Always the Wallflower (Never the Bride Book 5)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  “I have the pleasure of introducing you to my cousin,” he said. “Lady Letitia Cavendish.”

  For the first time in his life, Wynn felt awkward. Bowing his head quickly and hoping to God she would reject his hand once he made the offer to dance, by the time he looked up, her face was pink.

  Oh, God, Wynn thought dully. One of those. Too embarrassed to say anything, too shy to contribute to the conversation—the wallflowers of society.

  Trust him to be parceled off to a wallflower, but what could he do? He would have to dance with her, and just cross his fingers it would be a short one.

  This was a good lesson in not accepting a lady’s hand before seeing her. Not even if she was the cousin of a nobleman.

  Not even if she was a Cavendish.

  Plastering a stiff smile across his face, Wynn proffered his hand. “Lady Letitia, would you do the honor of standing with me for this next dance?”

  For a heart-stopping moment, he actually thought she was going to refuse him. Her gray eyes jerked toward her cousin as though begging him to be relieved of this arduous duty, and a prickle of irritation rose in Wynn. She did not wish to dance with him?

  “My cousin would be delighted,” Devonshire said hastily, pulling Lady Letitia forward so rapidly that she was obliged to reach out a hand to steady herself—which fell into Wynn’s extended one.

  Wynn kept his face as calm as possible. “The honor is all mine.”

  Enough pleasantries. The music was starting up, and Wynn walked toward the set with her on his arm.

  Well, it could not harm his reputation in the long run. She may be plain, with rather startling red hair pulled back in what could not be described as the latest fashion, but she was a Cavendish.

  After placing her in the row of ladies, Wynn turned to face her and tried to smile—but she did not return the compliment. In fact, unlike every other young lady with whom he had ever danced, she did not smile, blush at his attentions, or try to impress him with a witticism.

  Lady Letitia Cavendish stood there, silent, her eyes on the ground. As the music started and they bowed and curtsied to each other, he expected her to simper, but no. The most meager curtsey without even catching his eye.

  “Are you enjoying the evening?” he asked.

  This was her moment to shine if she wanted to—but instead of melting in his gaze and giggling at the attention, she nodded.

  In all other respects, she gave no sign she had heard him. She could have been standing up with anyone.

  With anyone. The thought burned in Wynn’s mind. How dare she—he was Viscount Wynn! He could see a few ladies who were watching him with great interest, and his irritation piqued.

  “Your gown is elegant,” he said stiffly as they joined hands to walk in a circle.

  Lady Letitia did not raise her head. “Thank you.”

  She was the most prickly thing he had ever met, and Wynn could not deny her evident disinterest in him was intriguing.

  Women loved him; they always had, and he had never struggled to entertain. He may be bored of them, bored of hearing the same simpering fawning words, but that did not mean he did not want to hear them.

  But not Lady Letitia. She evidently wished to draw no attention to herself, and Wynn could not help but be fascinated.

  As they paraded down the set, he looked at her more closely and made a startling discovery.

  Lady Letitia Cavendish was not plain.

  It was easy to think that if one just took a glance. Everything about her dress and toilette seemed designed to avoid attention, to be dull and pale, to fall into the background.

  When one looked beyond that, she was quite startling. Her gray eyes were bright, intelligent. Her lips were soft, pink, and virginal. Something in Wynn’s stomach stirred as their hands parted, and she clasped hands with the gentleman to his left.

  “Lady Letitia, I think you know my sister,” he said quietly as they came together again, this time in an earnest attempt to draw her into conversation.

  But she was not so easily fooled. “Adopted sister,” she said quietly.

  This was unheard of. Wynn had never failed to entertain a young lady before, never failed to make her laugh, bring a flush to her cheeks, or make her invite him to kiss her.

  Lady Letitia looked more likely to fall asleep in his presence.

  “Is there no topic I can draw you to speak on?” His voice was harsher than he meant, but really. This was ridiculous.

  She did not seem to care. “I am not a conversationalist.”

  “Well, I should have expected nothing better,” he said finally, snapping with irritation, “from a wallflower.”

  She stopped dead in the dance, the lady to her left quickly darting around her to prevent a collision.

  Lady Letitia glared, her eyes fierce.

  Wynn took a step back. No one had ever glared at him like that.

  After a lifetime of easily charming women, he was now faced with one who simply would not be charmed.

  “I—I apologize, Lady Letitia,” he said awkwardly, moving toward her to keep his voice low. “I should not have said… I am sorry.”

  She stared as though he was a piece of dirt she had found on her shoe.

  She was a firebrand, one who had never sparked before, but there was true passion there, hidden under the desire to be unseen.

  Lady Letitia Cavendish was a woman he had never expected.

  “Lady Letitia,” he began.

  Without saying a word, she turned on her heels and strode away.

  “Lady Letitia!” Wynn shouted, desperate to stop her, to explain.

  After a brief word with Devonshire, whose eyes quickly snapped over to him, Lady Letitia walked out of Almack’s.

  An uncomfortable heat rose up the back of Wynn’s neck as he attempted to smile, moving out of the dance set as he no longer had a partner.

  Murmurs surrounded him as onlookers attempted to guess what he could have possibly said to warrant such a reaction, but Wynn did not care.

  His thoughts were on Lady Letitia. No one had ever wanted to walk away from him before.

  Perhaps Lady Letitia was no wallflower after all.

  Chapter Three

  “It was quite a dull affair.”

  Even to Letitia’s ears, her words were not convincing—and Harry raised an eyebrow.

  “A dull affair? Almack’s, near the end of the Season, with every young thing desperate to prove their worth?” Harry sniffed. “It does not sound likely, Letitia. What happened?”

  It was all she could do to prevent weariness from seeping into her words, but then she had been fielding questions for almost an hour.

  “Nothing happened,” she said more firmly.

  Lady Harriet was not accustomed to being told no, and certainly not from Letitia. Their friendship went back to the cradle, and that meant—to Letitia’s disappointment—she was not so easily fooled.

  “I cannot believe it,” she said with a smile. “Something always happens at Almack’s!”

  Letitia’s gaze drifted away, unwilling to make eye contact while attempting to lie. Harry snorted and dropped her own gaze to the embroidery in her hands, picking up her needle and stabbing it forcefully through one section with a look of irritation.

  “You know I will just keep on asking.”

  Letitia sighed. She needed to change the conversation now. “If you were so interested in what could happen at Almack’s last night, it would have been well for you to attend yourself. What are you working on? It looks elegant.”

  It was one of the longest speeches Letitia had ever made under such duress, but Harry merely kept working.

  “Hateful thing, is it not?” she said cheerfully. “I never enjoyed needlework as a child, and I hate it even more as an adult.”

  “Then why do it?”

  Harry shrugged. “’Tis less dull than many other things. I was not feeling well last night, Letitia, as well you know, and so it was not possible to attend. Most irritating. Mon
ty told me he met Viscount Wynn—you know, the rake who has finally returned to town?”

  Throat dry, Letitia’s gaze dropped to her hands, twisted uselessly in her lap. Just hearing his name was enough to take her right back to that moment. She had stood up with Viscount Wynn, had her chance to impress him, and what had she done?

  Stalked away like a petulant child.

  “Did you meet him or any other gentlemen of interest?”

  Letitia swallowed. She had been a fool to come here, but Harry’s invitation had been so insistent. And she was family now. One could not decline an invitation from family.

  “N-No one of note,” she managed before her voice failed her, and she reached along the sofa to pick up another piece of embroidery. “Is…is this your own work?”

  “What?” Harry glanced up at it and grinned. “Lord, no, that is one of Lady Honora’s pieces—you know, the Countess of Chester?”

  “Is it really? It is beautiful,” said Letitia gratefully. “I do admire the way she—”

  “And you did not meet Viscount Wynn?”

  Her damned body—Letitia had always hated the lack of control she had of her own flesh. Why, oh, why did it have to pink? Why did it so easily give her away?

  More importantly, why had other people learned how to lie, and lie easily, and yet she had never developed a talent for it?

  “No,” she managed.

  Harry sighed heavily. The duchess’s eyes were darting between the embroidery in her hands and the pattern on a crumpled piece of paper to her left.

  “It does not seem possible that you did not run into anyone,” she said. “Who did you speak to?”

  If only she could move the conversation to something else—anything else! Letitia’s pulse throbbed in her ears, her breathing shallow. She had no wish to lie, but how else would she avoid these direct questions?

  She could not reveal the truth, but how much longer would she have to suffer through this interrogation?

  “It was…it was a quiet affair,” Letitia managed with a smile. “Honestly, Harry, you know what Almack’s is like near the end of the Season. ’Tis…’tis far more likely that people are attending private balls than public ones.”

  She swallowed. With every response concealing what had really happened between her and Viscount Wynn, the more her mind drifted toward him.

  Just the thought of him made prickles of heat flutter all over her body. He had been so tall, so domineering, and his words had caused her such pain.

  She would not have believed it possible to embarrass herself so thoroughly in ten minutes, but of course, she had managed it.

  Letitia could not remember the last time she had danced in public—it must have been almost three years ago. No wonder she had made a fool of herself; embarrassment was an unavoidable result of her standing up.

  If only it had been because of her charming words that she felt such a rush, or perhaps because she had danced a few steps out of time that she had been embarrassed.

  Why had she abandoned Viscount Wynn in the middle of the set at Almack’s, completely alone, because he had offended her?

  “Almack’s? Quiet affair?”

  Harry’s words hardly registered as Letitia descended into a silent panic of remembrance. And what was it that Viscount Wynn had done to offend her?

  He had talked to her!

  Worse, he had attempted to flatter her. If he had known her, he would not have bothered.

  It was clear he had not seen her as a potential seduction, certainly not a woman he could court and bed, as he had done to so many other young ladies of the ton if the rumors were true.

  Not that Letitia would have allowed him to do such a thing.

  Without warning, without conscious thought, her mind was suddenly filled with wild thoughts of how Viscount Wynn could seduce her. His hands, moving across her, his mouth whispering desperately delicious things, his lips lowering down to hers…

  “I know you, Letitia.”

  She jumped. Harry was staring with a shrewd smile.

  “M-Me?” Letitia managed.

  Harry nodded. “Do not think you can hide it from me, girl, we have known each other more than twenty years! You have met a gentleman, have you not?”

  Her heart thundered in her chest. “Of course not.”

  But the duchess smiled as she laid down her needlework. “I do not know why you deny it, Letitia, ’tis hardly a crime nor a sin. What is his name?”

  Letitia swallowed. “No one.”

  Her treacherous mind returned once more to Viscount Wynn. He was such a figure of a gentleman, she had never seen anyone like him, and she had been given one chance—just one!—to impress him.

  “I have the pleasure of introducing you to my cousin, Lady Letitia Cavendish.”

  Heat flashed through her like a wave as the memory of that stilted introduction by her cousin came back to her. It was too cruel of Monty to force her into that position. He knew how discomforted she felt in the presence of strangers.

  If she had kept her head, she could have been kissed last night by Viscount Wynn…

  Letitia blinked. She had lost all concentration, and Harry was smiling in a dreadfully knowing way. It was unfair that Harry should know her that well.

  Determined to take her companion’s attention away from her for just one minute, Letitia cast about desperately in her mind for another topic—and found one.

  “Have you heard that the lending library on Piccadilly has received a new delivery?”

  Harry’s eyes brightened. “Are you sure? I did not believe they were due to receive anything until Saturday.”

  Letitia nodded eagerly. “I-I heard it from Lady Romeril, and you know she is always most precise about such things. I wonder whether they have received any novels.”

  “Or scientific works for your friend, Miss Wynn.”

  A small smile crept over Letitia’s face. Mariah was quite unique in that respect.

  She said instead, “Why not go down to Piccadilly and visit the lending library? It would be a shame to miss the latest additions because we were not circumspect enough to visit in time.”

  Letitia saw the mingled desire and hesitation in Harry’s face.

  “I had not anticipated a long walk today,” Harry said with a glance at the window. Sunlight was streaming through it. “Although I will admit, the weather is fine.”

  “’Tis only a short walk,” she said quickly, relieved to have found a topic that adequately distracted her friend from gentlemen and balls. “I insist, Harry—and we can call for the carriage for the return trip if we feel fatigued.”

  Harry considered the proposal.

  “Well,” she said bracingly, “’tis better than embroidery. Ring the bell, Letitia, and we will venture out!”

  There were unending conversations before they left—agreeing with the cook exactly what was to be served for dinner, informing the butler of their intended destination, and declaring to the coachman that he may be required to meet them at Piccadilly in just over an hour’s time.

  It was a wonder, Letitia thought as they finally left, Harry managed to go anywhere. But there was a small part of her, one she would never admit, which envied this majestic rule over her own domain.

  At home, Letitia had to beg permission to ask a servant a thing, even if it was her own lady’s maid. Her father was still the king in his own land.

  “There we are,” said Harry, interrupting Letitia’s thoughts as they turned a corner. “I was so thrilled when the lending library opened here. There is one in Bath, of course, and one further across town, but I much prefer having one here, a few streets away. Do you think they will have another copy of Hebrew Melodies, by Lord Byron?”

  “I do hope so,” said Letitia warmly as they made their way toward its impressive doors. “It is a sanctuary, a lending library, and there is never enough Byron to go around.”

  A sigh of relief escaped her lips when they stepped over the threshold and into the silence of the place.
In all her visits with Mariah, Letitia had never seen a gentleman. Here at least, she would be safe.

  Why would men bother? They purchased their books; they did not borrow them.

  Letitia saw a few familiar faces and felt the tension in her shoulders disappear. The lending library was a rare refuge from the gazes of men, which she was met with everywhere else she went.

  No dancing, no forced conversation, no opportunity to be a wallflower. Just herself and books.

  “Well met, Lady Letitia.”

  She twisted around in horror to see the owner of that voice—a voice she knew, though she had heard it but once before.

  Viscount Wynn was standing behind her, leaning against a shelf with a book in his hand and a smile on his face. He was even more handsome than she had remembered, and in the daylight streaming through the window, his almost-black hair shone.

  “I-I did not…I did not see you…” She hated her voice for being so insipid. Why was it impossible to speak when confronted with a gentleman outside her small and intimate acquaintance?

  And Viscount Wynn, of all people?

  He smiled and took a step toward her. “Oh, dear, Lady Letitia. Cat got your tongue?”

  “Letitia? Oh, there you are! Yes, they have another copy of—oh.” Harry’s voice trailed away as she saw an unknown gentleman staring at her companion. “Letitia, will you not introduce us?”

  Letitia swallowed. It was all too much—she had come here precisely to avoid conversation about Viscount Wynn, and now here she was, literally faced with him!

  “H-Harry,” Letitia said weakly, attempting to communicate with a terrified look that she needed to be rescued from the situation.

  “Your Grace, allow me the honor of introducing myself,” Viscount Wynn’s voice spoke smoothly behind Letitia. “Your husband was so good as to introduce me to his cousin, Lady Letitia, last night at Almack’s. I am Edward, Viscount Wynn, and I am your servant.”

  He bowed, which Harry returned with an elegant curtsey. These pleasantries over, Letitia stared between them as they silently looked at her.

  The wild desire to run away and leave them both flashed through her mind. She had stepped into one of her nightmares!