by Lenora Bell
If only she’d caused a scene. Tripped over her skirts. Stepped on his toes. Done something customarily disastrous.
What followed after the waltz had been a nightmare.
The avaricious gleam in the elderly Duke of Foxford’s eyes when he’d asked her to dance had made Thea’s skin prickle with foreboding.
Being a failure had its rewards, one of those being that men never looked at you like that. As if you were displayed in a shop window and they were contemplating making a purchase.
The gloves or the girl.
She was not for sale.
The aged peer hadn’t given her a chance to demur, pulling her into line so fast she’d had to trot to keep pace. The relentless tide of twenty years of good breeding had been the only thing that swept her with him.
“Where shall I put these, my lady?”
There must be a footman somewhere in the hall. Thea could hear him, but she couldn’t see him because of all the dratted flowers.
A lady never swears. Never. Not even blast. Or drat. And certainly not bugger. Or blast.
Blast it all! She didn’t want to be a lady anymore. And she didn’t want all these tokens of intent to purchase. “Don’t put them anywhere, John,” she called. “I won’t accept them.”
A startled, youthful face with raised dark eyebrows appeared from behind an enormous bouquet of yellow roses. “Beg pardon, my lady?”
Thea swiped a hand through the air. “Take them all away.” She didn’t want the roses and she didn’t want the success. Really, the flowers should have been sent to the duke, not to Thea, since her sudden popularity was entirely due to him.
Now there was an idea.
“John, I want you to have every single one of these flower arrangements delivered to the Duke of Osborne’s residence. I believe he still lives in his bachelor apartments, and not at Osborne Court.”
Ha! That would teach him to make her popular. See how he liked his home transformed into a flower market.
“Excuse me, my lady, but did you say the Duke of Osborne?” John’s voice held the awe all young men reserved for their masculine heroes.
“That’s right. These roses were meant for him, not for me.”
“Are you quite sure, my lady?”
“Quite. Now I don’t want to see a single petal left behind.”
“Very good, my lady.” John hoisted the yellow roses.
“Wait,” Thea cried. “Wait a moment. I’ll be right back with a note.” She snatched a creamy, gilt-edged card from one of the flower arrangements.
As she hurried toward her chambers she was stopped by the sound of an argument emerging from the parlor.
“Foxford!”
“Marwood!”
“I say Foxford. He has three castles.” Thea recognized the far-from-dulcet tones of the dowager countess and her heart plummeted into her slippers. That never boded well.
If her grandmother was here the situation was dire indeed. The dowager visited them only in times of great upheaval.
When her elder brother Andrew had nearly gambled away his portion but had been saved from ruination at the last possible moment by a sobering encounter with the mysterious Hellhound character the papers made such a fuss about.
When Thea had thrown away her chance to marry the Duke of Harland by telling him the truth during the wedding ceremony.
Or today.
Because Thea had achieved the unthinkable. She’d finally, finally taken.
And it was her worst nightmare.
She’d counted on being a failure. One more lackluster season, an unobtrusive exit back to Ireland, and then blessed, blissful freedom.
The duke had ruined everything. Perish his seductive smiles.
Thea poked her head into the parlor. Just as she’d thought. It was a war council with the dowager facing off against her daughter-in-law the countess. The names of potential husbands volleyed back and forth between them like canon blasts at Waterloo.
It didn’t bother them a bit that Thea wasn’t there to express her opinion.
It had always been like this with her family and with society. Everyone moving in rehearsed, choreographed precision, delivering their lines to perfection, while Thea stood, watching from behind the curtain, unconsulted, ignored.
The dowager wore fine black merino unrelieved by even a hint of color, her dark hair scraped back from her forehead and covered with a black turban finished off with waving black ostrich plumes.
She was flanked by her daughter, Thea’s spinster aunt Henrietta, or Hen, the earl’s youngest sister.
Thea’s father, the Earl of Desmond, sat in a chair by the window, his upper body completely obscured by the London Times.
“Foxford,” the dowager insisted. “He’s the better catch.”
Thea’s mother shook her head. “He’s nearly seventy. He has less than a dozen teeth to his name.”
“Who needs teeth with three castles?”
Aunt Hen caught sight of Thea in the doorway. “Oh, hello, dear.” She waved and the bow of her white lace cap bobbed against her double chin.
Thea reluctantly entered the room.
“Who would you prefer to marry, my dear?” Aunt Hen’s kindly gray eyes scrunched up as she smiled. “The Duke of Foxford or the Marquess of Marwood?”
“Neither,” Thea replied.
“Desmond,” the dowager countess huffed. “Please impress upon your daughter that she’ll marry whom we choose.”
Silence from behind the newspaper.
“Desmond!”
The paper rustled and lowered a couple of inches. “Er, what was that, Mother?”
“Tell your daughter she’s wrong.”
“Lady Dorothea, your grandmother is always right.” Desmond flipped the paper back open.
And that’s what Thea had always received from her father: casual dismissal.
“Thank you.” The dowager pursed her thin lips. “Now then. Back to the subject at hand.”
“It’s early yet,” Thea said. “Many of the other ladies are still at their country seats. I’m merely the novelty of the moment.” One could always hope.
“Nonsense. You were selected by the Duke of Osborne for the first waltz of the season. You are thoroughly ensconced as a success. Nothing will dethrone you.” The dowager narrowed her eyes. “Do you understand me? Nothing.”
“We must give her some credit,” Lady Desmond said, with uncustomary softness in her voice. “She was the one who secured the dance with the Osborne.”
“One of the only intelligent things she’s ever done,” the dowager sniffed.
“Excuse me,” Thea said. “I’m right here, you know. I can speak for myself.”
“Absolutely not.” Her grandmother frowned disapprovingly. “Speaking for yourself is what caused Harland to run. Or have you forgotten?”
Lady Desmond tensed on the edge of her seat. She didn’t like the Duke of Harland’s name spoken in her presence. She was still deeply wounded by the fact that Thea had been so close, so very close, to marrying a duke and had thrown her chance away.
“Wait just a moment.” Aunt Hen tilted her head. “Are you telling me that our little Thea danced with Osborne? The Osborne? He of the deep blue eyes and delicious cleft chin? He of the thousand broken hearts and impeccably tailored coats?”
And shoulders like a Viking.
And wickedly stroking hands.
“All completely beside the point.” The dowager’s nostrils flared with annoyance. “Osborne is not the opportunity, merely the catalyst. He’s in no hurry to marry; he’s made that abundantly clear. He’s out of Lady Dorothea’s sphere, given her tainted reputation. Who knows why he danced with her, but he did. And we must capitalize upon this opportunity immediately.”
“Such a shame.” Aunt Hen made tsking noises and set her lace bow quivering again. “Handsome dukes are such rare creatures. Rather like silvery snow leopards, one imagines.” She stared out the window dreamily. “Crouching on remote mountaintops, taunti
ng hunters, and then melting into the brush.”
“Stay focused, Henrietta,” the dowager admonished.
“Yes, Mother.” Aunt Hen folded her hands in her lap dutifully, but she gave Thea a small wink of encouragement.
“As I was saying,” the dowager continued, “Osborne is not the opportunity. Foxford, however, would be a splendid match.”
“I know you want me to marry well, Grandmother,” Thea said, striving to keep her voice even and calm. “However, I very much doubt that will ever happen.”
“I mean to personally ensure you make a brilliant match, my girl. And to that end, you’re coming to live with me.”
“Pardon?” Thea and her mother cried in unison.
“Henrietta, the schedule, if you please.”
Aunt Hen startled. “I know it’s here somewhere, Mother. Now where did I put that schedule?” she mused, digging through her reticule. “Ah, here it is!” She held up a wrinkled sheet of foolscap. “Oh dear, it seems to have had a losing encounter with a macaroon.” She stared at her mother guiltily.
“Really, Henrietta,” the dowager huffed.
“Here you are, dear.” Aunt Hen handed the paper to Thea.
“‘Breakfast at half past six,’” Thea read aloud. “‘Deportment from seven to eight. Modiste from—’”
“You’ll see that every second of your day is planned. You’ll have no time for disasters,” the dowager said briskly. “When you lift a spoon, I’ll be there to guide it to your mouth. When you appear in public, I’ll be by your side. And when you receive a proposal from Foxford, which you will, I’ll be there to witness the triumph and ensure the wedding ceremony reaches completion.”
Thea shook her head desperately. “I’m not seventeen anymore, Grandmother. I can manage my own opportunities. And if you’ll give me a chance to speak—”
“My mind’s made up. And as your father has observed so astutely, I’m always right. Pack your things, Lady Dorothea. Leach will collect you at noon tomorrow.”
“I really—”
Raising her voice to stop Thea’s objections, the dowager rose from her seat. “No arguments. It’s all settled.”
Lord Desmond leapt to his feet, finally setting aside his paper. “Leaving so soon, Mother?”
“Humph. And what’s there to stay for? I’ve yet to be served a proper cup of tea in this household.”
Lady Desmond flinched but didn’t say a word; she merely followed her mother-in-law and her husband out of the room with shoulders held as erect as ever.
Aunt Hen turned back before she reached the door. “Oh, I nearly forgot, dearie.” She scooped a parcel from a side table. “I missed your birthday while you were in Ireland. Here you are.”
Thea accepted the gift. “How kind of you,” she said dully, her mind reeling with the sudden turn of events.
She couldn’t go live with her grandmother.
“I hope you like them, dearie. I meant to send them to you in Ireland, for mucking about in all those bogs, but I seem to have forgotten.”
“I’m sure I’ll love whatever it is.”
“Don’t look so crestfallen, my dear. It’s not as bleak as all that.” Aunt Hen chucked her under the chin. “I’m sure Foxford’s not long for this earth.” She leaned closer, her gray eyes twinkling. “We could brew some arsenic tea,” she whispered. “I read about it in a horrid novel. There now, that’s better. I wanted to see that smile before I left.”
“Henrietta,” came a stern call from the front entranceway.
Aunt Hen’s hands fluttered. “I must go. Please don’t be sad, dear. We only want what’s best for you.”
Thea caught her aunt’s hand. “Are you . . . are you lonely? Do you wish you’d married?”
“Why, what a strange question, dear.” Aunt Hen blinked. “I never really think of it. You see I’ve never been a beauty like you.”
Thea clenched her hands into fists. “I won’t marry Foxford. Or Marwood.”
“Henrietta! I’m not waiting a moment longer,” the dowager called loudly, because dowager countesses never shouted.
Aunt Hen planted a kiss in the middle of Thea’s forehead and hastened away.
Thea sank into a chair and unwrapped the parcel.
Ruby-red leather winked at her. She drew out a pair of red half boots that laced up with jaunty black string.
Supple, yet sturdy, the rich red leather glowed in the morning sunlight.
Thea glanced up at the Gainsborough landscape hung on the parlor wall with its enticing, curving pathway that led into a dense, twisted forest.
These were boots for walking. Rambling across fields and through forests.
Not for sitting at home, following the rules and waiting to accept an offer of marriage from a man she loathed.
She would not marry Foxford, or Marwood, or any other pompous windbag who would keep her on a shelf as a mute and decorative ornament.
She was well and truly tired of being a pawn in other peoples’ games.
If a lady could become an overnight success, she could become an overnight failure just as easily.
The Duke of Osborne had inflicted this unwelcome popularity on her—and he was just going to have to remedy the situation.
She hurried upstairs to pen the note for sending with the flowers.
First, her note would arrive.
And Thea would follow.
Pert, pink nipples like little strawberries atop meringue cakes.
Golden curls spread over turquoise velvet.
An oval face with a sharp little chin.
A plump cupid fluttering about overhead waving peacock feathers.
It had been a hard day on Mount Olympus. Dalton had been doing . . . godly stuff. Now he was home, and his Venus was waiting, arms outstretched, smelling of sweet spiced roses.
Smelling very strongly of roses, as a matter of fact.
An odor that was not very dreamlike at all . . .
Dalton’s eyes flew open. “What the devil?”
He sat bolt upright. His bedchamber was covered in roses.
Great big bunches of overblown, too-cheerful roses. He rubbed his eyes. What the bleeding hell was going on here?
Con entered the room carrying yet more roses, whistling a cheerful Irish tune. “Look here. Another bunch. They just keep coming,” he crowed gleefully.
Dalton stared at Con.
His head hurt. That was the brandy.
His jaw hurt. That was the souvenir from Trent.
Damn it, what time was it? He squinted his eyes at the insouciant sunbeam that had snuck uninvited through his curtains. “Why are there flowers filling my chamber?”
“Well now. Need you ask?” Con grinned and deposited his floral burden on the sideboard. “Obviously you’ve an admirer.”
Must have drunk far too much last night because apparently Dalton was still deep in a drunken stupor. This couldn’t really be happening.
Con clutched at his chest, near where his grizzled heart beat. “Finally the day has arrived. The day when that special young lady makes her intentions known.” He sighed. “I’ve been waiting for donkey’s years.”
“Stubble it, Con,” Dalton growled. “I’m not in the mood.”
Of course Con ignored him, as he always did. “Ah, she’s a bold one, your lady suitor. She knows the road to a duke’s heart is paved with a thousand roses.” He plucked a fat yellow bloom and threw it at Dalton.
Dalton caught the rose and attempted to throw it back. “Hellfire,” he cursed through gritted teeth when his throwing shoulder wouldn’t cooperate.
It throbbed like the dickens.
“Just tell me who sent all these,” he growled. “So I can murder them.”
Con plucked a card from the side of a basket. “‘Roses are red. Violets are blue,’” he read. “‘Lady Dorothea’s lips are as red. And her eyes far more blue.’”
Lady Dorothea? He should’ve guessed she had something to do with this. “Give me that.”
Con
handed him the card. “You might want to read the other side.”
On the back of the card, scrawled in a hand he recognized all too well, was written Roses are red. Violets are blue. I don’t wish to be popular. So I’m coming for you.
Dalton groaned.
That didn’t rhyme.
But then nothing about the lady made any kind of sense.
Why was she so outraged?
Dalton dropped the note and jumped out of bed. “The chit should be thanking me.”
Con shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t want to be a success.”
“What lady doesn’t wish for success?” He stalked to the washbasin and splashed water over his face. “She’s addled. Completely unhinged. Beautiful . . . but unhinged.”
“She’d have to be, to send you roses.”
“Very funny.” He twisted his head to examine his jaw in the glass. The jagged cut began under his right ear and ended at his chin.
Pain sliced through his shoulder and knifed toward his head. He tried to move his right shoulder again and groaned aloud.
“The old injury?” Con asked, sobering.
“Must have aggravated it.” Dalton clenched his teeth. “I need another session with Olofsson. She worked wonders last time.”
“I’ll send for her, then.” Con bobbed his scraggly beard at all the roses. “What should I do with this lot?”
“I don’t know. Bathe in them for all I care. I’m off for my weekly visit to Osborne Court.”
“What if the lady herself comes a-knocking?” Con chuckled. “She did say she was coming for you.”
Dalton reached for the brandy bottle.
“If the Devil’s Own Wallflower darkens my doorway, send her straight back to the inferno, where she belongs.”
Chapter 4
“Good afternoon, Mother.” Dalton gave his mother, Abigail, the Dowager Duchess of Osborne, a peck on the cheek and took a seat in her dainty pastel-hued sitting room.
Abigail nodded a greeting, but her pale green eyes didn’t truly see him. She didn’t even notice the jagged, swollen red welt along his jaw, only continued stroking the flank of the fluffy peach-tinged Persian cat she held in her lap.
He’d considered staying home, but he always visited his mother at Osborne Court on Saturday afternoons when he was in town. He knew she relied on his visits to bring her news of society.
