Winning the Wallflower: A Novella (2 page)

Lucy curtsied. “That’s a very good way to master names, Lord Blakemore.”

“Never have mastered them,” Rupert admitted, grabbing her gloved hand and depositing an enthusiastic—and wet—kiss on the back. “Not so many people I can name in the room, to be honest. Olivia, dance?”

“We just danced,” Olivia said, smiling in a rather fixed way. “We can dance together only twice, Rupert, and we’ve already done that.”

He frowned. “Really? No, surely . . . Really?”

“Really.”

Lucy decided to intervene. “Lord Blakemore, would you be so kind as to bring me a lemonade?” She sank back into her chair. “It’s perishingly hot in here.”

He beamed. “Of course.” And he bustled off.

“You won’t get your lemonade,” Olivia said. “You know that, don’t you? He may get to the refreshment table, but by that point he won’t remember precisely why he’s there. He has some difficulty with follow-through.”

Lucy reached out and gave Olivia’s hand a tight squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

Olivia’s smile was steady and not at all miserable. “I’ve had a great deal of time to get used to the situation. And besides, I’m a plump woman with a terrible weakness for bawdy jokes. Who would have me, if not Rupert?”

Lucy started to speak, but Olivia shook her head. “You may be tall, but you’re slim, and rounded in all the right places. What’s more, you behave like a perfect lady. I can’t seem to, but lord knows, Rupert will never notice. We’re suited in that.”

“I would give anything to look like you,” Lucy said with a snap in her voice. “I’m so
tired
of being able to look over the heads of most men. I can’t stand the way they shift from foot to foot, and then move away from me as soon as they can. They won’t ask me for a dance unless someone forces them to it. They make plays on my surname, always jokes on towers. And Mother thinks that one of
those
men will suddenly be enthusiastic about marrying me, even given the money? One of
those
?”

“Marriage is all about money. You should know that by now.”

“And what will my marriage be like? The fortune hunter who stooped—or I should say, stretched—to marry me won’t feel any more comfortable after we’ve walked the aisle, you know. He will have married a beanpole, and every time he looks across the breakfast table, he’ll remember it.”

“There are men in the world who are taller than you,” Olivia pointed out. “Ravensthorpe is only one of them. You needn’t pick a short one. Your mother is right: an heiress has a great number of men to choose from, tall
and
short.”

“But it’s not as if I will have the choice of those men, any more than you did,” Lucy retorted. “My parents care only for a man’s title, not his measurement. They’re talking about the Duke of Pole; everyone knows he needs a fortune, given his gambling. Surname notwithstanding, he’s shorter than I am, and besides, I don’t like him. If I had my choice, I would marry Ravensthorpe even if he had no money.” She brushed away a tear rolling down her cheek. “He’s so handsome . . . so . . . so . . .”

An arm wound around her. “Then you
should
marry him,” Olivia said into her ear. “Listen to me, Lucy. You’re right to say that I don’t have a choice. I was promised to Rupert before either of us was born. If I don’t marry him, not only would my parents expire from shame, but my sister would never have a dowry. I’m making my father write Georgiana’s dowry into the marriage settlements.”

Lucy sniffed inelegantly. “Surely your parents would understand . . . I mean, Rupert . . .”

“Rupert will be a duke someday. And it’s not as if he’s violent, or truly mad. My point is that you don’t have the reasons I do, Lucy. Your parents did agree to the match with Ravensthorpe. Tell them that you refuse to be so unethical as to break it off.”

Lucy couldn’t help but smile at the very idea of her mother’s reaction to that argument. “You are assuming that ethical behavior ranks above a title. Not so, at least not to my mother.”

“Then threaten to take your inheritance and move to Scotland. You
should
marry whom you wish. It doesn’t seem fair that neither of us is able to choose a spouse.”

Lucy squeezed Olivia’s hand. “We could run off to Europe. This island isn’t large enough to contain myself and my mother if I disobeyed her.”

“Go to Europe—and leave Mr. Ravensthorpe behind?”

The idea sent a little arrow through Lucy’s chest.

Olivia laughed. “If I felt that way about someone, I’d hand Rupert off to my sister.”

“I’m not sure he cares for me in the least, Olivia. He only danced me once before he asked for my hand.”

“I’m not saying he didn’t regret it after you trounced him at backgammon all those times,” Olivia said, giving Lucy a little poke. “May I point out that if you and your fiancé were found in a compromising situation this evening, your parents would not be able to fish for a title. The betrothal would stand.”

Lucy gasped. “Olivia!”

“It’s merely a matter of being caught kissing your own fiancé. I’m not suggesting that you throw your virtue to the wind. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “if I had a penchant for Ravensthorpe, I might well. He has the most wonderful shoulders; have you noticed?”

Lucy had noticed. “His shoulders are irrelevant, given that he has never kissed me, even once. In fact, he’s never asked to speak to me alone, or even invited me onto a balcony.” She paused and then added bluntly, “I don’t think he
wants
to kiss me, Olivia.”

“Then he’s a fool. I would definitely want to kiss you, were I a man.”

Lucy gave her a wobbly smile.

“How much do you want him?” Olivia demanded. “If I had a practical alternative to Rupert, I would throw myself at him, whether the man welcomed it or no. I’d strip off my own gown in the garden if—well, that’s neither here nor there. You needn’t act like a hoyden. Just arrange to be seen kissing the man, and the Duke of Pole will be out of the question. By the way, isn’t Pole related to Ravensthorpe somehow?”

Lucy nodded. “They’re first cousins, but apparently they don’t speak. Pole is as superior in his attitudes as my mother. I’m sure he doesn’t approve of Ravensthorpe’s father having a profession. And while I can’t say I know my fiancé well, I can’t imagine that he would ever gamble away a fortune, the way the duke has.”

“Well, that settles it,” Olivia said. “Do you want to marry the penniless and supercilious Duke of Pole—who is, by the way, not nearly as delectable as Mr. Ravensthorpe and barely taller than I am—or do you want to fight for your fiancé?”

“I’ll kiss Ravensthorpe,” Lucy said, with sudden determination. “I could even tear my bodice. Mother would die, but that would do the trick.”

“I should think that a kiss will be sufficient.” Olivia gave her a mischievous smile. “I’ll keep an eye out and try to surprise the two of you, shall I? I’ll tell my mother that I feel overheated and drag her around till we find you. Be sure to kiss him as soon as you see me coming. Mother will be genuinely horrified, which will give the occasion a terrific sense of drama.”

Lucy put her hands on her cheeks. “Oh Lord . . .”

“If you’re going to fight for him, Lucy, it’ll have to be tonight.” Olivia rose. “Your mother cannot announce your newly eligible status until the betrothal is formally ended, which gives you a very small window. I can see Rupert wandering aimlessly with a glass of lemonade, so I suppose I’ll have to rescue him before—” She stopped abruptly.

“Oh, dear. He’s dropped it down Miss Elton’s back,” she remarked a second later. “What a pity her gown was white. The yellow shows up so boldly; it looks as if someone emptied a chamber pot over her head. I must go, Lucy.”

Lucy stayed hidden behind the palms, trying to gather courage. How on earth did one entice a man who has never shown the faintest interest in kissing her to do just that—in front of an audience?

She might die of humiliation.

But at least she would expire having been kissed by Mr. Ravensthorpe, Esq., the most beautiful man in London, at least once.

It seemed like a fair trade.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

M
r. Cyrus Ptolemy Ravensthorpe was not a man who cared for excesses of emotion. But that didn’t mean he was free of them.

He knew as well as anyone that his ferocious ambition to regain the place in London society that his mother had thrown away for love was excessive. To his mind, passion was always excessive. But he had also noticed that passion drove men to great accomplishments.

He had honed this ambition while at Eton. He had been sent to that school because, marriage to a commoner notwithstanding, his mother was daughter to a duke and grandsons of dukes went to Eton. By nine years later he had had violent physical encounters with almost half the boys in his year—invariably because they had made slighting remarks about his father.

Even though his father never gave a toss.

“Let them be, Son,” Mr. Ravensthorpe the elder would say, looking up from a table piled high with papers. “The poor lads will spend their lives drifting about London. I can’t imagine how tedious their middle years will be.” He would look over his glasses, appalled at the very prospect. “Life is for
doing
things. Now what do you suppose I did with that evidence in the Pendle case? That patently false letter from Mrs. Pendle saying that she . . .”

But Cyrus
did
care. He couldn’t help it. It might have been the hundred-and-one slights he received at Eton, a good many of which were handed out by his first cousin. Or the way his mother cheerfully denied caring whether her sisters invited her to their Christmas parties or no.

It mattered. It mattered to him, and he knew perfectly well that it would matter even more to his sisters. They were still in the classroom, but Cyrus was determined they should marry into the highest ranks of society.

He informed his parents of his plan to reclaim the family’s status only after he had achieved Numbers One through Four on his to-do list, which had resulted in the rather extraordinary wealth in stocks that he now enjoyed.

Unsurprisingly, his father had balked when Cyrus broached the plan. “I’d rather your sisters married men who had something to talk about,” he had said. “Can you imagine how boring it would be to have one of those fops drifting around here, with nothing more consequential to discuss than the starch in his neck cloth?”

But his mother had grasped exactly what Cyrus meant. “The girls would love the ballrooms and the parties,” she had told her husband. “Jemima is fifteen. If Cyrus marries a young woman of birth, that lady can bring out Jemima in proper style.”

“The dowry will do it,” Cyrus had pointed out, hearing the flat tinge of cynicism in his own voice. “I’ll make her an heiress.”

Mr. Ravensthorpe had taken another look at his son’s face and then turned to his wife. “This stubbornness is obviously inherited from
your
side of the family. A prime example of which is your behavior back in ’eighty-seven, after you decided that you wanted me rather than your esteemed betrothed. There was no stopping you.”

“I knew you would make me happy,” his wife had replied, walking over to him, then winding her arms around his shoulders and dropping a kiss onto his hair.

But Cyrus had already turned away. Not having been expressly forbidden from pursuing his plan—and, in fact, having been given his mother’s blessing—he had his mind bent on Number Five on the list: marriage to an appropriate young lady from the aristocracy. Other than her rank, he had no particular requirements.

He hadn’t foreseen any problem with obtaining invitations to the sort of events where he was likely to meet probable candidates for the position of Mrs. Ravensthorpe; after all, the news that he’d made a fortune on the Exchange—in fact, several fortunes—had made its way around London. He had formed close friends during those years at Eton and, more to the point, those friends had sisters.

Still, he didn’t want to marry the sister of one of his friends, though they were decent fellows, solidly established in the gentry. His plan called for a woman from the aristocracy, and nothing less would do. Cyrus was given to plans that specified goals as precisely as possible; he had discovered early that precision made all the difference when it came to achieving that goal.

He was not one to allow Fate to take a hand. Or Destiny. Or Chance. He considered those concepts the refuge of the feeble-willed.

His mother had laughed at him for that. “It’s all very well when it comes to your stocks and so on. But when it comes to love and marriage, everything changes. After all, I did intend to marry the earl my parents had in mind—right up to the moment when a young solicitor with an oh-such-a-serious expression walked into the house. Had I not been in the entryway at that precise moment, which was an act of fate, I would never have seen your father at all. And if I hadn’t seen him, I wouldn’t have contrived a wild scheme to see him again, and taken myself by hansom cab to his offices the very next morning.”

Cyrus rather thought that love could take care of itself; the business contract known as marriage, on the other hand, he would handle. And he had.

He was betrothed to marry Miss Lucy Towerton, daughter of the Earl of Towerton. True, earls were of the third tier in the peerage, surpassed by dukes and marquises, but the only available dukes’ daughters were unappealing and there were no unmarried daughters of marquises. Miss Lucy was quite suitable. Among the four available daughters of earls, he had chosen her on first sight.

The
ton
had accepted their betrothal with hardly a murmur, which was just as he hoped. He had carefully surveyed the crop of available damsels with the requisite bloodlines, not just in terms of their individual attractions, but in light of how such a betrothal would be viewed by society at large.

There was nothing Cyrus hated more than drawing attention to himself. He wanted an engagement that everyone would immediately understand to be a matter of property and propriety. The last thing he wanted was even the faintest rumor of love or passion . . . that is to say, the kind of manifestly undesirable reputation that, all these decades later, still clung to his mother.

No, he wanted a placid, acceptable pairing that benefited both parties. The kind of marriage noteworthy only for its lack of noteworthiness. In no way fodder for gossip. Without even a hint of illicit passion. No child of his would
ever
be born less than a good year after marriage.

In fact, he rather thought that they’d better delay consummation of the marriage, just to make sure.

That was another way in which Miss Lucy Towerton was an excellent choice for his wife. She seemed as indifferent to matters of the flesh as he was.

Even as he handed his cloak and hat to the Summerses’ butler, he felt a deep sense of rightness. His plan was well in hand.

That satisfaction vanished when he realized, within two minutes of entering the town house, that he had become a subject of gossip.

He had honed this sensitivity early in his schooling, learning to recognize when one of his classmates—or, more often, his own cousin—had once again broached the subject of his mother’s elopement with a commoner. His father’s propensity for taking on newspaperworthy criminal cases, and then winning them, had always been a drawback at Eton: it kept reminding people of his reduced circumstances.

All that painful experience meant that Cyrus now didn’t allow his features to reveal, even by the twitch of an eyelash, that he sensed the commotion brought about by his arrival. Instead, he handed his gloves and stick to the butler, rapidly turning over the possible reasons for this development in his mind while he pulled on evening gloves handed to him by one of his groomsmen.

His investments were widespread and secure; there could be absolutely no reason for gossip about his financial status. His parents were well; he’d had a letter to that effect in the morning.

By a process of elimination, he arrived at the conclusion that Miss Lucy Towerton was the source of this unwonted attention. In fact, as he proceeded through the magnificent foyer to the Summerses’ town house—absentmindedly noting that the classic Georgian décor and Egyptian flourishes were not in harmony—he came to the conclusion that Miss Towerton was likely no longer his bride-to-be.

The rage that he felt at the notion took him aback. She didn’t seem the type to throw him over. He’d thought she had a good deal of common sense. What’s more, he had deliberately picked a wallflower, a woman who was unlikely to generate yet another scandal to blemish his name.

Suddenly it struck him that perhaps Lucy, like his mother, had already been in love with another man when he asked for her hand. She had shown no signs of it, but then . . . what would those signs have been? He hadn’t the faintest idea, and it had never occurred to him to ask his fiancée whether she was romantically attached.

His host and hostess waited just inside the ballroom. Sure enough, he hadn’t even been offered a greeting before Lady Summers said, “Ravensthorpe, I hear rumors to the effect that you are a free man.”

“Indeed?” he said, kissing her hand. “I have not heard such, myself.”

“Ah, but you must know of Miss Towerton’s changed circumstances!” she cried, her eyes positively shining with pleasure at the fact that she was to be the one to inform him.

“This is a most improper subject for you to broach,” Lord Summers said to his wife, visibly uncomfortable with his wife’s glee.

But Cyrus thought he might as well hear it now. Get it over with. Every person within earshot appeared not to breathe, waiting for his reaction. “I wish Miss Towerton all the best in whatever good fortune comes to her,” he said, keeping his tone utterly even.

“She’s become an heiress,” her ladyship told him, a bit disappointed by Cyrus’s composure. “One of Towerton’s aunts has left her a fortune. It has changed her expectations entirely, of course.”

“No doubt,” he said, bowing again. “I mustn’t keep you, Lady Summers.” And he walked away, surprising himself again with a wave of black rage that swept up his spine.

Lucy Towerton was
his
, and her bloody fortune didn’t matter. He had all the fortune she needed.

But at the same time his mouth twitched in a cynical smile. She would use her inheritance to buy herself a man of higher worth than himself. A title.

The only question was when she would throw him over: tonight, or at a later, more private date? He thought it would be tonight. Her mother would force her to it, even if she herself wished to be more diplomatic.

Indeed, the one and only drawback to marrying Lucy had been her mother. He had suffered Lady Towerton’s presence without becoming homicidal only by spending every single visit mentally plotting ruthless action on the Exchange, which he would execute later that same day. If he had something to think about, he could endure a weekly hour of her company, watching her small eyes glint with an aversion so ingrained that she didn’t even try to hide it.

Why should she hide it? She was giving her daughter to a man who didn’t even have the right to call himself a gentleman. He could surely acquire that precious “Esquire” by petitioning the College of Arms . . . but he had never bothered.

His father didn’t care. And since Cyrus fully intended that the Crown should bestow upon him a rank far above Esquire (Number Six on his plan), he didn’t care either.

All too clearly it had wrenched Lady Towerton’s soul to give her daughter to a man who ranked along with her local butcher, for all he’d gone to Eton.

She wouldn’t have to endure that shame any longer. And he wouldn’t have to endure
her
any longer, which was a cheering thought.

So there was no reason for the crushing bleakness that filled his body from head to toe. He could simply turn to another aristocratic lady on his list. A betrothal that barely survived over a month didn’t warrant his feeling of rage and abandonment. Yet his skin felt taut, as if it were too tightly stretched over his bones.

It didn’t matter.

She
didn’t matter.