The Earl's Defiant Wallflower

by Erica Ridley

  Faithfully yours,

  Oliver

  Grace closed the letter with shaking fingers. Her eyes stung. That beautiful, selfless, idiotic man. Giving her the freedom to walk away and leave him! Of course she would not spend the entirety at once while he toiled to save the earldom from ruin. She would withdraw just enough money to reach Pennsylvania and provide for her mother. The rest was his. He was the one who deserved it.

  “I must respond at once. Can you please see that Lord Carlisle receives—”

  “No.” Her grandmother’s cold voice was flat with finality. “You will see him at the church, and that is soon enough.”

  “But he—”

  “I read it. He is a perfect fool, but that is his decision. He can do with the money—and with you—as he wishes. But not before the wedding. There will be no more letters between now and then. No contact of any kind. I will not have another scandal under my roof.”

  “How is a letter possibly scandalous? You can even read it before you post it. I swear there won’t be—”

  “Not until the wedding.”

  Grace’s fingers curled. They were so awful, so unfair. Because their daughter had defied them twenty-two years earlier, Grace could not be trusted with parchment and ink?

  Heart thudding dangerously, she turned from her grandparents and stalked out of the parlor.

  “Where are you going?” her grandmother’s imperious voice demanded from within the sitting room. “I’ll lock you in your chamber if you force me to, young lady. I won’t have scandal brought upon this house again.”

  Grace didn’t answer. She couldn’t, not without screaming. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She needed fresh air. She needed to escape. Hands shaking, she fled through her gilded prison and out the front door, anger inuring her to the sharp bite of the winter wind. She had to speak to Carlisle. To explain—

  The carriage! It was at the ready, waiting to take her grandparents to call upon their neighbors.

  She raced across the frozen lawn and up into the coach’s black interior before the tiger could leap down and help her in, before good sense could change her mind.

  “Carlisle Manor,” she ordered the driver. “Hurry!”

  The horses were immediately in motion, their hooves crunching the grass and then racing across the gravel stones to the gray dirt road.

  Grace blinked in surprise. She twisted against the squab to peer through the window, her heart beating faster than ever. There was only the briefest glimpse of the manor entrance before the red brick wall lining the property blocked it from view. Already they were on the main road, out of earshot and out of sight.

  She turned back to the front of the carriage. Why on earth had the coachman obeyed her? He’d been awaiting her grandparents, not some half-wild chit without even enough sense to don a pelisse and some sensible shoes. Except… he couldn’t question her, she realized with sudden clarity. Not when he was a servant and she was not.

  If he’d been previously instructed not to heed her commands, that would’ve been one thing. But of course her grandmother had never supposed Grace would ever be in a position where she might give commands. She hoped the old bat wouldn’t take it out on the poor coachman. Mentally, Grace deducted a little more from her dowry in the coachman’s name, just in case.

  Shivering, she bent to pick up the woolen blankets lying folded on the carriage floor and discovered red-hot warming bricks beneath. She shook her head. Of course her grandparents would have every convenience at their disposal, even for a jaunt to a neighboring property.

  Steam filled the carriage as she pulled off her snow-dusted slippers and placed them atop one of the bricks. The other brick she kept between her feet. She draped one of the blankets over her shoulders, but after a few minutes let it drop. Between the hot bricks and her layers and long sleeves, the carriage was almost too warm. The image of her grandfather wearing his coat as he sat before the fire popped into her mind and she smiled despite herself. The bricks were likely his idea. She would thank him for it later.

  Right before they manacled her to the attic wall.

  She had no illusions about the remaining days before the wedding. Once she returned to her grandparents’ home, they would never let her leave the house again. This was her one chance to speak to Carlisle before the deed was done. She had to make it count.

  When the coachman pulled up at Carlisle Manor, she all but flew out of the carriage and to the front door. The butler opened the door almost as quickly as she released the knocker.

  “Miss Halton!” Surprise colored his face, but he immediately motioned her in. “I’m afraid you’ve just missed Lord Carlisle. If you’re willing to wait perhaps an hour or two, he’s sure to be back quickly.”

  She rubbed her temples. An hour was much too long. By now, her grandparents had one of their many other coaches readied and stocked with warming bricks, and were on their way here. After all, where else was she likely to go?

  “Do you…Can you tell me where he went? If it’s not breaking a confidence?”

  “Of course.” The butler seemed more surprised by this question than the fact of her unexpected presence on the doorstep in the first place. “You are our mistress now. Lord Carlisle already informed us that your word is to carry the same weight as his. I have no doubt he would wish for you to find him, if that is your desire.”

  “It is my deepest desire,” she said fervently and motioned to her coachman to join them, so that he might overhear any pertinent directions. “Where is he?”

  “At the pawnbroker on Fleet Street, near the Old Bailey.” The butler turned to her driver. “Do you know the place?”

  The coachman nodded. “Of course.”

  The man was far too well trained to give any hint of the astonishment he must certainly feel at the progressively stranger turns of events. He simply helped Grace back into the carriage and set off for downtown London.

  The bricks had lost their warmth by the time the carriage clopped past St. Paul’s churchyard and came to rest before an unassuming facade. This time, she allowed the tiger to hand her down with considerably more decorum than she’d shown at Carlisle Manor.

  Tiny bells tinkled overhead as she pushed open the door to the pawnbroker’s shop and stepped inside. To her surprise, the coachman leapt from the carriage to join her.

  When she glanced at him, he murmured, “A lady does not visit a pawnbroker, miss, and certainly not by herself.”

  She nodded, reminded once again of all she didn’t know about England. There were rules back home, of course, about what a lady did and didn’t do. But Grace had never been a lady, and her small farming town was the sort of place where anyone could and did go everywhere, without fear of bodily harm or damage to one’s reputation. She had so much to learn before she could become a wife Carlisle wouldn’t be ashamed of, much less a countess to be proud of.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Grace whirled to face the pawnbroker. “I hope so. That is, I’m looking for Lord Carlisle. I was told he might be here?”

  “Your information is accurate, but your timing, I’m afraid, is just a few moments off. He left not ten minutes ago.”

  She had missed him. Her shoulders slumped. Now what? She couldn’t go back to Carlisle Manor. By now her grandparents had stationed armed guards there, primed to abduct her upon sight. She could write a letter, at least, and have the pawnbroker post it…

  Impossible. She covered her face with her hands at the irony. Without her dowry, she hadn’t tuppence to her name, much less enough coin to purchase writing implements on top of it. She certainly hadn’t thought to bring paper and an inkpot with her, and a pawnbroker was the last sort of person who would offer his own for free.

  She wondered what Oliver might have brought here and then flinched to realize the answer was probably: everything. The shop was stuffed floor to ceiling with crates and boxes and locked shelves brimming with every sort of object. Every pawnbroker in the city likely contained a good pe
rcentage of Carlisle Manor’s treasures.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed warmth back into her upper arms. Half-witted to be out in this cold without a pelisse. At least her day dresses were warmer than her eveningwear. Those were light and flimsy to combat the heat of so many people and so much dancing, but were likely the least sensible thing to wear outside of a ballroom. Expensive silks were hardly proper defense against the bitter London chill, or the—

  Expensive silks. Oh, if only she were wearing any one of her ridiculous evening gowns! Her shoulders caved. It wouldn’t matter. There were no dresses displayed upon the walls. This was the sort of place one sold antiquities and jewels, not silk-and-lace trousseaus.

  She cast her gaze about the shop in despair. Useless. Worse than useless. She couldn’t even buy Oliver a wedding present. The man deserved something. After all, she was leaving him with nothing. Slightly richer, yes, but without a wife. She couldn’t come back without her mother, and she couldn’t put Mama on one of those horrid boats until her health had returned. She would nurse her back to health, even if it took years.

  And Oliver? A missing wife was worse than a dead one—he wouldn’t even be able to remarry if she didn’t come back. Not for money, and not for love.

  It wasn’t about him forgiving her for abandoning him, she realized dully. If she couldn’t make it back, she might never forgive herself.

  “Is there anything here that catches your eye?” The pawnbroker gestured toward a locked glass case with earbobs and other baubles inside.

  “What happens to these things?” she asked instead. “People give you their treasures and you sell them to others?”

  “Nobody gives me anything. Everyone walks out of my shop with more money in their pockets than when they came in.” The pawnbroker puffed out his chest. “But to answer your question, it depends. Many of my customers avail themselves of my services. I hold a given item for a specified amount of time. If they return my capital and its agreed-upon interest, I return their object and the promissory note.”

  She tapped her chin and nodded.

  “Other customers do not want their objects back. They prefer a small increase in money. In those cases, yes, I am free to resell those items at the time and at the price of my choosing. For example, Monday next I’ve an auction scheduled for a painting that’s recently come in, free of vowels.” He gestured toward a back room and chuckled. “I expect a portrait of the Black Prince to net a princely sum, indeed.”

  Grace’s fingers went cold. He couldn’t have such a painting in his possession. Oliver would never part with the Black Prince. Everyone knew—

  Oh, no. She thought of the note he had written her. He was too proud, too kindhearted to accept the dowry money he needed so badly, and so he had sold the only thing of value he had left. Romantic fool. It was her fault he had given up a family heirloom. He’d never get it back, not if it was meant to be auctioned on Monday because he hadn’t secured a promissory note…

  “May I see it?”

  “Of course.”

  The pawnbroker led her and the coachman to a side room, where a stunning portrait hung four feet tall on the wall. The paint was cracked with age in some places, but larger than life and full of color. Oliver’s brown hair was much darker than the Black Prince’s yellow locks, but his muscular shoulders and regal bearing matched down to the brushstroke.

  Cousins, someone had told her. No one could doubt it. She couldn’t let it be sold to someone else. Not when Oliver thought of the Black Prince as family.

  “How much do you think you will get for it?”

  The pawnbroker leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. “Would you like to put in a bid for it?”

  “I must bid? Are you saying the painting cannot be sold outright?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Why would I sell it outright when I can make far more money at auction?”

  “How much?” she repeated. “What does an old painting go for? Fifty pounds? One hundred?”

  He grinned. “Any old painting, perhaps. But not a portrait of the Black Prince. It’s worth seven or eight hundred pounds on its own merit, but at auction… The family history alone will fetch a few hundred more.”

  Over a thousand pounds. She slumped into the coachman. Even if she handed over every penny of her dowry, it still wouldn’t be enough.

  “Do you take evening gowns?”

  The pawnbroker’s head jerked up, startled. “What?”

  “Dresses made of the finest fabrics, by the most famous of the London modistes.”

  “No. I don’t think anyone—”

  “They’re dreadfully expensive,” she insisted. “I even have some new ones that have never been worn. They can be let out, tucked in… Any lady would snap up the opportunity to have even one of these at a fraction of the original cost.”

  His lips hinted at a smile. “How many of these dreadfully expensive gowns do you have?”

  “Dozens. I’ll sell you all of them in exchange for the Black Prince.”

  He laughed. “I doubt their value will even come close. Feel free to bring them by, however. I never turn down a client without seeing what he has to offer.”

  Grace inclined her head, her palms sweaty. If it still weren’t enough to buy back the Black Prince, perhaps her dresses would at least finance a return voyage to America to care for her mother. Then she could return her dowry money to Oliver. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she would not be leaving him with less than what he’d started with. If what he preferred was his wife…Well.

  She couldn’t have all her wishes granted either.

  Chapter 16

  The next Sunday, Oliver stood at the altar awaiting his bride and valiantly tried not to fidget. He’d never been so nervous in his life. Every part of him was on edge, every nerve twitching with anticipation. It was as if he’d stepped onto a battlefield, not into a church.

  His body thrummed with energy. With the wrenching desire to make this day perfect, and the bitter knowledge that he could not. His bride deserved so much. Yet this was all he had.

  Weddings were typically small affairs with family and a few close friends. In this instance, the ceremony was considerably smaller.

  The very presence of his four best friends showed how deeply they cared for him. Xavier, still withdrawn, but moving of his own accord. Bart, out in public for the first time since he’d been fitted with the false leg. Sarah Fairfax, huge belly and all. Even Ravenwood was there, a sappy grin overtaking his arrogant countenance. For a sobersides, the man loved weddings.

  Oliver was happy to oblige. He just wished he could give Grace more than this.

  Four people. Total.

  No family present for the bride or the groom.

  In Oliver’s case, he had no family. In Grace’s case… Well, he’d tried. Harder than he’d believed humanly possible. Yet even her grandparents hadn’t bothered to make an appearance at the church they’d reserved.

  He’d signed the contract. He supposed that truly was all they cared about. In which case—good riddance to bad relatives. Grace might’ve agreed to be his bride only because circumstances had forced her, but Oliver had not. He fully intended to prove that his love for her was the one and only reason he was standing at the altar.

  Just as soon as she arrived. He slipped the fob from his pocket to check his watch. Well after nine. He lifted his fingers to his neck to adjust his cravat then immediately forced his hands down at his sides. If he touched his cravat one more time it would hang from his throat like a limp white nappy. But why hadn’t they started? Where the devil was his bride? And the vicar? His cravat was much too tight. He was suffocating from all this linen. From this cavernous, empty cathedral.

  He rolled back his shoulders and tried to laugh it off. Ha, ha, ha. He’d been standing there for half an hour or more. Grace would never jilt him at the altar…Would she? He glanced at his friends but couldn’t hold their gazes for long. Not when Grace still wasn’t here. It would be
a right popper of a jilting if she’d had the foresight to cancel the vicar but failed to inform the groom.

  Just when he was checking the hour for the twentieth time in as many seconds, the door swung open and Grace entered the church. Oliver’s heart stopped at the sight of her, then sped twice as fast as before. She was more beautiful than he’d dreamed possible.

  She wore no veil, but Oliver preferred it that way. He didn’t want anything between them, not even a thin piece of semitransparent netting. He loved to gaze upon her, to watch those incredible light green eyes twinkle. He hoped they’d twinkle, at least. Whenever they did, the rest of the world disappeared. She wasn’t smiling, but then he wasn’t smiling either, was he, with his stomach all tied up in knots like this. Except yes, yes he was smiling, he was giddy beyond all measure to see her (finally) here, walking toward him.

  The gown she was wearing was a soft, shimmering lavender. Utterly perfect, really. He nodded at Miss Fairfax, who recognized her cue and lumbered to her feet at once. Bless Sarah, with her big belly and bigger heart. She’d wanted to do something special for Grace, make her some sort of crown of flowers like she’d seen in fashion plates, and Oliver had shocked her speechless by having an opinion on which flowers to use.

  Miss Fairfax arranged the halo of jasmine atop his bride’s head.

  With the delicate flowers encircling her long black hair, Grace looked more like a fairy princess than a countess. He wished he could say she also looked radiant, but the truth was his bride was a touch gray.

  Then the vicar came bustling in, somehow managing both to hurry and to seem stately, in that commanding way that vicars often have. He took Grace’s elbow and led her to the left side of the altar before taking his place just behind.

  Oliver grinned. He couldn’t help himself. She was wearing his flowers and she was close enough to touch. He could practically kiss her from this distance if he wished to. And did he ever wish to. He wouldn’t embarrass her, of course. This was not the moment for kisses.