The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 5)

by Collette Cameron

  Though his tone remained light, a steely undercurrent she couldn’t identify seeped into his words.

  Minutes later, he held her chair, and as she slipped onto the seat, Shona took quick inventory. The chair to her right hadn’t been claimed, and she hadn’t been introduced to the people directly across from her. The Harcourts and Pendergasts sat several places away to her left. Other than Lord Sterling across the table, and three chairs down, she’d never uttered a word to anyone near her.

  Morgan gave the empty chair a perplexed, considering look before he sank into his chair.

  Someone bumped into her as they took their seat on her other side, and she automatically glanced over.

  Her mouth went dry as pavement in August.

  Mr. Le Draco snapped his serviette open, and as he placed it in his lap, gave her a frigid smile.

  Her nape hairs froze in place at his glacial regard.

  The lines of his face stony, his cool gaze cut to Morgan.

  Tension radiated, hostile and intense, between the men.

  Why, for all the saints in heaven, had Morgan seated her beside his father? The instinct to retreat into her diffident shell, to shyness’s safety and familiarity, nearly suffocated her.

  Morgan reached beneath the tablecloth and touched the back of her hand.

  Despite her upset, a pleasurable jolt raced up her arm.

  Taking a calming breath, she faced him, and he bent near her ear.

  “He told me he was leaving after our quarrel, and I haven’t seen him since. I think he’s only just come for dinner tonight. I swear, I wouldn’t ever seat him beside you.” The wrathful glance he fired his father would’ve sunk a schooner. “As much as I’m loath to admit it, his mind must’ve marched along the same path as mine, and he moved name cards.”

  “It’s fine,” she murmured.

  Not really. Sitting beside the arctic man, disdain pulsing off him, she’d be fortunate if she didn’t choke on her food.

  “I’m quite accustomed to dealing with unpleasant parents,” she said.

  Truth there.

  Och, crackers. She’d just called Morgan’s father difficult. And what if Mr. Le Draco had heard her?

  “We’re much alike, it seems.” The way Morgan said those five little words, his voice deep and husky, made her long to grab his hand, haul him into a dark nook, and beg him to kiss her.

  What a wanton she’d become in mere days.

  If anyone had told her a man she was newly acquainted with would have her throwing off a lifetime of restraints, taking risks she would’ve been petrified even to imagine before, she’d have called them daft or accused them of being foxed.

  At this rate, with all the sensual yearnings Morgan had stirred, she’d be quite ruined before the week ended. Maybe that ought to have been her wager.

  A wallflower’s wonderfully wicked wager.

  Despite the gravity of the situation, she quirked her mouth the teensiest bit.

  An immaculately-attired footman served the soup, and Shona turned her attention to the meal. She lifted the spoon with her left hand, and a little thrill tiptoed from shoulder to waist when Morgan did as well.

  Such an insignificant thing, perhaps, but one more they had in common.

  Absorbed in her musings, trying to sort through her tumultuous feelings and determine what she should do about them, she ate in silence for several minutes.

  Morgan seemed as disinclined to converse, though he did answer the questions put to him by the elderly dame seated on his other side.

  Mr. Le Draco spoke not at all, but attended to his food with gusto, accompanied by noisy slurping, chomping, and an occasional belch.

  She peeked at him from beneath her lashes once and nearly dropped her fork to find him staring at her, his steely countenance all peeved angles and irritated planes.

  Whyever was he vexed with her?

  Over the course of the meal, she met Morgan’s gaze several times. They also shared an equal number of polite smiles.

  Something weary and haunting lingered in his.

  By the time the final course was served, she and Morgan had exchanged short, mundane comments on every superficial topic from the stifling heat to the flower arrangements atop the table.

  His father’s presence cast a sobering ambiance—more like a wet, smelly horse blanket—on what she’d anticipated being an enjoyable affair.

  She couldn’t wait to escape his company.

  The first slight bump to her arm Shona assumed accidental. After all, the table was crowded. However, the second, firmer nudge had been deliberate.

  No doubt about it.

  Nonetheless, she pretended absorption in her trifle.

  She most definitely didn’t want to talk to Mr. Le Draco, the odious man.

  That day on the terrace, he’d looked at her like she was pond scum, and tonight, as if she were so far beneath his touch, he wanted to tread upon her as one would a bothersome insect.

  A harder prod to her forearm couldn’t be ignored.

  Lips meshed into a thin hard line, she quickly scanned the guests to see if anyone had noticed.

  A slight frown pulled Lord Sterling’s dark brows together as he regarded Mr. Le Draco. He raised his unusual gray-green eyes to her, a question in their depths.

  An astute man was Lord Sterling.

  She managed a benign smile, despite fuming inwardly.

  How dare Mr. Le Draco poke her like he was selecting ripe fruit from the market, the overbearing oaf? A gentleman would’ve addressed her, rather than treat her like a pin-cushion or ripe plum.

  Summoning an indifferent expression, Shona peaked a brow and dispassionately met his gaze.

  What?

  “My son hasn’t been able to find employment since his accident.” He picked a piece of food from his teeth then studied the chunk of meat.

  Barely refraining from skewing her mouth in distaste, she crumpled her napkin in a stranglehold instead.

  Maybe she’d offer Morgan the stewardship position at Wedderford Abbey.

  The delicious, oh-so-brilliant notion took hold, curling around her inside like a contented cat, lazing in the sun.

  A perfect solution.

  He required a position.

  She required a bailiff.

  And it was sure to infuriate his father.

  All the more appealing.

  “Morgan was supposed to take over my plantation for me. But it seems he’s turned his sights on you instead.” Hostile condescension riddled every brusque syllable.

  She arched her brow higher.

  Indeed?

  How could this stony, calculating creature be Morgan’s sire?

  Mr. Le Draco raked his disapproving regard over her, lingering far too long on the swell of her breasts above her bodice. He scratched his hawkish nose, then yawned rudely.

  “S’pose it’s easier to marry money than earn it yourself.”

  Chapter Eight

  Morgan jerked his head toward his father as Shona suppressed a gasp, her face draining of color.

  Damn his eyes!

  Morgan couldn’t very well lean in front of her and tell his father to bugger off, the lying cur. Instead, he determined to redirect her attention before anyone else caught wind of the situation.

  He’d deal with Father later.

  Striving to control his ire, he spoke low to Shona. “Lady Atterberry, would you do me the honor of a stroll outdoors after dinner?”

  Actually, he needed to get her alone, and after tolerating the fuggy dining room for upward of an hour, everyone was apt to stampede outside at the first opportunity.

  Never mind that.

  He knew the estate well, and a few secluded niches remained.

  Hands folded primly in her lap, her confusion evident, she bit her lower lip.

  He hated the leeriness that had crept into her big, soulful eyes. Loathed the splotches of scarlet on her cheekbones replacing the paleness Father’s calculated words had caused.

 
Morgan dared catch her fingers in his beneath the tablecloth and give them a little reassuring press. “Please. I can explain. He’s lying.”

  Her smile tremulous, she gave an infinitesimal nod. “I—”

  Lady Wimpleton stood. “Ladies, shall we go through?”

  Shona placed her serviette beside her plate, softly murmuring, “I’ll meet you in the conservatory at half-past nine.”

  The flood of relief that washed over Morgan should’ve worried him. He was too attached already, as improbable as that was. No good could come of continuing to spend time with Shona, and he’d been a selfish arse to ask her to this morning.

  It wasn’t fair to lead her on.

  Others would echo Father’s ugly accusation—at least the fortune-hunting part.

  Instead, Morgan secretly rejoiced.

  She’d agreed to see him alone.

  He’d seize that crumb and cherish it.

  Every bit the majestic lady, Shona didn’t spare Father a glance as she departed, the Duchess of Harcourt on one side and the Duchess of Pendergast on the other.

  Morgan leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Through half-closed eyes, he regarded his father. “Your tactics won’t work, you know. I’m not after her money. I’m well aware I have nothing worthy to offer, for which you are partially to blame.”

  Father shrugged, his smile just short of evil. “The gel doesn’t know that. I’ve planted the suspicion. Now, she’ll wonder if everything you do and say has an ulterior motive.”

  “Go. To. Hell.” Morgan tossed his serviette on his plate and stood.

  Fury tunneling through his veins, the truth of Father’s words thundering in his head, he strode from the dining room. He didn’t give a beggar’s scorn that port and cigars followed dessert. If he didn’t remove himself from Father’s presence, he might well shuck any civility he yet possessed and lay him out.

  Very real trepidation, worse than anything he’d experienced as a soldier, clawed at his lungs with each jagged breath he took.

  Reaching inside his pocket for his watch, he cursed. He’d sold it two months ago.

  Humiliating as hell to be in such damned low water. As he stalked down the corridor to the entry, he examined the longcase clock.

  Over an hour ’til he met Shona.

  If she showed up.

  He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

  It wasn’t fair or honorable to continue encouraging her. He’d rather lose his other eye than hurt her, but she’d sidled into his blood. No, she’d annihilated his carefully-erected ramparts and burrowed into the fortified shell he’d surrounded himself with.

  Then she’d blinked those large, poignant eyes, and he was lost. She’d brought him more pleasure and optimism in the few days he’d known her than he’d ever anticipated experiencing again.

  Yes, he was a selfish arse.

  Yes, for her sake, he ought to pack his meager belongings and depart the house tonight, though God alone knew where he’d go.

  And yes, he may very well regret this growing obsession—probably would—but much like an opium addict craving a pipe or a tippler hankering for a tot of whisky, Morgan ached for her company.

  He yearned to see her winsome smile and the way her expressive, thick-lashed eyes lit with intelligence or radiated untainted joy. To hear her unusually low musical voice, the lyrical song of her rare laughter, to smell her delicious citrusy essence.

  And when she gazed or peeked at him, shy and adoring, as if he were a vanquishing hero slaying mythical dragons, he was willing to risk all. Him. A warped, beastly-faced man who never thought to have any woman look on him with such tenderness or desire again.

  None of this made any bloody sense.

  He would’ve laughed at and mocked another fellow in his situation.

  Would’ve called him an addle-brained fool.

  Morgan dreaded awaking and discovering this was all the dream of a disfigured man desperate for love and acceptance.

  Pathetic and pitiable.

  Glancing behind him, the quiet, empty corridor a gross misrepresentation of the house brimming with England’s finest denizens, he blew out a deep breath.

  To the lake then for a jot of peace and quiet. The exercise would also help alleviate his ire. Besides, he always ruminated better outdoors.

  He let himself out the front entry, welcoming the slightly cooler temperature.

  Dusk had fallen, and a few brave stars peeked out, scouting the sky.

  As Morgan tramped from the terrace, he automatically headed in the greenhouse’s direction. He welcomed the gravel grinding beneath his heels, his irate steps echoing the litany of ugly thoughts cracking about in his head.

  A person wasn’t supposed to dislike his parents.

  It went against nature.

  Yet, the man Morgan had just left smirking at the table hadn’t ever behaved like a loving, concerned father. It had taken Morgan years to understand the flaw was his father’s, not his.

  Shona, too, had suffered greatly because of a parent—her mother.

  He’d had done a bit of sleuthing this afternoon. Finding the Duke of Harcourt in the stables, he’d introduced himself.

  Morgan’s lungs constricted, and his blood surged hotly once more when he recalled what the duke had told him about Shona’s mother. No wonder she feared making mistakes.

  Harcourt had said something else too. Something that had given Morgan hope. Until Father opened his foul mouth at dinner and spewed his usual toxic poison.

  “I knew Alexa was the woman for me the first time I laid eyes on her,” Harcourt had said, stroking a bay’s neck. He veered Morgan a sideways glance. “She was held captive in a Scottish fortress, and I helped rescue her.” He grinned, pointing to his eye. “She punched me.”

  Morgan had laughed, automatically touching his eye patch.

  “She packed quite a wallop too, I tell you.”

  “Your Grace, might I ask why you’re telling me this?” Morgan hadn’t been sure what to expect from the infamous Duke of Harcourt, but a cordial discussion, a personal conversation, hadn’t topped the list.

  Harcourt stopped petting the horse and angled his head the merest bit, his expression inscrutable.

  “Shona deserves happiness.” Notching a shoulder upward, he scratched his eyebrow. “She’s of age, so I don’t really have a say in what she does. But, I won’t stand in the way if you wish to court her.” His tone became unyielding iron. “However, hear me well. You hurt her, and you’ll answer to me. I’m a powerful man, Le Draco. One you do not want to cross.”

  A blessing and a threat in the same sentence.

  Still, that chat had lit a scrap of hope in Morgan, albeit a miniscule one. And that confidence had grown when Shona had been so endearingly obvious in the drawing room. Father’s rancor had doused Morgan’s spark of optimism as efficiently as a bucket of water poured over a candle.

  He meant to eschew the conservatory for his favorite nook at the lake, but as he passed, barely audible weeping filtered from inside, and he automatically glanced through the open doors.

  A woman, her back to the door, sat hunched on the bench, her face in her palms. Every now and again, her shoulders trembled when she took an uneven breath.

  Shona.

  Rage toward his father pummeled Morgan.

  Treading softly, he approached her.

  Consumed with her heartache, she didn’t hear him until he was nearly upon her.

  She jumped to her feet, her eyes wide and frightened, clasping her throat with one hand. Visibly relaxing when she recognized Morgan, leeriness promptly replaced her relief. Averting her head and angling her back to him, she swiped at her eyes.

  “What are you doing here? I said I’d meet you at half-past nine.” Her voice, low and throaty from crying, tore at his already bleeding heart.

  “I was on my way to the lake when I heard you weeping.” He touched her arm, and when she didn’t pull away, he cupped her shoulders and gently turned her until she
faced him. “Why are you crying?”

  Chin tucked to her chest, she shook her head, the pert curls around her face brushing her cheeks. A ragged breath juddered through her. She stood there so dejected, so broken, and he ached for her.

  With his crooked forefinger, Morgan tilted her chin upward.

  Tears yet glistened in her forlorn eyes, darker than a moonless night at the moment, and marked uncertainty bracketed her mouth.

  “You can tell me, Shona. Is it because of the codswallop my father told you?”

  A fresh tear leaked from the corner of one eye, and she shifted her gaze away. “It’s nothing,” she whispered, blinking several times. “I’ve just been foolish. That’s all.”

  Such stoicism. How often had she blamed herself for others’ poor behavior?

  Despite the impropriety, he drew her to his chest, one hand cradling her spine and the other her face. He spoke into the fine hairs over her ear. “How so?”

  She was all soft womanly curves, and her every contour fit tidily into his body. Never had holding a female felt so right. And she didn’t flinch from him, didn’t seem to care in the least that he was unsightly.

  Except for the fountain’s comforting, rhythmic splashing and an occasional sleepy bird’s call, silence reigned. Heavy and sorrowful.

  An uninvited thought battered him.

  Had Father destroyed Morgan’s one chance at love?

  Shona remained still for so long, he didn’t think she intended to answer. Which meant his father had indeed caused her tears, God rot the selfish bugger.

  Father’s actions tonight were the proverbial final straw. Time to sever the relationship. Permanently. Viola was all that had kept Morgan from doing so years before.

  He sighed into Shona’s silky hair, the scent he’d come to associate with her filling his nostrils. Orange blossoms. Fresh and entrancing. And sweet, like her, with a hint of what he thought might be cloves. Fitting since he suspected she had a spicy side to her nature.

  He brushed her head with his cheek. “It’s all right, Shona. You don’t have to tell me. I think I know.”

  “Nae, ye dinnae.”

  An unbidden smile bent his mouth at her slip into Scots. The blunder showed just how discomfited she truly was.