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

by Collette Cameron

  Morgan waited. He’d not pressure her. He bloody well knew what it was like to be harangued incessantly.

  She absently toyed with his lapel. Likely wasn’t even aware she fiddled with it.

  He rejoiced that she was so comfortable in his presence that she’d take such a liberty.

  Her shoulders slumped as she released a lengthy sigh.

  “I’d thought I could change. That I could stop being a dowdy, mousy thing. An object of scorn.” She looked over his shoulder, her pretty mouth pulled into a rueful line. She glanced up before her spikey-lashed gaze danced away. “I’d determined that instead of dreading this week, and eagerly waiting for it to end, I’d enjoy myself. And I could do that because I thought you—”

  She swallowed and lifted a shoulder an inch, averting her gaze once more.

  “Shona, my father lied. I’m an abolitionist, and since I was eighteen, I’ve refused to oversee his slave plantations. I am in need of employment, that’s true. But only because my father resigned my commission while I was recuperating.”

  Her pretty mouth tightened in disapproval. “That was awful of him.”

  ‘Awful’ pretty much described Ruben Le Draco.

  “I’ve been seeking a position.” Without any luck so far. “I swear, my interest has nothing whatsoever to do with your title or fortune.” Morgan brushed the back of his hand across her soft cheek. “I shall confess, however, I felt something pass between us the instant our eyes met.”

  She stopped fidgeting with his lapel, then hesitantly raised her gaze to his. “I felt it too, Morgan.” A wisp of color flared across her face at her bold declaration. “A strange, prickling sensation,” she whispered. “It caused my heart to beat strangely and my breath to catch.”

  He’d suspected she had, but her scintillating, naïve admission sent his soul soaring.

  He searched her face.

  The invitation was there, in her eyes. Innocent and wary, and so uncertain. Fear tinged the edges too. Dread of rejection and scorn, he’d wager. What suffering her generous spirit must have endured.

  Framing her silky jaw with his hand, he angled her head as he lowered his. Inch by agonizingly slow inch, he dipped lower, giving her time to pull away.

  She remained statue-like, frozen in place. Neither retreating nor encouraging him. Desire warred with apprehension in the depths of her eyes.

  “Shona, I want to kiss you. But I won’t if that’s not what you want too.”

  Her focus strayed to his mutilated mouth, and she reverently outlined his lips with her fingertip. She alone made him feel whole again. As if the ugly, puckered ridges didn’t matter.

  “I want to kiss you too, Morgan. I don’t know how, though. I’ve never been kissed.”

  Such frankness and transparency splayed his heart wide open.

  He kissed the end of her nose. “I’ll teach you. It’s not that difficult.”

  The force of her incandescent smile plowed into him with the power of a pair of draft horses.

  Going slow with this tempting armful would be hellish.

  She licked the seam of her mouth with her small tongue, and he checked the groan billowing from his chest.

  Almost.

  Drawing her closer, giving her time to adjust to being embraced, he nuzzled her ear, before gently nipping her earlobe.

  Another sigh whispered past her parted lips as she instinctively angled her neck to allow him better access. Then she balanced on her toes and touched her mouth to his. The sweetest, tentative feathering.

  He let her set the pace, though passion thrummed through him, a jubilant fanfare of longing. And a glorious, humbling triumph that she trusted him. Desired him.

  Making an inarticulate sound in the back of her throat, she threaded her fingers through his hair. Her breath coming in short, excited pants, she pressed her mouth harder to his.

  Holding his passion strictly in control took every ounce of Morgan’s will. His starving body yearned to yank her to him and sample every inch of her voluptuous form, starting with her glorious breasts. With his tongue, he plied the corners of her mouth until she yielded, her lips parting like the dewy petals of a rose.

  He swept her mouth with his tongue, fire igniting in his blood.

  “God, Shona. You taste so sweet.”

  Shona gripped the back of Morgan’s head with one hand, the other fisted in his coat, else she’d have sagged at his feet. Never could she have dreamed a kiss would send her veins to singing, her head to spinning, and turn her muscles to jelly.

  Nestled against his firm, molded body, she strained to get closer.

  Like a man long-starved, he devoured her mouth. He pressed hot kisses to her eyes, her cheeks, and her chin before claiming her mouth again.

  And she relished, rejoiced in every moment. She’d suspected his kisses would be spectacular. Had craved his mouth upon hers since he’d helped her from the lake and her senses had become alert in a carnal way she’d never experienced before.

  The hardened patch on his lip from his scar only increased her desire. She wanted to comfort him and greedily seize everything he was teaching her and commit the wonder to memory.

  Och. Such a delicious thing to have wished. To have wagered—a kiss from Captain Morgan Le Draco. But now she feared—nae, kent—it wasn’t enough.

  She wanted more. So much more. More than she had any right to dream of.

  He shifted her slightly so that she rested in the crook of his arm, cradled against his shoulder. His sizzling gaze scorched her, and her unbridled desire welled higher yet. Confident and sure, his exploration trailed lower, down her neck, the juncture of her throat. Then lower still, until he grazed his lips across the swell of her breasts.

  “Morgan,” she breathed, bowing into him.

  “I love it when you say my name, darling. Your husky voice drives me mad for want of you.”

  He settled one big hand on her breast, and she gasped.

  Laughter rang from outside, intruding on the magical moment.

  “Devil a bit.” Morgan gave her a swift, hard kiss on the mouth. “The other guests seek respite from the stuffy house too. I can’t be found here with you. We must consider your repute.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not ashamed to be with you.”

  And Shona wasn’t. She was proud and honored that such a noble man found her desirable.

  More laughter carried across the greens.

  Good heavens.

  Had everyone on the guest list decided to parade about in the growing dusk?

  “You don’t know how happy that makes me, Shona, my heart. But I won’t have your name on the gable grinders’ tongues.” He shot a swift glance behind him. “I’ll leave through the other door.” His tender gaze pouring over her face, a potent caress, he seized her hands and fervently kissed the knuckles. “Until tomorrow, my sweet.”

  “Yes. Until tomorrow.” Shona smiled and touched his dear face. “Morgan, wait. My estate, Wedderford Abbey, has need of a steward. The position is yours if you want it.”

  “I’d be honored, but we’ll have to discuss it later. I must be off, else your reputation will suffer.” With a smoldering smile and a devilish wink, he disappeared out the opening.

  A fortune-hunter would’ve stayed. Would’ve seized the opportunity to see her compromised. His departure spoke to his credible character and vaulted him even higher in her estimation.

  Scant moments after Morgan left, a score of guests sauntered into the greenhouse. Most, after giving her a cursory glance, wandered to other parts of the conservatory, except Miss Rossington and her two ever-present lackeys.

  Those hellions made straight for Shona, standing beside the bench.

  Thunder and turf. Not that trio again.

  Were there tear tracks on her face still? Were her lips berry-red from Morgan’s kisses?

  “We wondered where you’d disappeared to after dinner, Lady Atterberry,” Miss Rossington said, while the Dundercroft sisters giggled like simpkins and nudge
d each other.

  I’ll just bet you did.

  “I felt a trifle unwell, and thought the fresh air might do me good.”

  Mr. Le Draco’s hateful words had sickened her to her soul, truth to tell.

  Shona retrieved her discarded gloves, and after draping one over her forearm, offered a genuine smile as she drew the other onto her fingers. Miss Rossington wouldn’t rob her of the last few minutes’ marvelousness. “Please excuse me.”

  “You’re alone?” Miss Rossington made an exaggerated pretense of scrutinizing the greenhouse before her deprecating gaze settled on Shona once more. “I’d thought perhaps you’d arranged a tête-à-tête.” The incredulity in her voice suggested she thought no such thing. “In an attempt to win our private wager.”

  I already won.

  Miss Rossington blinked innocently and, pressing her fingertips to her mouth, tittered as if she’d revealed an immense secret.

  The knowledge that Shona had shared several glorious kisses with Morgan was a tremendous boost to her self-assurance. Nevertheless, she had no intention of revealing something so special to this nit simply to win a silly bet.

  Shona made to move past. “I suppose you’ll never know, will you?”

  “Does that mean she’s already kissed someone, Francine?” Eyes rounding in confusion, Miss Lyselle tugged on her sister’s arm. “But…” she spluttered. “But Penelope said no man would—”

  “Be quiet, Lyselle,” Miss Rossington ordered, her cat-like green eyes narrowed into a withering glare.

  Here come the claws.

  “Lady Atterberry, may I escort you back to the house?” a man’s deep voice intoned.

  Shona swiveled toward the baritone, as did a few of the others enjoying the greenhouse.

  Lord Sterling ambled in the other entrance, his shoes striking a sharp staccato on the floor. He swept Miss Rossington an unperturbed, dismissive look.

  Shona’s pulse slowed before quickening in alarm.

  Had he seen Morgan leave?

  Would he say anything if he had?

  What did it matter?

  She wasn’t ashamed. Every moment she’d spent in Morgan’s embrace had been a wondrous gift.

  Mustering her composure, she finished putting on her other glove. She offered a grateful smile as she laid her fingertips on his extended arm. “I would appreciate it, my lord.”

  Perceptive man. He’d promptly determined the delicacy of the situation and provided Shona a pride-saving escape. He seemed in the habit of rescuing her from Penelope Rossington.

  Miss Rossington’s gaze swung between Lord Sterling and Shona, animosity sparking in her eyes. She stepped nearer Shona, and making no effort to temper her volume, accused, “You did arrange a tryst.”

  Several nearby guests swung their attention toward them, their avid gazes alight with uncensored curiosity.

  Well into a dust-up now, Miss Rossington seemed to have forgotten they weren’t alone. Or perhaps—likely—that was her intention.

  To try to humiliate Shona.

  She bit her lower lip, then straightened her spine. She wasn’t allowing bullying poltroons like Penelope Rossington to intimidate her anymore.

  Chin quavering and venom dripping from each hissed word, Miss Rossington pointed an unsteady finger at Lord Sterling. “You arranged an assignation with Lord Sterling, didn’t you?” On the verge of tears, she shook her shiny blond head, her diamond and pearl earrings bobbing with the frenetic motion. “I don’t know how you could’ve possibly enticed him. He’s ignored my—”

  “Quite so,” Lord Sterling snapped, his eyes jade shards, and his countenance as unyielding as marble.

  Oh, dear.

  Shona cast him a sympathetic glance.

  So Miss Rossington had thought to sink her sharpened claws into his lordship, and he’d rebuffed her. Fortunate for him. He was much too decent and kind-hearted a man to suffer the misfortune of taking a selfish shrew like Miss Rossington to wife.

  “But, Penelope, you said Lord Sterling held a tendre for you.” Her chuffy face growing redder by the moment, Lyselle’s forehead crumpled in befuddlement. “I don’t understand. Why would he—?”

  Dense as London’s pea soup fog.

  “Shut up, Lyselle!” Miss Rossington snarled, all pretense of civility gone. Holding her arms akimbo, her irate gaze circled the hothouse, beckoning everyone to heed her.

  Shona cringed inwardly as person after person trained their enthralled gaze upon them.

  “I don’t know how she managed it, but this Scottish dumpling,” Miss Rossington waved her hand wildly as if batting at a pesky fly, “was alone with a man in this very conservatory. Doing only God knows what. Given her flushed cheeks and swollen mouth, I think we can draw our own conclusions.”

  Och, Guid.

  Shona balled her hands to keep from slapping her palms to her burning face and giving more credence to Miss Rossington’s ugly—true—allegation.

  “Perhaps, Miss Rossington, your blind jealousy clouds your inability to acknowledge Lady Atterberry’s loveliness,” Lord Sterling said.

  At his compliment, Shona gaped. He’d never hinted he found her attractive.

  Under his scathing contempt, Miss Rossington’s face reddened to the tips of her glowing ears.

  However, Lord Sterling wasn’t finished with his scold. “But more on point, and of far greater concern, is the disservice you do Lady Atterberry by publically inferring she participates in the same manner of sordid dalliances you are known to.”

  At his blatant disdain, Miss Rossington went white as the pearls at her slender throat. She opened and closed her mouth thrice, giving her the unfortunate appearance of a dying fish.

  By now, everyone remaining in the conservatory had stilled to listen to the titillating conversation. Agog, a concert of gazes trained on the unfolding scene, they made no pretense otherwise.

  Never comfortable as the center of attention, Shona wanted nothing more than to disappear. His chivalrous defense wouldn’t put to rest Miss Rossington’s vile accusation entirely.

  “Shall we go, my lady?” Lord Sterling jutted his chin in the door’s direction. “Before I forget I’m a gentleman?”

  Francine Dundercroft marched to her friend’s side, and after wrapping a comforting arm about Miss Rossington’s waist, glowered at Shona. “I hope you’re happy, you … you neep.” She angled her head haughtily. “Winning your vulgar wager to snare a lord for a lover this week has broken another’s heart.”

  Chapter Nine

  Morgan had hoped he’d see Shona at breakfast again today. Luck wasn’t with him, however. He prowled about the house for the next pair of hours, even declining a much-coveted ride with Wimpleton just so he might encounter her.

  When the clock chimed eleven, and she’d yet to make an appearance, his jubilation from last night ebbed, replaced with an ominous sense of foreboding.

  Finally, after finding a fifth flimsy excuse to wander past the stairway, floral salon, and drawing room—after covertly peeking in the library, music and dining rooms, and strolling around the entire house’s perimeter, twice—he caught sight of Harcourt in an earnest conversation with Sterling near the stables.

  A picnic was scheduled for midday on a nearby knoll, and Morgan happily anticipated sharing a blanket with Shona. Especially since he’d learned his father had departed Davenswood after dinner, and he needn’t fear another unpleasant episode like last night.

  Perhaps she was unwell.

  Had she taken a chill from her dip in the lake after all?

  Or was she suffering qualms about kissing him?

  The latter thought left a bitter taste in his mouth and caused an even more acrid pang to his soul.

  Not wishing to intrude upon Harcourt and Sterling’s privacy, but hopeful the duke might have knowledge of Shona’s whereabouts or condition if she were indeed indisposed, he pretended absorption in the potted topiaries and statuary adoring the terrace’s other side as he waited for their conversati
on to end.

  A cluster of women shared two benches paralleling the veranda, a tidy hornbeam hedge creating a partition between the chatting gaggle and Morgan.

  He gave them a dismissive glance as he strolled by. Once behind the greenery, he couldn’t see the ladies any longer, though their subdued conversation carried to him.

  “The silly chit got herself compromised last night,” one lady said, no trace of mercy in her pompous tone.

  “I don’t believe it,” another argued in an incredulous whisper. “She’s so bashful. Why, in London, she couldn’t even string two words together when a gentleman came near.”

  “I was in the conservatory, and I tell you, it is so,” the first chinwag insisted. “His lordship did not deny he was her lover, either. Seems terribly unfair the likes of her making such a credible match.”

  “Well, she entrapped him, naturally. How else could someone like her have managed such a coup? And his honor has always been above reproach.” A breathy sigh flitted through the hedgerow. “Such a waste of a title.”

  Had the jealous hens nothing better to do than bandy about some poor woman’s unfortunate, and no doubt highly exaggerated, circumstance?

  Fool. Of course not. These fine citizens live to shred another’s character.

  Rubbing his forehead above his eye patch—it ached bloody awful today—Morgan scanned the lawns again in search of Shona.

  Harcourt and Sterling, still deep in discussion, wandered toward the manor.

  Hands on his hips, his brows pulled into a slight crease, Morgan shook his head then made to go inside once more. He’d taken but two steps when one of the nattering women’s next word yanked him to an abrupt halt, mid-step.

  “I also heard, straight from Miss Rossington herself, that Lady Atterberry wagered her she could engage a lover for the week,” a third voice intoned, this one squeaky with unsuppressed glee. “Who’d have thought that wallflower would’ve succeeded so quickly? And with such a fine specimen of manhood too?”

  Jerking his head so that his good ear was toward them, Morgan edged closer, unabashedly eavesdropping

  “That’s not how it was at all,” another, kinder voice objected. “I was told she wagered she’d get herself kissed before the week was out. And she only did so, because, cruel as always, Penelope said no man would ever want to kiss Lady Atterberry.”