” she lied.

  “I would wager a month’s income to the contrary.”

  Clare’s mouth rounded in indignation. “And that would be the shocking sum of three, perhaps four pounds?” she said tartly.

  The man’s lips twitched upward, making him appear even more attractive, if such a thing were even possible. He crossed his arms. “You are wearing mismatched shoes, and your breathing is labored, though you have been sitting quite still for some ten minutes. The cumulative evidence suggests otherwise, Miss . . . ?”

  “Westmore,” she snapped. Her vision wobbled, even as she tucked her traitorous shoes farther beneath her skirts. “My father is Viscount Cardwell,” she added, “so I am sure you can agree that it most improper for me to be speaking with you.” She pulled her shoulders back to a position which ought to have screamed “untouchable,” but the motion had the misfortune of pressing her breasts against her corset and stifling her ability to draw a full breath.

  Worse, it made his gaze drop alarmingly to her neckline.

  Clare imagined she could see an unhealthy speculation grinding to life in his dark eyes—whether due to expanse of flesh visible above her low neckline or the mention of a wealthy, titled father, it was difficult to be sure. “Well, then,” he said easily, “let us find a quieter spot, Miss Westmore. In my experience, most fathers want their daughters well cared for. There could be no impropriety in permitting an examination by a physician.”

  She smothered a snort of disbelief. How dare this stranger speak to her this way?

  For that matter how dare he look at her this way, as if he could peel back her layers and poke about in search of hidden secrets? She generally tried to avoid men who displayed an improper interest in her bosom or her dowry—not that she wouldn’t mercilessly use either attribute to snare the right gentleman. Why, when Alban asked her to dance tonight, she’d willingly tug her bodice an inch lower and do her best to remind him that she was an investment guaranteed a return of five thousand pounds.

  But not for this man. Though she granted the occasional sympathetic dance to the Mr. Meekses of the world, she was not obligated to indulge this type of gentleman, men who talked innocent, dowered young ladies into darkened corners, even as they slouched about in cheap wool jackets.

  “If you wish to impress the less astute young ladies here tonight, and convince one of them to lift their skirts for your so-called examination, I’ve a word of advice,” she said archly. “You might want to pretend a more admirable sort of profession, one that doesn’t involve snatching corpses from their graves and carving people up with knives.”

  Dark brows rose high. “There is a legal trade in bodies now, you know. And I am a physician, not a common surgeon.”

  But Clare was committed to her path now. “Barrister should do, given your stated interest in weighing the evidence put before you. Clergyman, in a pinch, though I suspect it may not get you as far as you wish, given the limits it might place on your persuasive techniques.” She canted her head. “Truly, claiming to be a fishmonger might be your best bet, given your careless attire. Most clergyman can afford a decent tailor.”

  He blinked. “You believe I am lying because of how I am dressed?”

  She smiled wickedly, unable to help herself. “Evidence, and all.”

  Une
xpectedly, he laughed, and Clare found herself unable to look away from the resulting flash of white teeth. Surely the man had some physical flaw? But no, there was not a scar to be seen on that smoothly shaven cheek, nor a single misaligned tooth to fix the eye and ease the mind. She was struck by the disloyal notion that, lurker or no, the man was objectively as handsome as her future duke.

  Possibly even more so.

  He uncrossed his arms, though his smile lingered. “I have failed to properly introduce myself, I see. Perhaps we should start again.”

  “I believe you already have my name,” she replied coolly, though his continued smile kept her traitorous heart thumping away in her chest. Almost as if it were enjoying this scandalous exchange and was urging her on to greater folly.

  “Dr. Daniel Merial. Fellow of the Royal Medical and Chirurgical Society, and lecturer of forensic medicine at St. Bartholomew’s teaching hospital.” He bowed from the waist. “As well as serving, on occasion, as Lady Austerley’s personal physician.”

  She scoffed, though the first strains of unease began to scratch at her conscience. “You expect me to believe the dowager countess would invite her physician to her own ball?”

  “I was not invited as a guest.”

  Clare licked lips gone suddenly dry. “What ails the countess, that she would have need of her physician tonight?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot divulge matters of such a personal nature. A physician is sworn to keep his patients’ secrets in strictest confidence. But rest assured, you have sorely misinterpreted my interest, Miss Westmore. I am suggesting a medical evaluation for your obviously injured ankle, not a sordid tryst in the library. I presume you have a chaperone here tonight who could ensure nothing untoward happens?”

  Clare flushed, as unmoored by his smooth speech as the reminder of her own ill manners. “My mother is here,” she admitted. She scanned the crowd again, seeking her mother’s feathered headdress. When a sighting remained elusive, her gaze fell instead on their hostess, who was seated in a chair near the entrance to the ballroom.