Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6): Box Set Collection

by Erica Ridley

  It was as if his princess had disappeared by magic.

  Chapter 5

  One of the few positive sides to being stuck in a moving carriage with one’s mother and both sisters was that, as the eldest, Camellia’s rank afforded her one half of the coveted front-facing seat. The converse, of course, meant that she had to share that seat with her mother, who could not stop talking about Camellia’s impending marriage to mature, respectable, lonely-country-home-somewhere-near-the-Scottish-border Mr. Bost.

  “Have you thought about what you might wear?” Mother chirped. “Puffed sleeves emphasize your youthfulness, but perhaps that is the wrong tack to take with a—”

  “Mature?” Camellia asked dryly.

  “Respectable?” Dahlia put in.

  “Not quite Scottish?” Bryony whispered.

  “—gentleman like Mr. Bost.” Mother tapped her chin in deep thought. “Long sleeves, then. The weather’s frightful enough, I daresay you’ll be more comfortable than your sisters.”

  “We won’t be wearing long sleeves, too?” asked Dahlia. “Won’t that offend Mr. Bost’s gentlemanly sensibilities?”

  “He cannot take offense,” Bryony assured her. “We’re less mature than Cam. And less respectable.”

  Dahlia brightened. “Very true! Everyone knows you’re a dreadful hoyden.”

  Bryony shook a finger. “Everyone also knows that you are a sharp-tongued headmistress, intent on beating the ‘hoyden’ out of your poor, misunderstood wards.”

  “I need not strike them,” Dahlia protested, clutching a hand to her chest in mock affront. “Threaten to revoke lemon cake privileges and they all turn into perfect angels.”

  “Withholding food from destitute children!” Bryony gasped in exaggerated outrage. “Good heavens, we are far less mature than Cam. Long sleeves for us would be unthinkable.”

  “Without question,” Dahlia agreed. “To make matters worse, as the eldest, Cam out-spinsters me by almost a full year. Obviously she cannot be seen in puffed sleeves at such an advanced age.”

  “Perhaps woolen sleeves are best. Think of the frightful weather!” Bryony patted Camellia’s knee. “What if the dear old heart should catch cold and be unable to continue the ceremony?”

  Camellia returned her smile through clenched teeth.

  “Not wool. Silk,” Mother decided with a sharp nod. “It’s the only choice. We’ll have the wedding ensemble made on Bond Street. In fact, we all deserve new gowns, do we not? I’ll have your father increase our spending credit between now and the wedding.”

  “Wonderful,” Camellia said, unable to keep the bleakness from her voice. “I can’t wait.”

  After being kissed by Lord X, the thought of a lifetime with a perfectly respectable, perfectly normal, perfectly boring gentleman like Mr. Bost was the last thing she desired. Yet it was all she would ever have.

  “One can hardly blame you, darling.” Mother patted Camellia’s knee, seemingly unaware that her youngest daughter had also just done so in satire of the maternal habit. “I, too, had despaired of you ever finding a match. Mr. Bost is not only a—”

  “Mature?” Dahlia asked.

  “Respectable?” Bryony added innocently.

  Camellia covered her face with her hands.

  “—gentleman,” Mother continued, “he will be able to keep you in a great deal of comfort. You shall not want for a thing from the very moment the wedding concludes until your dying day.”

  “Your dying day!” Bryony thumped Camellia’s knee with excessive force. “Won’t that be exciting?”

  “I can’t wait,” Camellia repeated, with more feeling this time.

  Mother let out a little sigh of happiness. “I had hoped for a title, but honestly, who could complain about a mature, respectable gentleman like our kind Mr. Bost? One can only hope one’s other daughters receive offers even half as fine as their elder sister’s. Now that it’s seemly to receive them, of course.”

  Camellia pressed her lips together at the slight.

  Until the elder sister was married, or at least betrothed, younger sisters could not be considered for such a step. The wedding with Mr. Bost would be as much for their benefit as it ostensibly was for hers. More so, in fact. The younger two were more outgoing, more likely to attract suitors—if only their wallflower sister wasn’t obstructing their chances. That was the real reason Camellia was going through with this. It was the right thing to do for the people she loved.

  That, and the fact that Mother was right. There had been no other offers. If Camellia did not marry Mr. Bost, she would doom all three sisters to die spinsters. So as much as she might wish to wed someone she wanted rather than someone she ought… There was no choice, and Camellia knew it.

  She had meant every word when she’d told Lord X there wasn’t anything she and her siblings wouldn’t do for each other. Bryony had promised she would rather die a spinster than consign Camellia to a husband she did not love. Dahlia had declared herself married to the administration of her school, with no intention of losing all ownership and control over her life’s work by becoming a wife.

  Camellia swallowed her guilt. That was easy enough for them to say now. Neither of them had ever been kissed, much less fallen in love. But if she turned down the opportunity to marry Bost and one of her sisters did meet a love match… Camellia would never forgive herself if they lost the opportunity because their parents refused to consider offers until the eldest daughter was safely wed.

  After all—adhering to protocol was only proper. A trait her parents prized above all other considerations.

  She let her head fall back against the rear wall of the carriage in resignation. Her sisters didn’t realize it, but their tendency to rebel was the primary reason Camellia did not. The worse they acted, the better she felt obligated to behave. Some level of balance had to be kept in the home, and if it could only be achieved by Camellia being proper and unobtrusive enough to counteract the effects of her siblings, then so be it.

  Her parents were good people who wanted the best for their children. Who wouldn’t? Their eldest son Heath was less of a concern simply because he was male. He could wed a debutante decades from now when he was as mature and respectable as Mr. Bost, and no one would blink an eye.

  Girls, on the other hand, needed to be married off young, lest they become burdens on their family. Camellia was already six-and-twenty, which meant all three sisters were becoming long in the tooth. If anything, she should be flattered anyone would settle for her at all.

  Inevitably, her thoughts returned to the masquerade, as they had done from the moment she left.

  Lord X hadn’t appeared to be settling for a spinster. She had captured his attention—she, in a palatial residence brimming with glamorous women!—and he had absconded with her to the balcony because he wished to. Not because he was in want of a dowry or because she was the elder sister and therefore first in line. She might have been anyone. A countess, a mistress, a governess. And he’d chosen her.

  Lambley’s masked balls were the antithesis of Almack’s assembly rooms. The masquerade was no marriage market. The longest its merrymakers expected to stay together were the short hours from ten to dawn. As to debutantes, she doubted there had been any. From the sound of the duke’s rules and the scrutiny of his doorkeeper, Camellia was likely the youngest reveler in attendance.

  It was not a place for respectable ladies—and definitely not for Camellia. She well knew she’d be betrothed in a month. The last thing she should do was tie herself up in even more knots by going back in search of a man whose name she would never know.

  And yet, from the moment Lord X had asked her to return… she’d known she would.

  After all, if she was doomed to spend the rest of her life in a loveless relationship in Northumberland hundreds of miles from her family… then by God she was going to waltz with a handsome stranger for once in her life first.

  “Bryony, I do wish your hair would hold a bit more of its curl.” Mother l
eaned forward to twist one of Bryony’s limp tendrils about her finger. “It’s so embarrassing when my daughter’s ringlets are lopsided.”

  As usual, Bryony suffered through this indignity without so much as an eye roll. When their mother got an idea into her head, there was absolutely nothing that could stop her. “Aren’t we going home? No one will even see my hair. But I shall promise to take an iron to it anyway, if the thought of me seated in my private chambers with lopsided curls will give you palpitations.”

  “We are not going directly home.” Mother untwisted the first ringlet from her finger and reached for a second. “I am too excited about Camellia’s upcoming nuptials to retire early, aren’t you?”

  Bryony and Camellia exchanged long-suffering glances.

  Dahlia looked up from the thick book in her lap. “If we are not headed home, then where are we going?”

  “Why, to the Earl of Wainwright’s evening soirée, of course.”

  “Stop the carriage.” Dahlia slammed her book closed. All color drained from her countenance. “I am not stepping foot on that self-important cretin’s property and neither are any of you.”

  “We must and we shall.” Mother sent her a stern look. “One should always accept any invitation sealed with a crest from the peerage.”

  “The only invitation I’ll accept from that blackguard is to meet with pistols at dawn,” Dahlia said darkly.

  “You are so funny, darling.” Mother poked Dahlia’s nose with the tip of a gloved finger before returning her attention to Bryony’s hair. “Fudge. That’s as good as we’re going to get without an iron. It will simply have to do.”

  “I’m not going,” Dahlia repeated. “He is the worst of his kind.”

  Mother sighed. “Pinch your cheeks for color and try not to be petulant in front of the earl. We’re almost there.”

  “I’ll take her home,” Camellia offered. “Dahlia and I can… plan my wedding. It’ll be her turn next, so I am sure she will not want to miss any of the details.”

  “I can help,” Bryony said quickly. “My lopsided curls are an embarrassment to this family. My time would be much better spent helping Cam choose the perfect location for her betrothal announcement.”

  “You are all meeting the earl.” Mother’s tone brooked no argument. “Besides, I’ve already chosen the time and location for the betrothal announcement.”

  “You have?” Camellia’s stomach sank. “When? Where?”

  “At the next soirée musicale, of course. It’s going to be splendid!” Mother clasped her hands to her chest with an excited wiggle. “The entire ton will be present to hear you sing. Therefore, to ensure nobody misses the moment, you shall announce the betrothal immediately after the last note.”

  “Me?” Camellia choked. “Shouldn’t Father make the announcement? Or Mr. Bost?”

  “They won’t be on stage. You will be,” Mother pointed out reasonably. “Do be practical.”

  The carriage pulled to a stop.

  “I shan’t speak a word to him,” Dahlia warned. She held up the tome she’d been studying. “This is Debrett’s. My one remaining hope. If that blackguard poisons the last few potential donors away from helping the school before I have an opportunity to explain the impact each pound makes on a worthy life—”

  “I’ll tell you what I told Bryony,” Mother interrupted, her face stern. “If women were meant to have businesses, it would be legal for wives to own one. Stop this rubbish. If you wish to donate to worthy causes, fine. Marry well, and spend your husband’s riches as you please. That is what woman’s duty is about.”

  Camellia exchanged an appalled glance with her sister.

  Bryony leaned forward. “And I’ll tell you what I told Mother when she tried that poppycock with me. I said—”

  “You will not repeat such language, now or ever,” Mother snapped. “Take your reticules, leave your foolish books, and go and rub shoulders with people who are more important than a mere baroness and her ungrateful chits.”

  All three sisters piled out of the carriage in communal silence and filed after their mother, not as chastised little ducklings, but like condemned inmates being forced to the gallows.

  Camellia supposed her wedding march would not be dissimilar. Perhaps she ought to get used to the sensation.

  To Lord Wainwright’s credit—or rather, to the credit of the conceited earl’s many generations of rich ancestors—everything about his residence was lush and beautiful. Three stately stories rose up from the expansive garden surrounding them. Neat rows of spotless glass windows decorated each floor. Rather than gargoyles, tiny cherubic angels adorned the waterspouts along the roof.

  “Ironic,” Dahlia muttered.

  Camellia couldn’t help but agree. Even if Lord Wainwright hadn’t managed to defund her sister’s school with a single thoughtless remark, the man could not be further from an angel. Though she and the earl had never crossed paths, his celebrated rakehell reputation was second to none.

  If Lord Wainwright hadn’t also possessed a title, women like Camellia’s mother would not have dared allow their daughters anywhere near him.

  She nearly choked as she suddenly realized that must be precisely her mother’s plan. Now that Camellia was all but betrothed, why not matchmake the second daughter with society’s most eligible bachelor?

  Unfortunately for Mother, Dahlia was far more disposed to enacting vengeance than ensnaring the earl’s hand. It might have been wiser for Dahlia to wait in the carriage after all.

  “Lady Grenville,” the butler called out. “Miss Grenville, Miss Dahlia Grenville, and Miss Bryony Grenville.”

  At the sound of their names, Camellia stepped across the threshold into a world of opulence and splendor.

  Luxurious carpets stretched across the center of every floor. Candles glittered in crystal chandeliers overhead. Silk wallpaper and shiny wainscoting covered each room. Intricate molding of brilliant white lined every ceiling. Sumptuous satins, gold filigree, delicately carved furniture… The place was a palace.

  Although Camellia would not dare confess her admiration to her sister, she had never seen such a gorgeous home in all her life. Even without a party for diversion, she would be delighted to walk the corridors just to sigh in contentment at so much beauty.

  Mother whacked Dahlia’s spine with her painted fan. “Correct your posture, please. A lady does not slump.”

  “Where are Father and Heath?” Dahlia growled as she straightened her spine. “Off at a gentlemen’s club? Why do they always get to miss the fun?”

  “Worse,” Camellia whispered back grimly. “This is your circus. Mother means to matchmake you to Wainwright.”

  Dahlia paled. “Please be bamming me. Tell her I’m ruined. Tell her I’ve fallen in love with a stable boy.”

  “I doubt that would sway her. She’d pack you off with your own version of Bost before she’d let you sully the Grenville name with scandal.”

  Dahlia shuddered. “Luckily for everyone but Mother, a wife is the last thing Wainwright is in the market for. I’ve had blinks that lasted longer than the amount of time he spends with any given woman. If he notices our presence, he’ll forget us the moment he turns away.”

  “He is like a goldfish,” Bryony agreed. “A rakish, handsome, arrogant goldfish. Who is swimming up behind you as we speak.”

  Camellia snapped her spine straight and slowly turned to greet the face of the devil. Her throat dried at the sight.

  He did look like an angel.

  The caricaturists drew the famous earl as exaggeratedly tall, with a cravat of monstrous proportions and perfect ringlets so yellow they glowed like the sun.

  The reality was considerably better.

  His hair was neither glowing, nor composed of identical ringlets. Instead, his golden locks were combed into the current fashionable style that looked both careless and casual, but according to her brother Heath, took the better part of an hour to craft properly.

  Or perhaps that was simply the
curse of unruly Grenville hair.

  Lord Wainwright’s eyes were an entrancing hazel hue that changed color with every flicker of light from the chandeliers and invited the viewer to gaze upon them until she lost herself in the mystery. Brown. Gray. Green.

  His nose was straight, his cheekbones breathtaking, his jaw as perfectly groomed as the rest of him. His cravat was blindingly white and carefully folded, but not so intricately as to label the wearer a fop. His waistcoat was a subtle gold, his wide shoulders ensconced in a handsome coat of charcoal gray, just soft enough a tone to make him stand out from the dandies in black and the peacocks in lime and puce.

  But when he smiled… Heaven save them. Camellia’s pulse fluttered as her cheeks flushed.

  When Lord Wainwright’s lips curved, every flame, every crystal chandelier, every gold filigree adorning the hand-painted walls paled next to the easy warmth of his smile and the answering sparkle in his fathomless green-brown-gray eyes.

  “Did I swoon?” Bryony whispered. “I feel as though I swooned. If you didn’t see me fall, I must have fainted on the inside. Someone pinch me, quick.”

  Dahlia kicked her in the ankle.

  “Lady Grenville.” Lord Wainwright sketched an elegant bow. “I shall be ever grateful that you accepted my humble invitation.”

  Mother tittered and dipped a simpering curtsey.

  Good grief. It was all Camellia could do not to drop her face back into her palms. The caricaturists hadn’t exaggerated one thing. Mother never tittered or dipped simpering curtseys. Incredible. Lord Wainwright’s devastating effect on women was positively transcendent.

  “This is my eldest daughter.” Mother patted Camellia on the shoulder. “You would recognize her from our family musicales, but you have yet to attend one. We’d be deeply honored if you would. We are also hosting a dinner party next week if you would prefer to come to that.”

  “We are?” Bryony whispered. “Since when?”

  “Since Mother decided to marry off the rest of you, too,” Camellia whispered back.