She had not come over here to be belittled and shamed; she had asked Edward to dance—but now she thought of it, he had not answered.
“Yes, it is truly wonderful to be taken in by one’s family—our mothers were sisters, you know,” Lady Antoinette said playfully, placing her hand on Edward’s arm. Letitia could not pretend she hadn’t seen it, her heart growing cold. “We had not seen each other for so many years, and when my poor Papa—”
“I do not think Lady Letitia wants to hear the details,” Edward interrupted. “I am sure it is not a topic you yourself wish to dwell on, either.”
“Perhaps you would like to dance,” Letitia said timidly, not knowing why she was so bold, but knowing she would regret it forever if she did not. “I have heard, Viscount Wynn, that you enjoy dancing.”
Letitia’s heart was in her mouth as she waited for his response.
Edward glanced around him. Gentlemen were listening to the conversation—whether because Lady Antoinette was such a beauty, or because Letitia had shamed herself, she could not tell.
It was like being locked in a cage, and Letitia stared. Why did he just not say yes?
“I…I would—of course, yes,” Edward said finally.
But his gaze dropped, and Letitia saw, with horror, something akin to shame on his features.
He was ashamed of her. Of course he was; she should have known his attentions to her would always be in private, not public.
“I do not wish to be a burden or a chore,” she said quietly. “If you do not wish to dance, all you need say is—”
“I do,” Edward interrupted, still not looking at her. “But, I know I cannot expect you to leave off being a wallflower for my sake.”
Letitia stared. She had wanted to see him, hear his voice, be close to him.
But this was not the Edward she knew. Did he call her a wallflower? After all he had said to her before, after all his bluster about replanting her?
He had called her a wallflower, in public, and before a woman who looked as though she was stifling down her laughter with great difficulty.
She was a Cavendish. She would not allow her emotions to run away with her. She would keep them in check.
“I thought that was precisely what I was doing. I had thought,” she said as coldly as she could muster, “I was leaving my wallflower days behind me. I was mistaken.”
Turning away, she tried to keep her watering eyes from Lady Antoinette’s view.
She reached the hallway corridor when someone took her hand. Letitia turned to see Edward, an emotion she did not recognize burning in his eyes.
“Follow me.”
A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind. Why should she trust him now? Why had he brought this Lady Antoinette to Miss Ashbrooke’s, to flaunt her? Why had he not jumped at the chance to dance with her, and had instead left her to the merciless wit of society?
But none of those emotions formed into conscious sentences. Edward, his hand still enclosed over hers, pulled her down the corridor. They rushed past bowing footmen and curious guests until they reached a door that Edward threw open.
Letitia gasped as the freezing cold air of the night hit her face. It was the door into the garden, and they stepped into the night.
Only then did Edward let go of her hand. He stopped dead and turned to look at her.
Letitia wrapped her arms around herself, trying not to shiver. His face was illuminated by the light cascading through the windows.
Edward smiled faintly. “You took me by surprise.”
Trying to take a deep breath, Letitia examined his features. He did look genuinely wretched and more than a little conflicted.
“I had no wish to force you to do anything,” she said quietly. “You were perfectly at liberty to do whatever you wanted, Edward. I am… I am not your keeper, at least not publicly. But how can I trust you, how can you think I will trust you if you act—”
“I did not expect—I did not expect you to be here at all, to be frank,” Edward said softly and took a step toward her, but she stepped back. “You…you have never been so direct with me before, Letty. I hardly knew what to do with myself.”
“I find that hard to believe! You are in society daily. You do not think that a woman could be bold?”
Her words were fierce, far more determined than she felt. Just looking at him melted all her anger, but underneath was pain, and that did not disappear. How could he have just stood there?
Edward looked just as confused at his own behavior. “I have no words, my darling. Have you never been thrown in a conversation, lost in the moment, unsure how to act?”
Of course she had; that was her life. It was difficult to believe that this confident, rakish man felt the same. “You are not accustomed to a strong woman?”
Edward chuckled and shook his head. “No, ’tis not that. I am not accustomed to you being a strong woman, Letty, but I like it.”
He took another step closer, and this time, Letitia did not step away. Having him so close to her but not touching was sweet torture. All she could think about was the last time his hands had touched her, what pleasure he had given her—they had given each other.
“I also liked the wallflower,” he whispered. “I missed her, Letty.”
Edward leaned forward to kiss her, and she responded with complete abandon.
“I missed you,” she managed to gasp between wild kisses. “Edward…”
“God, Letty, I wanted to kiss you the moment you walked into that room,” he moaned.
Their passion overtook them. Letitia gave no thought to who could be watching them through the windows; this was Edward, his hands in her hair, his lips crushed on hers.
His hand grazed her breasts, and she hated the clothes keeping his touch from her. Every part of her seemed to awake in his presence like nothing else. The thought he could have already ceased to care for her and was more interested in that woman—but she had believed it so quickly.
Who would be interested in Letitia the wallflower?
Eventually, their kisses tailed off, but she remained in his arms.
“I do not like keeping this, us, a secret,” she whispered.
Edward grinned. “I think ’tis the most enjoyable thing about it.”
She could not help herself. She laughed, and Edward kissed her forehead as she leaned against his chest.
“That is all very well,” she said quietly, “but you are the rake, not I. When are we going to—”
“We should go back inside, you will catch your death of cold,” Edward interrupted, lifting her chin up, so she looked into his eyes. “And I would never forgive myself if you were to become unwell because of my selfishness.”
“What about your cousin?”
“She is here for an extended visit, and perhaps the two of you will become friends.”
Letitia nodded, but something uncomfortable remained at the back of her mind. He was more open in society with his cousin than he was with her. Was this to be her courtship with Edward, then, in secret, so no one else could know?
Was he being entirely honest with her? Was he really thrown by her boldness, or was Viscount Wynn, the society rake, ashamed of her?
Chapter Fourteen
Edward craned his neck painfully. “I cannot see her.”
Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon, sighed and shook his head. “Of course not, you dolt—you are looking in entirely the wrong direction!”
Edward ceased looking around the crush of the Axwick ball and punched Braedon lightly on the shoulder.
“You are the one who is supposed to be telling me where to look!”
“I have only seen her once before!” Braedon protested with a mock wince, rubbing where Edward’s fist had landed. “God’s teeth, man, how am I supposed to find anyone in this crush? Axwick invited the entirety of London, by the look of it.”
“I am surprised to see so many people,” Edward agreed, smoothing his cravat as his eyes darted around the crowd. “I thou
ght the intention was a small and intimate party?”
Braedon scoffed as they stepped aside to stop from being flattened by a gaggle of young ladies, all giggling and wearing so many feathers, birds seemed to fly through the air.
“Axwick is such a light touch. Five or six people probably requested additional invitations, and each of them brought a guest…” Braedon raised his eyebrows. “You know Axwick.”
Edward nodded. He had heard the mysterious Miss Lymington would be here, and he had been curious to see her for a while. When he met with Braedon within minutes of arriving at the ball, he had promised he could point her out—but so far, he had been utterly useless.
“If you exaggerated meeting her before, Braedon, just say now,” he said easily. “I will hold no grudge against you, I want the truth.”
Braedon’s eyes widened in jesting horror. “To think that you would doubt my word, my honor, even, because I cannot espy one woman in a crowd of hundreds! Give me but a moment, and I will find her for you. Ladies do not come by order, you know!”
Edward laughed as he helped himself to a glass of red wine.
Well, at least the Axwick ball would be bearable with Braedon by his side. He was a character, and as a viscount himself, there was a natural comfort between the two gentlemen. Neither was too impressed by the other, neither felt the awkwardness of imbalanced nobility.
Braedon was still glancing around the room like a startled puppy, and Edward had to stifle a laugh. He had not been entirely sure whether he had liked Braedon at first and had only accepted his invitation to dine because Braedon was well connected.
That had all changed when Braedon had thrown that disgraceful Kendal from his house. His quick thinking and demonstrable honor had proven that, while Braedon still had a few rough edges, there was some gold in him somewhere.
“There—see her?”
Braedon interrupted his thoughts and nudged his shoulder. Edward glanced up.
About twenty feet away and surrounded by admirers was a woman with black hair, shining eyes, and confidence few women ever had.
“That is Miss Lymington, heiress of the ton,” Braedon muttered. “None are her equal. She has more than thirty thousand pounds, no family to speak of, and is apparently open to suggestions.”
Edward laughed. “I know what open to suggestions means, I am no fool born yesterday. She has someone in mind but will not say.”
She did seem remarkably self-assured, even for a lady who was worth more than most of the other young ladies at the ball combined. There was something intriguing about Miss Lymington, something intoxicating. Edward could feel it, even from here.
She was a natural charmer, and it took one to know one. Edward watched as she carefully paid enough attention to the gentlemen closest to her, but gave delicious glances to the gentlemen outside of her immediate circle.
Edward shook his head with a smile. A remarkable woman.
Braedon drained his drink and smacked his lips. “Well, you are the expert in this area, Wynn, so I bow to your superior knowledge—but no one has made an offer. ’Tis hard to know whether anyone will be good enough for her.”
Miss Lymington laughed, and at least three gentlemen preened on the assumption it had been their words which had made her smile.
Edward grinned knowingly. God, he had used similar tricks himself, and it had made ladies simply throw themselves at him. He was not looking at a natural; he was looking at a professional.
“Will you try for her?”
Edward hesitated before speaking.
His instinct was no. Miss Lymington could not consider him, and he would be a fool to try and convince himself of anything different.
The lady had thirty thousand pounds. More. That put her in the highest leagues, more wealthy than even someone with the pedigree of Lady Letitia Cavendish. Anyone with that size inheritance would not be looking for a viscount; she would be angling for a title far more impressive—a duke maybe. Where better to meet eligible gentlemen than at a duke’s ball?
Watching Miss Lymington walk sedately around the room, happy in the knowledge that she was by far the wealthiest woman in the room, made Edward think a little more deeply.
His heart belonged to Letty, even if he would not admit it. But the habits of a lifetime were hard to break. What a fantastic challenge to see if he could make Miss Lymington fall in love with him.
He had no wish to harm her, no wish to break her heart—but what a test of his charms.
No, he was not seriously considering Miss Lymington as the future Viscountess Wynn.
But wouldn’t it be interesting to see?
“Ah, I thought as much.”
Edward jumped to see Braedon with a knowing smile on his face.
“Thought what?”
“Christ alive, man, I was not born yesterday, although I may act like it,” said Braedon breezily. “I can see you have decided to go after her.”
Edward swallowed. Was he that transparent? “I have made no such decision.”
The glass in his hand felt heavy. If Braedon, a gentleman he hardly knew, had seen his decision, how would he ever keep anything from Miss Lymington—or Letty?
“Why not?” Braedon shrugged, waving his empty glass at a footman who immediately bobbed his head and disappeared. “You are not engaged to be married, and the more I know you, Wynn, the more I am convinced you never will be.”
Just a few months ago, he would agree with his new friend; but without any warning, a vision of Letitia walking down the aisle to him in the most beautiful and yet simple gown, with a veil over her eyes, flashed into his mind.
Something lurched in his stomach. It would not be the end of the world if he found himself married to Letty. A lifetime of laughter with her? Hidden away in Redmont, where no one could ever bother them, and they could simply enjoy each other’s company—and each other’s bodies?
It was certainly not a terrible future.
“Ah, there’s Lady Letitia Cavendish.”
Edward almost cricked his neck. Braedon was right. Letty had entered the room on the arm of the Duchess of Devonshire, looking a little overwhelmed at the crush.
Relief spread through his body. Letty was with Harry, and although it still made him feel a little discomforted to refer to one of the most noble woman in the country with such a nickname, at least she was with a friend.
“Oh, look,” Braedon said nonchalantly. “She is waving at you.”
“Miss Lymington?” Edward turned to see where the woman had wandered.
Braedon laughed. “No, not Miss Lymington, you dolt, she does not know you from Adam. No, Lady Letitia. I must say, Wynn, you evidently know her far better than you let on at my dining table.”
Edward saw Letty waving at him, and his stomach twisted.
“She is…we are acquainted,” he managed.
God, but she was beautiful. Even in a crowd, not a single person compared to Letitia Cavendish. How did no one else see it? His heart twisted painfully at the competing desires: to speak with Letty, maybe even dance with her—or to finally speak to Miss Lymington?
He had seen the Earl of Marnmouth earlier, and an earldom was a far more impressive title than viscount. Was he already speaking with Miss Lymington?
If he did not decide soon, he would lose all opportunity to speak with the wealthy heiress. He would be last in the queue to speak with her, and all opportunity to test himself would be gone.
Edward bowed his head to Letty and turned to Braedon.
“Wish me luck,” he muttered as he handed his half-empty glass to his companion.
Braedon broke out into a grin. “God’s teeth, but you are braver than I. Good luck, sir!”
Even weaving between the slightly inebriated older gentlemen and the ladies clucking to encourage their daughters into the paths of the right gentlemen, Edward did not lose sight of Miss Lymington.
She was standing with five or six gentlemen, each hanging on her every word.
“You know,
you look nothing like what I had been told,” Edward said grandly as he arrived at the gathering.
The Earl of Marnmouth glared.
But Miss Lymington did not. Edward was unsure whether it was the rude lack of introduction or his boldness. He knew his charm was usually enough to get a woman’s attention, but this situation was different.
Miss Lymington raised an eyebrow. “Why, Viscount Wynn, you flatter me…I think.”
Edward grinned, allowing his head to tilt. “Well, that is the question, is it not. You know me, which is impressive. Now I am the one who is flattered.”
“Wynn, I was just saying,” began Marnmouth, but he was interrupted.
“Now then, Marnmouth, let the poor man speak,” Miss Lymington said with a smile. She stepped toward Edward and tapped him on the chest with her fan. “I know every eligible gentleman who is here. I have made it my business to know.”
“Oh, and why is that?” Edward spoke lightly, but his entire body felt as though it was on fire. God, this was it; the heady to and fro, the delicate words carefully chosen, the ability to drive desire in a woman before he had even touched her.
It was a gift. It was why he had been such a successful rake. If he could rile up a lady before he had even pushed up her skirts and showed her what real pleasure was—
“Because you all know who I am,” said Miss Lymington, “and I would hate to be on the back foot, especially when there are so many of you and only one of me.”
She smiled through her lashes and fluttered her fan. My word, if he was the master of seduction, she was its mistress. They could drive each other wild, but this moment was more than enough for him.
Edward frowned, carefully allowing it to grow naturally. “Know you? Why should everyone know you, Miss Jones? I must apologize, Marnmouth, I have interrupted you. Please do continue.”
Miss Lymington’s mouth opened, but before she could say a word, Edward bowed and turned on his heels.
He walked away slowly and tried to keep his face neutral. One, two, three…
“Excuse me!”
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Edward turned to see Miss Lymington, a picture of anger, had followed him and left her gaggle of gentlemen behind.
Always the Wallflower (Never the Bride Book 5) Page 12
