Always the Wallflower (Never the Bride Book 5)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Swallowing, she tried to look away, but it was impossible. She had developed a fascination with him as soon as he had arrived in town—a gentleman so charming and yet so disregarded by so many in society.

  “Is that…”

  Mariah paused and turned to look in the direction Letitia was staring, and sighed.

  “Yes, that is my brother,” she said heavily. “Adopted brother, of course. Viscount Wynn. ’Tis a good thing he has not spotted us, Letitia, we will not be forced to speak with him.”

  There was something about him, an air of complete self-importance. That was a gentleman who never wondered whether he was welcome in a room.

  Letitia swallowed. There was a man who would sweep a young lady off their feet, and no mistake—it was a shame it would never be her. A rake would never consider a wallflower.

  Mariah snorted, and Letitia jumped at the sudden sound, making her friend laugh.

  “Who does he think he is,” Mariah was saying, shaking her head. “He was not invited to this wedding, and I know that for a fact. I asked Lady Harriet when I saw her last week at Almack’s, and I did not see him in the church. I should go over and tell him he is not welcome. Will you join me, Letitia?”

  Panic rose in her heart. “No, leave him be. I am sure Harry would not mind an extra guest, and there is plenty of food for everyone. Viscount Wynn is—”

  But her voice broke off. As she had spoken his name, the viscount had turned, and his gaze met hers.

  Letitia gasped. It was a visceral reaction, as though he was beside her and had touched her arm. How was it possible to have such a strong response to a gentleman from a look alone? But his dark brown eyes were locked on hers, and Letitia could not look away.

  He smiled. Muttering something to the young lady beside him, he started making his way around the room toward them.

  Letitia could barely breathe. Was this the moment she would remember forever, the moment they would tell their children about—how their father saw their mama across a crowded dance chamber and knew from one look they were meant to be together?

  “Mariah.” Viscount Wynn inclined his head at his sister, and both Mariah and Letitia curtsied.

  By the time they had risen, the Viscount had gone.

  Letitia’s heart, fluttering only a moment ago, now seemed to have descended to her stomach. Of course, he was not about to ask her to dance. The mere thought was ridiculous, and she should have crushed it immediately.

  What an expectation! He would undoubtedly wish to dance with beautiful young ladies, elegant ones who could flirt and laugh.

  “Really, Letitia,” Mariah spoke kindly for the first time in their conversation. “My adoptive brother is the biggest rake in town, always looking to break someone’s heart. You should be grateful you are not in his sights, for I have heard he cares as little for reputations as for the hearts he breaks.”

  Letitia swallowed, attempting to regain control. This fancy she had for Viscount Wynn would always be unrequited. It was foolish, a childish obsession she must ignore. He probably did not even know who she was.

  Mariah frowned as she watched him meander around the room. “Edward never welcomed me into his family when his parents adopted me, and we barely speak now. In fact, I think that is the longest conversation we have had this year. That is the measure of the man Viscount Wynn is.”

  Letitia smiled weakly as she watched the back of him disappear. “It matters not, Mariah, I would not worry yourself. To him, or any other gentleman of my acquaintance, I will always be the wallflower and never the bride.”

  Chapter Two

  It was impossible to prevent the yawn, and Edward, Viscount Wynn, did nothing to quell it.

  God’s teeth, he thought, shifting position to keep awake. He could have been anywhere, anywhere in London. He was welcome in almost every respectable home—and a smile crept over his face at the thought of the fathers who would do anything to keep him out of their drawing rooms.

  There were plenty of gentleman’s clubs, which were desperate to have him on their members’ list. He had the missives somewhere in his desk at Redmont.

  In short, he had not lacked opportunities to enjoy himself this evening, a cold one near the end of the Season, and he knew the name Wynn would open doors.

  And yet, he was here. Almack’s. Wynn shivered as the smells of the room filled his nostrils, pomanders, grease paint, cigars, and the heat of dancing bodies.

  Wynn forced down the next yawn if only to save himself the disgust of breathing in such an unpleasant mixture.

  Wednesday evening, and he was bored out of his skin.

  A laughing group walked past, gaining his attention by containing at least three ladies of impressive beauty, but they were gone before he could consider what retort would capture their attention.

  No matter. There were no new faces here.

  To think he could have been at the St. Mark’s Club. Someone had mentioned there was gaming on Wednesdays, one which he would have surely won.

  “Anyone take your fancy?”

  He had never seen a gentleman outdo him in cards. If he had attended St. Mark’s Club instead of being swayed into attending Almack’s—that damned voucher with Lady Romeril’s handwriting spiked along the side, ‘We will expect you’—he would have filled his pockets with guineas by now.

  Not that he needed it. The Wynn estate had never been better, now that his father had died and stopped selling off the most precious land.

  He sighed. No, it was the chase that was the fun. Cards and women.

  Quite the opposite of Almack’s.

  “I said, anyone take your fancy, Wynn?”

  His dark eyes swept around the room. Almack’s had not changed in years; it was like walking into a living museum. He could remember the first time his parents had brought him here. The drapes were the same, the food, even the music.

  Like a fly trapped in amber. They said it was because Prinny liked it that way, but Wynn could not remember the last time the Regent had been seen here. Certainly not in the last year.

  A wry smile crept over his face as he took in the far left corner, packed with gossiping women all over the age of five and thirty. The Mamas. There they stood, desperate to marry off their daughters and not just to the richest and most respected gentleman. An ideal suitor would also possess power.

  One caught his eye, her gaze fixed on an awkward chit of a thing dancing with a much older gentleman, who was leering at his partner.

  Something unsettled in his stomach. Even better, make him old and likely to die in the next few years. There was nothing like inheriting a competency.

  Wynn’s eyes drifted to the other side of the room, and he shook his head. There were the gentlemen of the ton, the male counterparts of the Mamas, but matrimony was not their topic of choice.

  It would be power and politics. It was possible to see, if one concentrated, the line between the Whigs and the Tories. You could start to see the patterns. Who was not speaking with whom, who received a cold shoulder when they attempted to approach a group.

  “Can you hear me?”

  And between the two sets of parents, the dancers. Wynn almost laughed aloud at the idiots in rows, prancing up and down with the eyes of respectable society on them.

  It was all a game, much like the cards he so enjoyed. How close could a gentleman get to his partner without either the lady protesting—and he had heard tell of a woman slapping a gentleman for being too eager—or her Mama sweeping her away, determined to keep her honor intact?

  A game, a dance, a dare…

  Wynn sighed. Matrimony or money-making, that was all life in London boiled down to.

  It was difficult to remember why he had even bothered to return after staying away for two long years. Had he hoped there would be a sudden change in the way society operated?

  He had been a fool if he had.

  All women were the same. In his one and thirty years, he had seen nothing to suggest there was a single lady who th
ought differently, her mind not filled with nonsense, frippery, gowns, balls, and how to snare a husband.

  Wynn watched a pair at the end, clearly uninterested in each other but standing for decorum’s sake. It was so ridiculous; you could see exactly what any woman wanted from a mile off.

  It inevitably boiled down to one of three things: more wealth, more power, and more children. There was only one way to secure those things, and that was matrimony.

  “Wynn, are you quite well?”

  His gaze wandered along the set and was caught by a woman of startling beauty. She danced with abandon, laughing at what her partner had said, attracting the attention of the gentlemen around her.

  He did not blame them. He was captivated, too, even from this distance. Her eyes darted over to him, and she smiled coquettishly.

  Wynn grinned. He recognized a flirt when he saw one. A tiger always knows a tiger.

  Now that he looked more closely, he recognized her. It was Miss Emma Tilbury, and he saw with disappointment the rumors were undoubtedly true.

  Miss Tilbury was no longer under the protection of the Earl of Marnmouth. It was enough to see the frayed edges of her gown, the diamonds around her neck sparkling a little less like diamonds and a little more like glass.

  She was still beautiful, but her beauty had faded. Inevitable after being the mistress of a man for so long, cast off without a word.

  But where did that leave her? She danced like her life depended on it, that smile a little too desperate for Wynn’s tastes.

  He looked away. He had enough women fawning over him and did not need more—a woman who evidently needed a gentleman’s protection—to misunderstand his interest.

  “Should I go, then?”

  But he would be a liar if he said he didn’t like it. Wynn smiled at a memory from last week. What was her name, Miss Gardener? Miss Grandienne? It did not matter, for he had enticed her into the garden of his hosts, the Howards, and spent a rather delicious twenty minutes kissing her so passionately, he was rather certain he had ruined her.

  What was not to like about being a rake? All the pleasures of women without any of the responsibility.

  But Almack’s was the opposite, all the responsibility to be respectable with none of the fun. Every chit on her best behavior, desperate not to embarrass herself and secure a husband.

  Wynn fought down another yawn. The only woman who had ever managed to break that mold was his adopted sister. Mariah Wynn did not care what anyone thought of her and was quite blatant in her disregard for him.

  His bluestocking sister was the last person who would—

  “What the devil’s the matter with you?”

  Wynn started at the fierce tone and looked at his companion. The Duke of Axwick, as tall as he was and just as dark, was staring at him as though he was possessed.

  “What?”

  Axwick laughed. “God’s teeth, man, I have been attempting to engage you in conversation for the last five minutes, and you have been lost to the world! Any particular lady on your mind?”

  Wynn joined with his laughter. “I should think not, old man—not unless any fresh young ladies have come out into society in the last week?”

  “I rather think they would have had themselves introduced at St. James’s at the beginning of the Season,” Axwick said dryly, his gaze taking in the rabble in the room. “Not much point entering society at the end, is there?”

  Wynn shook his head. “In that case, no. I am disappointed to report there are no ladies in Almack’s or in London, able to tempt me.”

  “You are far too particular!”

  “If anything, I am not particular enough,” Wynn interjected with a grin. “My reputation of a dastardly rake precedes me, and I will admit, a small part of me is proud.”

  Axwick snorted, and Wynn’s grin broadened.

  “Well, perhaps more than a little proud,” he admitted, stepping back with his friend as a gaggle of laughing ladies hurried past them.

  “You are God’s gift to women, then?”

  Wynn nodded. “Well, they say that a Wynn always wins. But that does not mean I will seduce any woman up for tupping. I have some standards, though they are admittedly low.”

  He laughed, but Axwick frowned and kept silent. A little too late, Wynn remembered his friend had undergone a change of heart since the last time he was in town.

  Two years ago, Axwick—who was in some way a distant cousin, although they could not remember how—had been dark, dismal, and content to stay at home. He had sworn off women in general and matrimony specifically, did not drink, did not gamble…

  Wynn remembered them spending hours debating what to do, before realizing the entire evening had disappeared in the discussion.

  And then the elder of the two admitted he had not only fallen in love but married.

  “I spoke rashly,” Wynn said quietly. “I do apologize, Axwick. You know I would never treat a true lady like that—but I have needs.”

  Axwick’s smile was forced. “You did not speak rashly, my friend, you spoke without thinking with whom you spoke.”

  “Perhaps. But I won’t again.”

  As the music stopped and the dancers were applauded, Axwick spoke again. “Come now, you have to dance. If you do not dance at Almack’s, were you even here?”

  Wynn groaned. “I do not wish to spend twenty minutes of my life—twenty minutes that I will never get back, mind!—listening to a girl chatter on about her gown or the busyness of the room—”

  “Or the cost of her gloves,” Axwick added.

  “Or even worse,” Wynn said with a sigh, “how eligible she is. God’s teeth, man, I do not know how you bear it. You come here every week?”

  It was challenging to think of anything much worse.

  Axwick shrugged. “I have a reputation to maintain, Wynn, something you know little about. ’Tis fine for you to stay hidden in that pile of yours in the country, but others have to maintain our positions. Tabitha is fortunate, she has the excuse of our child to hide away from the world. I have to come here, stand, and look impressive.”

  “Which you do well.”

  The sarcastic tone was not lost on Axwick, who rolled his eyes. “Now, let us see if we can find you a partner.”

  “Why can’t you dance?” Wynn protested. “If you are for it, why—”

  “I am an old married man,” countered Axwick, who was not yet six and thirty. “My dancing days are over. It would be most unseemly to offer my hand to another woman. You, on the other hand, are one of the most eligible gentlemen in town. You must have heard the gossip?”

  Wynn demurred, but his ego was flattered.

  “I see you have,” said Axwick shrewdly. “Now, who would…ah, yes. Devonshire!”

  A gentleman a few yards away turned and smiled at Axwick. After a few words of apology to his companions, he strode over.

  Wynn could not help but be intrigued. Axwick was one of the highest houses with which he was acquainted—the Devonshires were a truly noble house, one of the oldest. He had never been introduced to any of its members, and if he was not mistaken, he was about to be introduced to its head.

  As the gentleman bowed, Wynn examined him with a careful eye. He was handsome and relaxed as only a gentleman born to the heights of privilege could be.

  “Devonshire, may I introduce my friend and third cousin once removed—”

  “Or first cousin three times removed,” interjected Wynn with a lazy grin. “Neither of us is sure.”

  “Edward, Viscount Wynn,” finished Axwick with a smile. “Wynn, I have the honor of introducing Montague Cavendish, the seventeenth Duke of Devonshire.”

  The two gentlemen bowed again, but before Wynn could say anything, Axwick continued.

  “My friend here is looking for a dance partner,” said Axwick, smiling knowingly at Devonshire. “I wondered whether your cousin would be interested in being introduced.”

  Devonshire raised an eyebrow. “Lady Letitia Cavendish?”
r />   A hint of interest warmed in Wynn’s stomach. Lady Letitia Cavendish…he had never heard of her before, but by mere virtue of her name, she was someone worth knowing. The Cavendish family was known for beauty, wit, and wealth.

  For all of his talk that there were no young ladies left to be introduced to, it certainly could not hurt to meet her, and her wit would be a pleasant distraction from the monotony of the evening.

  “I would be honored to be introduced to the Lady Letitia,” Wynn said aloud with a quick nod. “If she would stand with me.”

  Devonshire smiled. “My cousin would certainly like to dance, I am sure of it. Please excuse me, gentlemen, and I will fetch her.”

  Before Wynn could say another word, Devonshire had bowed and departed from their company.

  Wynn whistled slowly. “God in Heaven, Axwick, I did not know you were that well connected.”

  Axwick laughed, lifting a drink from a platter. “If you live in London, you cannot help but know people. I tell you, Wynn, Lady Letitia is a genteel woman, and you should treat her that way.”

  A mischievous grin crept over Wynn’s face. “My dear man, you know I cannot promise not to seduce a Cavendish, not when…”

  His voice trailed away as his eyes fell upon Devonshire, returning hand in hand with a young woman who evidently did not want to be joining them.

  “Monty, let me go,” she muttered, her eyes wide and staring.

  Wynn’s heart sank. She was plain, plain even for Almack’s. God be damned, this was Lady Letitia? This unadorned chit?

  He had seen her when he had invited himself to the Devonshires’ wedding reception, seen her conversing with Mariah—but he had taken her for a servant girl, her gown had been so uninteresting and her presence so uninspired. No jewelry at all, and a hunted look as though she did not belong.

  He had walked straight past her, nodded at Mariah as he knew his mother would have wanted, and gone on his way.

  To think that she was a Cavendish!

  Devonshire smiled, his grip still firmly on Lady Letitia’s hand as she struggled to retreat.