Always the Wallflower (Never the Bride Book 5)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Letitia almost laughed.

  She swallowed. This was indecorous, and it would take only a snippet of their conversation to be overheard, and her reputation would be ruined.

  “Yes, I had a pleasant time,” she said a little more strongly.

  His disappointment was clear, and it gave her a moment of unexpected pleasure. When was the last time a woman had rejected his invitation for further intimacy?

  But it did not seem to humble the viscount. “Was that your father I spotted last night?”

  She sighed and nodded.

  They had reached one end of the park, and for one wild moment, Letitia considered running out of the gates and not stopping until she reached the safety of home.

  But what was at home, except more rules—whereas here, she felt a tingle move down her spine each time she looked at Edward.

  “It was my father,” she said, turning around and continuing to walk. “I had not noticed the time, and when I did, I immediately left the Devonshires’, but that was still too late.”

  “Letitia, you are a young lady, not a child.”

  “And he is my father,” she said stiffly, a little shocked at her own daring. “Ladies do not ever lose the caring eye of a gentleman, whether parent, partner, or progeny.”

  “There is far more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there, Letitia? I do not think one in a thousand young ladies would even think that, let alone say it. And they call you a wallflower.”

  The word froze Letitia’s heart. She stopped. “I would like you to leave me alone now.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced up at the gentleman who was fast becoming the only man she could ever think of as a suitor.

  “Because…” A quick glance about proved there was no one close, no one to overhear and get the wrong idea about what she was about to say. “Because…”

  “Because you are a rake, sir,” Letitia said, looking up into his dark eyes, wishing she could stare into them forever. “You are not to be trusted.”

  A gust of wind blew his dark hair, causing a spark of desire she did not understand.

  “I would like you to trust me, Letty.”

  “You—you court many young ladies, and they all trust you,” she breathed. “None of them last long, if the gossip of the ton is anything to go by.”

  “Well, you should not trust that gossip.”

  “I trust myself,” she whispered. They were intoxicatingly close now, and it felt wrong and deliciously right. “There is even talk you have…have ruined reputations.”

  “Would you like to find out firsthand?”

  The invitation to further passion was intoxicating, but she would not allow herself to be overwhelmed. She must not give in.

  “I am a joke to you, Viscount Wynn, and yet I have a reputation to maintain if I am ever to—”

  “Ever to what?” he asked. “Ever to what, Letitia? Because if you want what I think you want, I may be about to offer that.”

  It was impossible to prevent her emotions from showing. Was he in earnest? Desire, panic, fascination, curiosity—it was not possible to untangle them.

  “What say you?”

  She did not know what to say—she was not sure she could remember how to speak. This was the longest conversation she had ever had with a gentleman in her life, and it was running away from her.

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “I have nothing more to…to say to you, sir. As you have nothing but nonsense to say to me, I must say good day.”

  It was with a great effort of concentration that she stepped away from Viscount Wynn and started back toward the park gate. It was clear Mariah had forgotten their engagement, and the safest place she could be now was at home.

  “Letty, wait!”

  “What do you want from me?” She had not meant the words to be shouted, hurled at him as she turned on him in anger and desperation, but she was pushed to the brink. “What are you trying to prove? No gentleman speaks to me like this, they do not speak to me at all, and I do not trust you! What do you want?”

  He looked a little surprised.

  “I…” He swallowed, betraying a little hesitation of his own. “I do not know. I want to know you better, Letty, in every way.”

  His words did not seem to make any sense. “You said I am a wallflower. There is nothing else to know about me.”

  “You cannot be replanted? Somewhere else, in the sunshine, where you will thrive?”

  She suddenly smiled, the image of the viscount as sunshine in her imagination. He was a foot from her now, but she had to end the conversation—if she was to maintain any sort of dignity.

  “Good day, sir.”

  He caught her hand.

  “Why,” he whispered, looking down into her eyes with such fierce intensity, she gasped, “are you fighting this?”

  All the breath was knocked out of her, her heart thumping wildly, her mind racing—and it was thrilling, a part of her wanting someone to see her in such a compromising position.

  His hand was still entwined with her fingers, his other hand around her waist. Every nerve in her body was on fire, and try as she might, it was impossible not to think how few layers of clothing kept his skin from hers.

  “F-Fight what?”

  Viscount Wynn smiled. “This.”

  Without another word, he raised their hands and pressed hers to his chest right above his heart—which Letitia could feel pounding, even through the thick wool of his greatcoat.

  She stared at their joined hands and then up at his face. It was almost impossible to believe, but there was no greater proof than his own heartbeat. He felt something, too. His body was reacting to her just as she was reacting to him.

  Here she was, thinking she was alone in this confusing passion.

  Her gaze dropped to his lips, and the need to kiss him rushed through her. They were alone here, no one would see. It would be a moment just between them.

  His lips were only a few inches from hers.

  “I do not understand,” she murmured. “What does this all mean? What do you want from me, Edward?”

  He rewarded her with a roguish grin, the kind that tempted her to do things she should never think about. And just as she thought he would finally kiss her…

  “Good day, Lady Letitia.”

  Without another word, he walked away.

  She stared after him, surprised her legs were still able to hold her up.

  “Letitia, I do apologize, I got utterly caught up in a book and did not notice the time!”

  Mariah was coming toward her, book in hand.

  Mariah smiled as she reached her, slightly out of breath. “Did I miss anything?”

  Chapter Six

  Edward sighed heavily. “Are you absolutely sure that I have to go?”

  His butler, Peters, smiled as he placed another silver platter on the dining table. “I would not dare tell his lordship what to do, naturally.”

  Edward sat alone at one end of the table with a glass of port in one hand and the damned invitation in the other.

  It was from Lady Romeril, and it had been irritating him for the last three days. Covered in more gold leaf than he thought possible outside of Rome, the handwriting was in a delicate but old-fashioned style.

  It greatly pleases Lady Romeril to extend an invitation to a ball at Twenty-Five Gardenia Place, London, on the seventeenth of this month.

  RSVPs are not required. Lady Romeril looks forward to the pleasure of your company.

  He sighed and placed the invitation down beside his plate, taking a long sip of port. RSVPs not required, indeed. No, Lady Romeril would not even consider that someone who received her invitation would decline.

  And to be fair, she was probably correct. He would be a fool not to go, even though the thought of another ball exhausted him.

  Lady Romeril was one of the matriarchs of society.

  He had heard she only held one ball a year in Bath, making it almost impossible for every debutante to receive an
invitation.

  Edward leaned back in his chair. The pain and pleasure of finding out whether you had been invited, whether your friends had—the gossips spreading the news of who had been left off the list this time…

  It was sickening. Round they went, all of society in one giant circle waiting to be approved by each other. He was tired of it.

  Now the only young lady on his mind was Lady Letitia Cavendish.

  Just the thought of her made his blood boil, and he had to put the glass down carefully as thoughts of her overwhelmed him.

  “Another glass, your lordship?”

  God, every moment of his waking life was filled with Letitia; every one of his senses cried out for her. The way she smiled, the way she blushed—the way she kissed him in the carriage, the wild abandon he had not thought possible, the way she had wanted to kiss him so evidently in the park three days ago.

  What did he want? Everything.

  It was more than physical. More than anything he had experienced before. He had seduced Miss Keyford, enjoyed a brief dalliance with Miss Emma Tilbury—who had not?—but none compared to one kiss from Letitia.

  “Are you quite well, sir?”

  Edward jumped. Peters was standing beside him with the port bottle, concern across his features.

  “Blast it all, Peters, cannot a man enjoy his thoughts?” he blustered, picking up his glass to allow the servant to refresh it. “Go on, leave me to it.”

  Lady Romeril’s ball, he should think about leaving soon.

  Would Letitia be there?

  A cough made Edward start. Peters was standing in the open door with a greatcoat in his hands.

  “Your carriage is waiting, your lordship.”

  Edward blinked. “My—my carriage? I did not order the carriage.”

  “No, sir, but I did,” the butler said smoothly. “For your journey to Lady Romeril’s ball. I am sure you will enjoy yourself when you get there.”

  Damnit, that was the trouble with clever servants. It was why Edward had kept Peters on when his father had died; he needed someone who knew how to run a house.

  “You are witty, are you not, Peters?” Edward said as he rose from his chair. “And yet, I am hardly dressed for—”

  “I have the waistcoat and cravat right here, your lordship,” said Jameson, appearing out of nowhere like a spirit in the mist. “I had the feeling you may not be quite adequately prepared for an outing at Lady Romeril’s.”

  Edward smiled. His valet, new to the household and eager to please, looked like a puppy desperate to be picked up.

  Peters caught his eye, and the two men grinned.

  “You are circumspect, Jameson,” Edward said gravely as he stepped into the hall and allowed his valet to remove his coat. “Peters, please send the carriage back for me at one o’clock.”

  “My goodness, sir,” said the butler as Edward tried not to breathe as his cravat was tied. “So early?”

  Edward nodded as his waistcoat was carefully buttoned up. “I do not believe this is going to be an exciting party, Peters, and I would rather be home for a good night’s sleep. Thank you, Jameson.”

  There was a reason Viscount Wynn had not felt welcome in many of the best parlors in society. A mere viscount? But that would not deter him from making an appearance.

  Was Letty invited?

  She was a Cavendish. It was unlikely that Lady Romeril would have excluded her from the guest list. And that meant that his best chance of seeing Letty was right through those doors.

  He stepped up into the house and was immediately accosted by Lady Romeril.

  “Oh, my dear Viscount Wynn,” she said with a false smile. “And I thought you would not come. What a pleasure.”

  “My lady,” Edward returned her smile and bowed. “What an elegant gown you—”

  “Yes, yes, that is all very well,” Lady Romeril interrupted, her bad temper showing. “But I thought you were Prinny, dear boy, and I cannot pretend that compared to him, you are a bit of a disappointment. Who are you pursuing at the moment, by the way? I have not heard any gossip on you for what feels like an age. Ah—is that Prinny?”

  Edward turned to see another gentleman walk up the steps, and not the Prince.

  “What a disappointment you are, Lord Rust,” said their hostess with a sigh. “Although I expect you hear that often.”

  “Only from my wife,” smiled Lord Rust, good-naturedly, inclining his head toward Edward and walking by them.

  After a few minutes of chatter with Lady Romeril and being warned not to ruin any of her guests’ reputations, Edward was dismissed. He could leave now, and she would assume he stayed until three in the morning. But he should see if some familiar faces were in the card room before he disappeared.

  He passed an open door leading to the dancing and saw a flurry of white gowns and gloves, and swallowed. If he knew Letitia, and he was not sure he did, she would be in there, watching the dazzling spectacle from a distance. Letty was not one to put herself forward, though she was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The more he looked, the more she eclipsed every other woman.

  The moment he entered the card room, friendly faces appeared, Axwick, and a gentleman he had once been introduced to, the Earl of Chester.

  Edward almost sagged with relief. Sane men, gentlemen with whom he could have a decent conversation for an hour and return home. No need for the carriage, he would walk—anything to be by himself again.

  “Wynn,” Axwick said with a grin as Edward dropped into the empty chair next to him. “I had not expected to see you here.”

  “No?” He inclined his head to Chester, who returned the courtesy. “Why?”

  Axwick’s grin broadened. “You are Edward, Viscount Wynn. Are you not inundated with party invitations and dinner engagements every single evening?”

  He and Chester laughed without malice.

  “There,” said Chester impressively, throwing down his cards. “Now, tell me if you can that you have a better hand—I dare you!”

  “I do not dare,” Axwick said with a sigh, “and I still do not understand this game. Are you sure you are telling me the rules correctly?”

  “Do you think I am cheating?” Chester asked in mock horror, and Edward chuckled.

  Axwick shrugged. “I would not know if you were, and it matters little either way. More than thirty years without playing cards has left me at a permanent disadvantage, I fear.”

  “Did you see the news?” Chester looked at the pair of them with interest. “About the Earl of Liverpool?”

  Axwick snorted as he pulled the cards toward him to reshuffle. “I do not believe he will be Prime Minister much longer, if you ask me.”

  The conversation washed over him. Politics had never interested the viscount.

  Letty was probably a few feet away in the other room.

  There was a pause in the conversation, and he took his chance to demonstrate he was still paying attention. “And is the scandal likely to be great?”

  In that moment, a gentleman Edward did not know fell into the final empty chair at the table.

  “I say, chaps, Mr. Jarvis is the name, and I am hoping you will be able to help me.”

  Edward glanced at Axwick, who was evidently as unimpressed at being addressed by a stranger as ‘chaps’ as he was.

  Chester, however, was a gentleman with kinder sensibilities. “Good evening, Mr. Jarvis. How can we help you?”

  The man had a mousey face and little hair and could have easily been any of their fathers.

  “Why, ’tis the wallflower, of course.”

  Edward stiffened. “Wallflower?”

  His word was quick, and all three gentlemen stared.

  Mr. Jarvis nodded. “Yes, the wallflower in the other room. Who is she?”

  “Is she exquisitely beautiful, with fiery hair and eyes like diamonds?”

  Edward looked around for the gentleman who had spoken before he realized the astonished looks of Axwick, Chester, and Mr. Jarvis.


  It had been him. He had spoken the thought aloud.

  The embarrassed silence was not broken, and Edward felt, for the first time in a long time, the awkwardness of a person who had spoken out of turn in public. This was not like him; he was usually the charming one.

  “I do not know, i’faith,” Mr. Jarvis said, his nose scrunched up. “I would not say she is that pretty, ’pon my soul. Just a wallflower.”

  “That wallflower is probably Lady Letitia Cavendish,” said Chester quietly.

  Mr. Jarvis’s stare now moved to him. “How can you know, you have not accompanied me to the other room to look at her!”

  “Because,” said Axwick in a voice which indicated the conversation would soon be closed, “in most social occasions, the wallflower is Lady Letitia Cavendish. A very elegant and proper young lady. Good evening, Mr. Jarvis.”

  Axwick began dealing out the cards, purposefully not placing a hand before the interloper—but Mr. Jarvis did not take the hint.

  Instead, he laughed. “God, most social occasions? Well, if she is that desperate, I will stand up with her, to be sure—and see if I can get her lying down in a dark corner—arrggh, God’s teeth!”

  Edward’s fist flew through the air without conscious thought and made contact with the stranger’s nose with a satisfying crack. He found himself standing, chest heaving, fist aching, but a dull sense of satisfaction pouring through his veins.

  Mr. Jarvis was lying on the floor. “Christ, what was that for? You want to tup her first? I don’t mind waiting—don’t let him touch me!”

  Chester had indeed moved forward to hold Edward back.

  “He is not worth it, Wynn,” Axwick’s voice said from behind him, but Edward’s blood was boiling.

  “He—he said,” panted Edward, out of breath, his eyes narrowed and unwavering from the bleeding man. “He must not say such…disgusting things…”

  But you wanted her yourself, a little voice reminded him.

  “What in God’s name is happening here?”

  Edward turned. Several people had rushed into the room to see what the commotion was about, a gentleman had shouted out, and behind him was Letitia.

  She stared as he shook his wrist, as though that would relieve him of the pain, and then her gaze moved to the man on the floor.