Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series

by Vivienne Lorret

  “I never wished for this. She deserves better. She deserves . . . everything.” Everything he could never give. For a fleeting moment when he’d awoken this morning, he’d imagined having an entirely different conversation with Merribeth. A very important one.

  But that dream was too brief and just as swiftly gone.

  “She’ll be fine,” Mrs. Leander said, stroking her niece’s cheek. “After all, she’s survived worse. In the end, we still have each other.”

  Without another word, he took one final look at Merribeth and quietly closed the carriage door. The driver set off for Berkshire, leaving nothing more than dust in his wake.

  Making love to Merribeth had been more glorious, more profound, than he’d ever thought possible. In those precious moments, he’d had a glimpse of the rest of his life. It was full of smiles—hidden or not—and the wicked arch of the finest brow he’d ever kissed. He’d even imagined children, laughing and riding ponies at twilight to catch fairies. He’d never wanted anything as much as he’d wanted that dream to come true.

  But now, that dream turned to dust, kicked up in the wake of her retreating carriage. He knew she would never forgive him.

  Bane stared the length of the driveway until each particle settled.

  His heart hardened once again. Forged with a new purpose, as he strode back into the manor.

  Eve was sitting in the parlor, the papers of their agreement on the wine table beside her. He couldn’t believe he’d been so blind. How could he have not seen that her quest for revenge was equal to, if not greater than, his? The only thing was, she wanted revenge against him, not his grandfather. All this time, and he’d never realized.

  “So, you’ve gained your revenge at along last. Does it taste sweet, Lady Sterling?”

  “Of course,” she said with all appearances of being smug. Yet there was a distinct edge of pain lingering in the corners of her eyes. “I have finally bested the man responsible for taking everything from me.”

  “That was my grandfather—”

  “No,” she snapped. “It was you. Always you. If you’d never been born, if Spencer hadn’t tried so hard to protect you, none of it would’ve happened.” Her eyes widened for a moment as if even she was appalled at her reasoning. Before she continued, her breath hitched. “I almost lost everything. Don’t you see? Centuries of my family’s blood has been spilled to protect this land. Even Spencer’s blood.”

  He opened his mouth to argue but closed it just as quickly. There was no victor here, no matter what he could say. They’d all lost something—someone—dear. And he was about to lose more.

  Reaching out, he swiped up the contract between them and threw it in the fireplace where low embers suddenly flared to life. He wanted no record of what he’d done, not for his sake but for Merribeth’s. No one at the party must know that she’d selflessly given everything to a man who was unworthy of her.

  “You’re not honoring you’re part of the bargain? I should have expected as much from a Fennecourt.” Eve stood and set her claws into his forearm, as if to draw him away from the fire. “Or perhaps it’s your mother’s gypsy blood that makes you more like a thief. I want what’s mine.”

  A month ago, he would have shot a man for such slander. But he was no longer that person. Now, he looked at her with pity. She was grasping, he knew, searching for a way to inflict more pain. He let her words slice into him, hoping the overwhelming emptiness he felt would turn to anger.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t.

  He strode over to the secretaire in the corner of the room and lifted a sheet of parchment from beneath a polished bronze paperweight. The quill he dipped into the ink wasn’t sharp, but it would do the job. As a matter of finality, he signed his full name and title with a flourish.

  “The price of my wager.” He held out the document. “Gypsy is yours, along with her foal.”

  Without a word, she snatched it, her brow furrowing as she read it over and over again.

  “That is the last you’ll ever receive from me,” he said as he walked toward the door. “As of this moment, we are no longer family. We are no longer friends. I will not recognize you in a crowd or accept any invitation of yours. You are nothing to me now.”

  And with that final promise, he bowed and left.

  He only wished he’d realized the cost of revenge before it was too late.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “And so it’s done,” Merribeth said, setting down her teacup and saucer on the low table in the Weatherstone’s parlor. “I’ve sold my wedding gown to Forester’s”—she could not bear to see it on display at Haversham’s—“and I’ll begin work as a seamstress once I return to Berkshire after the ball at Hawthorne Manor. All in all, Aunt Sophie and I will manage nicely.”

  The past two days in London had been a blur. Merribeth was exhausted and drained, but she couldn’t let herself stop for a moment. She needed to keep going so she wouldn’t fall apart.

  Penelope and Emma exchanged a look that Merribeth was only too eager to ignore. Commenting would only bring more questions that she didn’t want to answer. What happened between her and Lord Knightswold would stay hidden in the darkest cupboards of her mind and would, one day, become a long forgotten memory.

  At least, that’s what she told herself. Though it was impossible to believe. Deep down, she knew she’d never forget loving him. She knew she’d never be the same again.

  Mercifully, word of her scandalous behavior had never reached town. If she still possessed any misguided romantic notions, she might have imagined that it was because Bane had done something to protect her. Yet no matter how she once saw him, she had to keep reminding herself that he was not the heroic kind. He lived for one thing only. Revenge.

  Merribeth picked up her tea again instead of her needlework. After having forgotten the handkerchief in her room at Eve’s estate, she’d hoped if she brought a new project, something fresh, that she’d be more inclined to rediscover her love for it. But like the tea in her cup, she merely tolerated it.

  “I must say, the plan we all feared doomed worked in the end. Mr. Clairmore proposed,” Emma said. “Even though you turned him down, perhaps there is something to Lady Sterling’s way of thinking after all.”

  No, Eve’s way of thinking had doomed Merribeth from the start. “I believe the success of it was due to his broken heart when Miss Codington refused him, more than for his desire to marry me.”

  “You mustn’t think that,” Penelope interjected. “You and Mr. Clairmore had been friends for so long. I’m certain he was fond of you.”

  Merribeth had pondered this over the past few days as well. “We were never friends as you were with Mr. Weatherstone, or how Emma was with Lord Rathburn. The only true connection we had was our proximity to one another.” She set her tea down again. “We were both of a same age, living in a small village. Neither of us had common interests. Our conversations were a matter of cordiality and expectation. I merely realized it too late.”

  The truth was, she’d only realized it because of what she’d had with Bane—the conversations, the banter, the undeniable pull to be near him, the instant spark she never had with William.

  At the time, she knew it was exactly what she’d been searching for all along. Of course, now she knew even that was a fabrication. Sadly, she was still trying to convince herself that none of it was true for him.

  It would take time. Perhaps a great deal of it. She could easily see herself an old doddering woman, still half believing he’d cared for her, had even loved her, if only for a moment in time.

  She felt herself perilously close to tears and searched for a new topic of conversation. “Where’s Delaney? I thought she’d be here by now, bringing a whirlwind with her.” She needed a dose of her friend’s vibrancy right now.

  Penelope and Emma exchanged another look.

  “We didn’t want to worry you,” Penelope said in her soothing manner. She sat forward slightly, as much as her slightly rounded belly would
allow.

  “Her leaving was sudden. As ever, our Delaney is impulsive,” Emma added with fondness. “So when she came to me three days ago and asked if I had a place for her to escape for a time, I offered her Rathburn’s hunting box in Scotland.”

  It was true that their friend was impulsive, but she’d never run away before. “Does her father know? Her sister?”

  Emma pulled the corner of her mouth between her teeth. “Here, I must admit to a slight deception. I allowed her to inform her family that she was staying with us but merely leaving ahead of us. The truth is, we do not plan to go until we travel with the Weatherstones toward the country estate for Penelope’s confinement.”

  “The doctor said that I am in good health, and there is no rush for me to leave before Mr. Weatherstone’s business matters are settled,” Penelope said, her worried look mirroring Emma’s and likely Merribeth’s as well. “We aren’t leaving until the end of the month.”

  “But is she all right, do you think?” Merribeth asked, searching her mind for the answers it seemed none of them possessed. “Indeed, I have no engagements. I could go to her.”

  “I’m sure that would be lovely, but . . .” Emma leaned in to whisper. “She expressed a desire for complete solitude. I cannot help but leap to the conclusion that this involves a matter of the heart.”

  Penelope nodded in agreement, worrying the loose threads of her latest needlework project. “If the incident didn’t send her into hiding, I don’t believe anything other than a dire matter of the heart could. She must be in love.”

  “In love!” Merribeth gasped. “I was only away a fortnight. How could it happen so”—she coughed, nearly choking on her own words as they tripped past her tongue—“quickly?”

  Yet hadn’t it been the same for her? She’d fallen in love with Bane in mere moments, or so it seemed.

  “The truth is, we’ve no idea.”

  They all sighed in unison. “As ever, Delaney is our mystery.”

  “Oh, how I wish we could all be present for the ball tonight. With so many gone from town, I fear Rathburn and I will be known for giving the dullest parties. Quite the opposite from our predecessors.”

  “Are you looking to cause a scandal then, Emma?” Penelope asked with a laugh.

  “Of course not. You know I’d never hear the end of it if from the dowager,” Emma said, though she sounded far from outraged. “Well . . . perhaps just a small smidge of a scandal, just to prove myself.”

  “Then I suppose it will be left to Merribeth and I to do something entirely scandalous,” Penelope said with a conspiring grin. “What do you say? Shall we put your flirting prowess to the test?”

  Merribeth swallowed and prayed her cheeks did not go pale. She’d had her fill of scandal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  No doubt, the gypsy Marquess of Knightswold was about to cause the scandal of the Season. Even though he wasn’t invited to the Hawthorne Manor Ball, he’d be damned if he let them keep him out.

  “See here! What’s this about?” Viscount Rathburn called to his head butler, slamming the door to his study. “If you think for one minute I’ll let anything go wrong tonight, when this ball means the world to my wife, then you—” His speech ended abruptly the instant he saw Bane across the room, seated in a high-backed chair, with two footmen on either side of him, acting as guards. “What are you doing here?”

  The last time he’d seen Rathburn, Bane had been trying to seduce Rathburn’s wife, then Emma Danvers. It had been another scheme of Eve’s, with which Bane had only gone along to rankle his old friend. In the end, he’d proven that Rathburn was of a jealous nature. Not only that, but the man wasn’t inclined to forgive easily.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” Bane lied smoothly. Old habits and all that. “I came to offer my sincerest apologies and to wish you and your lovely bride many felicitations.”

  Rathburn clenched his jaw, not inclined to gullibility, or so it seemed. “There are no tables here this night and therefore no unlucky sod for you to finagle into ruin.”

  “In my own defense, all those unlucky sods deserved what they had coming.”

  Rathburn squinted. “Have you been drinking?”

  Bane wished he had. “Care to smell my breath? Examine my pockets? Search my horse?”

  At the mention of his horse, Rathburn’s interest appeared to rise. “I heard a rumor at Tattersalls the other day, concerning your prized broodmare. Is it true?”

  Bane gave a noncommittal shrug.

  Rathburn eyed him shrewdly but gave the signal to his footmen and butler to leave them. “I never thought I’d hear of the day when you lost a wager over a horse, and a prized one at that.”

  Bane stood, admitting nothing as his old friend walked over to the sideboard and withdrew two short cut-crystal glasses from the cabinet. Then, he proceeded to pour a finger of scotch into each.

  As if recalling Bane’s preference for the finely aged whiskey, Rathburn handed one to him, speculation still lingering in his gaze. “Since you’ve never lost without intending to, I have to wonder what you gained in its stead.”

  “Wisdom, my friend.” He lifted his glass in a toast and downed the amber liquor in one swallow. It burned all the way down, setting fire to the anxiety churning inside him. “The meaning of life.”

  This earned him a smirk and another splash of scotch in his glass. “Do tell.”

  This time, Bane butted his glass against Rathburn’s before he downed the contents. He needed the fortification. “I assumed you already knew. After all, you have it here.”

  Rathburn looked around him. “The manor?”

  “Somewhat, but no,” Bane said, not intending to sound cryptic. “You rebuilt this place in order to make it a home once again. However, in order to make it a home, you needed Miss Danvers—er—that is to say, Lady Rathburn.”

  Instant fury filled Rathburn’s gaze as he stalked toward Bane. “She’s not yours, and she’ll never be. Get . . . out!”

  Bane raised his hands in surrender. “Of course she’s yours. There is no question. I only meant that you have found your counterpart, as she has found hers. Together, you’ve unearthed the wisdom of the ages. That is all.” Carefully, he set down his glass on the desk. “I only came to wish you well.”

  He walked toward the door, knowing full well that Rathburn would stop him before he turned the knob.

  “Wait.”

  Bane grinned.

  Emma and Rathburn’s ball at Hawthorne Manor signaled the last event of the Season for those who were still in town. It also signaled the last social event for Merribeth.

  Her future would host no more London Seasons and not simply because she lacked the money or a sponsor, now that Eve had revealed her true purpose. Merribeth had connections enough with her friends to be invited to gatherings, dinners, and parties . . . But the truth was, she had no intention of marrying. Ever.

  She walked down the stairs from one of the rooms in which Emma had settled her and Sophie for the previous few days and entered the lavishly decorated ballroom.

  Emma was beside her in an instant, her nerves showing in the way she chewed on the corner of her mouth. “It’s too much, isn’t it? I know it is. The dowager demanded that garlands be draped over each window and doorway, while my mother insisted that columns of white silk by the garden doors would give the illusion of more light. Earlier I thought it looked pleasing, yet now I worry that it looks like I’m trying too hard and that I don’t really deserve to be Rathburn’s viscountess.”

  Merribeth squeezed Emma’s hand. “It’s lovely. Do not doubt yourself. I can see your own touches in the way the room is bright and cheerful without being ostentatious. You chose the flowers in the garland, did you not?” When she received a small nod, she continued. “The colors complement the wallpaper perfectly. I feel as if I’m in a living painting, as if beautiful art and magic were housed together here. It appears very much as if you’ve made Hawthorne Manor your own.”

 
; Emma beamed and hugged her. “Don’t say another word, for if you do I shall cry. And if I cry . . .”

  A small laugh escaped Merribeth as they stood apart. “Yes, Rathburn would not be pleased.”

  “He’s positively fierce at times,” Emma said with a sigh, the light from the chandeliers sparkling in her dark eyes. “And I love him all the more for it.”

  “Speaking of your husband, I thought he would be standing here.” However, it was early yet and the guests had only started to arrive.

  “And here I shall stay, from this point forth,” Rathburn said as he stepped up behind them. In a familiar gesture, he settled his hand at the small of Emma’s back and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I was momentarily detained.”

  “Oh?”

  He offered a shake of his head, as if the matter were of no consequence. “The arrival of an unexpected guest.”

  “But not unwelcome, I hope.”

  Merribeth went utterly still at the sound of that familiar voice and watched as the man who plagued her dreams slowly emerged from the shadows behind Rathburn.

  Simon.

  The heart she thought dead these past days suddenly leaped beneath her breast like an eager puppy. She pressed the flat of her hand over the hard thumping, as if she could force it to quiet.

  “Lord Knightswold. What a pleasant surprise,” Emma said with a degree of astonishment before she held out her hand.

  Bane bowed over it. “I’ve done little to deserve your gracious welcome, but I accept it nonetheless.”

  She withdrew her hand and tucked it securely into her husband’s. “I see you’ve mended fences.”

  “More like, we’ve come to an understanding,” Rathburn said with a smirk before he directed his attention to Merribeth. “Miss Wakefield, I should like to introduce you to the Marquess of Knightswold.”