With Captain Le Draco at her side, empowering her, the once momentous feat seemed quite possible.
But first… “Captain Le Draco, I need to retrieve the belongings I left inside the conservatory.”
An increasing number of guests now took advantage of the shade at the rear of the manor. Morgan swept his gaze over them before casually angling his body, creating a buffer between Shona and those on the terrace. “I’ll gather your things after I’ve seen you to the house. We’ll use the kitchen entrance and the stairway there.”
“You know the manor that well?” She sliced him a surprised glance, her pretty eyes wide, the color only slightly lighter than the thick sable lashes framing them.
Did she know her gaze revealed everything she thought? As transparent as water in a glass. That was bloody refreshing.
In answer, he lifted a shoulder. “Allen Wimpleton and I are great friends. I’ve spent a good deal of time here over the years.”
After Mother died, more time than at his own, the next estate over.
Though Wimpleton was in line to inherit a viscountcy, and Morgan’s family had clawed and clambered their way into Society’s lower levels, the two had become fast friends at Eton.
“What did you leave there?”
“A book, my parasol, a bonnet, and my gloves.” Frail color tinted her cheeks.
So adorable how she blushed at the least provocation.
“Lady Addlebertie.” Sheltered beneath her garish parasol, Mrs. Olson stood at the veranda’s edge, wildly fluttering her lacy handkerchief.
Shona stiffened, and clamped her lower lip between her teeth.
Pulling his mouth into a firm line, Morgan speared the termagant a scathing look.
Addlebertie, indeed. Mean-spirited crone. All because Shona refused her son’s mewling attention.
“Ignore her, Shona, and keep moving.” He hadn’t meant to be so forward, but addressing her by her name came so naturally that he’d blundered again. He took her elbow, and hurrying her along, kept one eye trained on the terrace.
Raising her voice to a near indecorous shout, Mrs. Olson waved even more vigorously. “Yooohooo.”
As she’d no doubt intended, numerous guests turned their curious regard toward Morgan and Shona.
Devil fly away with her.
He loathed low-hitting harridans, targeting those they deemed weaker than or inferior to themselves.
“Lady Addle-bertie. Your sister arrived and inquires after you.” A triumphant smile wreathing her face, Mrs. Olson cried in a singsong tone, “Oh, and as you requested, a bath has been drawn for you and Captain Le Draco.”
She made it sound base and dirty. As if something untoward had occurred.
Glancing round to ensure she’d captured her audience’s rapt attention, she asked, “Did you enjoy your, ah … swim together?”
At her foul inference, Shona released a distressed little gasp.
The sound tore at Morgan’s heart.
In that instance, he almost forgot he was a gentleman and told Mrs. Olson precisely where her wayward husband was and whom he was buggering this month.
Instead, Morgan leveled his good eye on her with a glower that had cowed many men.
Shona’s hand tightened on his arm. “Captain?”
He glanced downward, somewhat surprised at the brilliant resolve narrowing her eyes. She’d relaxed her grip on his jacket, and the swell of tantalizing, pale honey-toned breasts peeked at him.
With supreme will, he hauled his focus from the delightful view.
She jutted her adorable, determined chin in the veranda’s direction. “Let’s enter through yonder French window. Shall we?”
Ah, she meant to go on the offense, did she?
Splendid, and sure to be most entertaining. And he’d be right beside her to slay any dragons who dared harass her.
Starting with fire-breathing Mrs. Olson.
“Are you certain?” He knew Mrs. Olson’s type. They fought dirty.
“Oh, I’m certain.” Shona gave a small, creaky laugh and shoved damp curls off her forehead. “At some point, a person has to make a stand, no matter the consequences.”
The slash of her lips and the stubborn set of her shoulders said much. Head high, she glided to the veranda.
The guests, sensing something was about to occur, faced Morgan and Shona as they approached.
Mrs. Olson and a trio of her more vicious cronies, as well as their high-in-the-instep daughters, clustered toward the veranda’s front, their heads as close together as their parasols permitted.
No need to speculate what—who—they nattered about.
As Shona stepped onto the pavers, they lifted their lofty noses and regarded her coolly, all the while studiously avoiding looking in Morgan’s direction.
Cowards.
He arced his mouth into a cynical smile. He ought to be used to it by now.
To Shona’s credit, her expression remained impassive, though her hold on his arm was anything but.
He’d sport crescent marks from her nails, for certain.
Although, unless someone inspected her grip closely, they’d not be able to tell. She’d mastered a blasé countenance well.
Morgan, on the other hand, couldn’t resist driving a barb or two home. “Lady Stratham I do hope your husband is in attendance with you. I’ve yet to meet a more accomplished archer.”
Morgan couldn’t recall if Lord Stratham even delved in archery, but the whole of society knew his wife possessed a voracious appetite for young footmen.
Stable hands. Valets. Drivers.
“And Mrs. Dundercroft?” Morgan grinned when she reluctantly forced herself to meet his gaze, her mouth skewed downward as if she’d eaten a large, wriggling spider. “Did I see in the broad sheets that felicitations are in order? Your son is recently wed, is he not?”
He’d eloped to Gretna Green with an actress of questionable repute last month.
A few amused titters hummed through the crowd.
Not all foe then.
Many of the more considerate guests, after the first few titillating moments, had turned their attentions elsewhere.
Thank God.
Both women’s jaws drooped wide as a pelican’s before they snapped their mouths shut and pinned him with an irate glare.
Shona’s pink lips twitched, but she judiciously brought them under control and boldly met the perusal of each person staring at her.
Some rudely or openly curious. Others compassionate and supportive. And a few, like her tormentors, gloating. She weathered their scrutiny like a champion: countenance regal, gaze inscrutable, the merest sardonic smile bending her mouth.
Something akin to pride welled in Morgan’s chest as an unidentified feeling wriggled behind his ribs.
And then, by God, the nameless sentiment had the cheeky tenacity to take root in his chest before settling in like an uninvited guest intending to stay. Indefinitely.
Bugger and blast!
He couldn’t permit himself to feel anything for Shona.
Nonetheless, he could protect her, champion her this week. Give her confidence in herself so that when a worthy man came along, she’d not feel undeserving or afraid.
Hand still cupping her elbow, he steered her past the neck-craning onlookers. He’d nearly made the first set of French doors when Francine, the eldest, freckle-faced, turnip-shaped Dundercroft sister unfurled her fan, casting her cohorts a smirking smile.
“Lady Atterberry, I can only presume you weren’t aware—being a Scot and all—but ladies don’t swim in lakes. And most especially not attired in walking gowns.”
So, the older harpies had delegated the task of hassling and besmirching Shona to the younger nincompoops. Indeed, rotten fruit didn’t fall far from the tree, but unfortunately, everyone was subjected to the decaying stench when they came near.
Shona blanched then, husbanding strength Morgan couldn’t help but respect, she calmly raked her benign gaze over her tormenter.
Miss Dundercroft’s smile slipped.
“I didn’t go swimming. I stumbled and fell into the lake. I most certainly would’ve drowned had Captain Le Draco not risked his life to rescue me.” She veered a glance, the merest bit accusatory, toward Mrs. Olson. “Unlike others who stood by the whole while as the captain labored to bring us both to shore.”
“I cannot swim,” Mrs. Olson mumbled, suddenly absorbed in her parasol’s unremarkable handle.
Your son can.
“I’ll just bet the captain struggled. Mightily, no doubt.” The younger Dundercroft chit, Miss Lyselle, snickered. She bobbed her head, exchanging a secretive look with her sister.
Where Shona’s figure was deliciously curved, the flesh firm and creamy, the thick-set Dundercrofts’ forms were… Well, weren’t. And they had the ill-fated tendency to become mottled with unflattering reddish blotches whenever they were excited.
Like now.
“Such gaucherie,” Miss Lyselle cooed, batting her stubby lashes. “But to parade about in a wet gown. Surely you realize how scandalous that is?”
No worse than a number of tonnish women who deliberately dampened their gowns, some abstaining from wearing undergarments beneath the sheer fabric.
For instance, as Miss Penelope Rossington, now standing between the Dundercroft disasters, was wont to do.
“And precisely how was Lady Atterberry to avoid doing so when her dry clothing is inside the manor?” Morgan’s question had the younger Dundercroft chit blinking her eyes in confusion.
Aware of the rapt gazes affixed on the exchange, Morgan glanced at Miss Rossington. The petite beauty possessed the morals of a Covent Garden prostitute. Before his accident, she’d offered herself to him more than once. Practically begged him to take her, as he recalled.
Now she could scarcely bear to look at him.
Definitely one of the most superficial, self-serving damsels to wriggle her way into the haut ton’s favor in a goodly while.
The worst hellcat of the group, she sidled forward, and his gut clenched, his blood burning in his veins. Miss Rossington’s penchant for jealousy and cruelty knew no bounds. She’d sink her verbal claws into Shona, leaving deep, bleeding grooves, then laugh at the pain and lasting scars she’d caused.
Yet, Shona needed to face her nemeses. Needed to stand up to these she-devils. For her sake, she must learn to.
He might’ve known her for a very short time, but he possessed an uncanny ability to read people. Beneath her reticent exterior, probably the result of ongoing abuse and bullying, a vivacious spirit simmered.
Why he’d decided he was the person to help her blossom, he couldn’t fathom.
It just felt right.
Miss Rossington spared him the briefest, most cursory of glances, her lips curling slightly as she shuddered when her regard lit upon his ravaged face.
“Come along, Lady Atterberry,” he urged, almost sighing in relief when Lady Wimpleton, accompanied by two attractive women, stepped through the French window onto the flagstones. He’d bet his other eye that one of them was Shona’s sister.
“However do you expect to find yourself a husband when you behave like a hoyden?” Miss Rossington asked, while haughtily taking Shona’s measure. She wrinkled her nub of a nose as if she smelled offal.
Shona barely spared her a glance.
That’s it. Don’t take the bait.
“A dowdy Scottish dumpling. Clumsy too. Falling into the lake. Chuffy thighs and all. What a sight that must’ve been.” Miss Rossington laughed nastily, and a few of the others joined her unkind cackling.
However, several other guests conferred disapproving glances upon her, including Manchester, the formidable Marquis of Sterling, and the two elegant ladies with Lady Wimpleton. Neither of which shied away from Morgan’s face either.
He liked them already.
More so that they looked ready to filet the vermin targeting Shona.
They gracefully wended their way through the crowd, smooth brows furrowed, their focus fixed on her.
“It’s a good thing you’ve plenty of money.” Envy, jeering and shrill, tinged Miss Rossington’s venomous words. “You’ll require an enormous sum to land a husband. Else you’d remain an unmarried tabby.”
“Miss Rossington.” Sterling leveled her a baleful look as he picked a piece of lint from his immaculate, disgustingly expensive, first-stare-of-fashion coat. “Perhaps you ought to consider the dozen or so much more important characteristics which would cause gentlemen to shun a—” he cocked a skeptical brow while raking her from toe to top with a critical eye, “lady.”
Touché, Sterling.
With that barbed comment, just this side of an insult, he sauntered away.
Hands balled, Miss Rossington glared at his retreating figure, the merest hint of longing shadowing her face.
Outwardly composed, Shona sent Sterling’s back a small, grateful smile as she drew to a stop beside Miss Rossington.
Morgan lightly squeezed her trembling arm.
He had no compunction about telling Miss Rossington to go to hell and shag the devil, but he didn’t want to shock or upset Shona.
Even with her damp ringlets tumbling down her back and his too-large coat draped around her shoulders, she possessed a regal presence. A gentle and sweet essence that far surpassed Miss Rossington’s—or any of the other ladies’, truth to tell—superficial splendor.
Shona’s beauty emanated from within, and when combined with her comely face and perfect form, she was an absolute incomparable.
Why couldn’t everyone else see it?
Sterling recognizes her exceptionality.
Were they blind?
At the absurdity, he checked a caustic laugh.
Hell, he was blind in one eye, and from the instant he’d seen her off-balance and tottering, about to plunk into the lake, he’d recognized her uniqueness. It had called to him, enticing and irresistible, across the expanse.
Such pure, unsullied loveliness was most rare.
Perhaps some of the others did sense it, and that was why they attacked her.
A swift survey of those assembled revealed multiple gentlemen’s more than casual interest. The realization slammed into Morgan with the force of a battering ram. He wanted to plant them all facers. Tell them to direct their damned regard elsewhere.
But he hadn’t the right. Never would have.
If Shona ever became aware of her allure, bloomed into the rare and extraordinary flower he’d glimpsed, she’d have men groveling at her feet.
“Did you have something you wanted to say, Lady Atterberry?” Her rouged mouth arching upward, Miss Rossington slanted her head and blinked innocently. “Perhaps you want to ask me for advice?” She leaned nearer Shona, and sotto voce said, “On how you might become more attractive to gentlemen?”
Chapter Five
Apart from exposing nearly all of my bosoms, as you do?
If Miss Rossington sneezed, Shona expected her generous bounty to leap free of the dangerously low, lace-edged bodice. Might blacken both her eyes in the process.
She scarcely knew the woman, had never done anything to deserve her contempt and vindictiveness. An hour ago, cheeks burning, she’d have ducked her head and fled, mortified to her toes, into the house to hide in her chamber for at least a day. Likely the remainder of the week.
Now however…
Brow arched, she refused to quell under Miss Rossington’s spite.
She would rather have gnawed on a hog farmer’s manure-coated boots than let Captain Le Draco see her browbeaten and intimidated.
He was strong and courageous—and she wanted to be too.
For him.
Which made no sense whatsoever, but she refused to analyze her feelings further.
He had her at sixes and sevens, but perhaps that was what she needed. Something—someone—whose esteem motivated her to become what she’d only dared dream she might ever be.
Besides, it was far past time she spok
e her mind. Her self-respect demanded it.
How could she possibly oversee her estate or fulfill the role of Lord of Parliament if she remained a timid, self-effacing nit?
Shaking her head, she marshaled a closed-mouth smile, despite quaking inside like a leaf pummeled by a furious gale. “No, Miss Rossington. I can’t conceive why I’d ever need your advice.”
The malevolent chit bestowed such a condescending look upon Shona, she almost recoiled.
“Oh, I’ll wager you do, my dearest, dearest dowd,” Miss Rossington simpered. “More than you can possibly realize. Instruction on that and perhaps on how to persuade a man to kiss you.” She sighed dramatically and shook her perfectly coiffed blonde head. “I’m not altogether positive the latter is feasible, however.”
This entire conversation was so ridiculous, so beyond the pale, that Shona marveled at the woman’s perseverance. Why was she so determined to humiliate her? Miss Rossington’s behavior bordered on irrational.
Even Lord Sterling’s set down hadn’t deterred her.
A wise woman would’ve ignored Miss Rossington. Dismissed her behavior for what it was. Unprovoked, immature, undeserved—unhinged?—jealousy and contempt.
A surge of rebelliousness seized Shona, and she jutted her chin upward.
Enough of turning the other cheek. Cowering in diffidence. Feeling inferior and unworthy.
“I’ll accept that wager, Miss Rossington.”
Miss Rossington’s peridot eyes grew round, her artificial smile faltering. She licked her lips, her harried gaze darting here and there. “Pardon?”
A few onlookers’ mouths glided upward at her discomfiture.
Was she nervous she’d been caught in her own snare?
As well she should be.
“I said, I accept your challenge.” Enjoying the moment, Shona stepped away from the captain. Resting her hand on Miss Rossington’s trembling shoulder, she placed her mouth directly beside Miss Rossington ear and whispered for her alone, “Before the week’s end, I’ll have been kissed by the most attractive man here.”
Perhaps, if God were kind, more than kissed.
How Shona meant to accomplish the task, she hadn’t yet conceived. She’d recruit Katrina and Alexa to help with her appearance, mayhap even dare such artifice as cosmetics. If that was what it took to accomplish the task.
The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 5) Page 5
