The Wallflower Wager

by Dare, Tessa

  The three of them gathered at the hind end of the goat. On her next contraction, they gathered their fortitude and crouched behind Marigold for a closer examination.

  Chase sucked in his breath. “That’s not a foreleg or a hind leg. That’s a tail.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s bad. Possibly very bad. That means the baby is in a breech position. She’ll have a devil of a time delivering it that way. One or both of them could die.”

  “I told you, they’re not going to die,” Gabe said. “Not if there’s anything we can do to prevent it. And there must be something we can do. What’s it say in the book, Reynaud?”

  “With a woman, the midwife will try to change the baby’s position. So if both Marigold and the kid are going to survive, I think . . . I think we have to turn it.”

  Ashbury tilted his head. “How do you do that?”

  “By fiddling a waltz,” Chase quipped. “By reaching inside the womb, of course. With, you know, a hand.”

  The three men looked from one to the other, slowly pushing their hands into their pockets as they did.

  Gabe looked at Chase. “It should be you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’ve read the book, and you’re the smallest.”

  “I am not the smallest. I’m taller than both of you.”

  “Yes, but you’re slender.” Ashbury reached for his friend’s arm and lifted it. “Look at that. I’d go so far as to say willowy.”

  Chase snatched his arm away. “I am not willowy, for Christ’s sake. Why not you?” He took Ash’s arm and flopped it up and down. “You’re scarred and withered. You won’t even feel the sliminess.”

  “We don’t have time for this.” With a curse, Gabe nudged the other two out of the way. He didn’t need to read a book on childbirth to know that the longer this went on, the greater the danger to both Marigold and her kid. “I’ll do it.”

  Gabe didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he was dead certain about one thing: He had to be in love with Lady Penelope Campion. Nothing less could have persuaded him to do this.

  Penny, this is for you.

  He rolled his sleeve to his biceps, drew a deep breath through his mouth, and shook out his hand. “I’m going in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Gabriel?” Penny dashed through the door, searching wildly through the rooms. “Gabriel!”

  “Down here.” The call came from the kitchen below.

  She clattered down the stairs at once.

  Ash’s errand boy had found them at the draper’s and told her there’d been some dire matter and she must return home at once. On the carriage ride back, a hundred terrible possibilities had sprinted through her mind, invoking terror but never pausing to be reasoned away.

  When she emerged into the kitchen and saw him sitting by the fire, alive and unhurt, her breath returned for the first time in an hour.

  She rushed to his side. “What happened?”

  “This happened.” He shifted his arms to reveal a bundle of tiny, knobby joints and fluffy patches of black and white.

  A newborn goat.

  “Oh, my goodness.” She knelt behind him, peering over his shoulder. “Surely not Marigold?”

  “I told you so,” he said irritably.

  As if she’d be intimidated by gruff words from a man cradling a newborn goat in his arms. She’d always known he had a capacity for gentleness.

  I told you so, too.

  She reached to stroke the little goat’s fur.

  Gabriel’s shoulder muscle flinched in annoyance. “My shirt was ruined, I’ll have you know. Completely unsalvageable. And then this runtish little thing wouldn’t stop shivering.”

  “Would it help if I told you that I’ve never found you so wildly attractive as I do in this moment?”

  “No.”

  She smiled and reached into her pocket to withdraw a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. “Here. You need a biscuit.”

  He bristled. “I’m not the goddamned parrot.”

  “Of course not. Your vocabulary is much worse.” She held the buttery round of shortbread to his lips. “Nicola made it fresh this morning. Go on, then. You know how you are on an empty stomach. Take this for now, and then I’ll find you a proper supper.”

  He gave in, snapping the shortbread from her fingers with his teeth and devouring it in a single bite. “Where on earth have you been?”

  She offered him another biscuit, and this time he accepted it without argument. “The shops. Emma helped me choose lace and stockings at the draper’s. That’s where Ash’s errand boy caught up with us.”

  “Well, while you were dithering over lace, your goat nearly died. And so did her kid. For that matter, it was a close call for me, Ashbury, and Reynaud, too.”

  She paused in the act of brushing a crumb from the corner of his lips. “You delivered it yourselves? The three of you?”

  “Mostly me. They were no help at all. At least Chase had this on him.” He shifted the baby goat to one arm and handed her a silver object approximately the size of her hand.

  Penny examined the makeshift feeding bottle fashioned from a silver flask. In place of a teat, he’d severed the fingertip of a leather glove, stretched it over the uncapped opening, and pricked a hole at the end.

  “Marigold was too weak to let the baby nurse,” he explained. “We had to milk her, which was a miserable adventure on its own.”

  “This is ingenious. I doubt Nicola could have devised anything better. Though I do hope you emptied it of brandy first.”

  “Believe me, we’d already drained the brandy ourselves.” He heaved a weary sigh. “It was a close thing, Penny. We nearly lost them both.”

  “But you did beautifully. Marigold survived, and he’s perfect.” She tilted her head. “Or is it a she?”

  “Damned if I know. Never thought to investigate, and I don’t care to. After today, I’ve seen enough of goat hindquarters to last me a lifetime.”

  She laughed a little. Hooking one of the baby goat’s hind legs with a finger, she made her own examination. “It’s a he. And he’s darling.”

  “The veterinarian’s already come and gone. He said Marigold would recover, but we mustn’t be surprised if she refuses to nurse. Or she might reject the kid entirely. It happens, he said. Sometimes—” He stroked the kid’s velvety ear with a single fingertip, as though he were afraid he might break it. “Sometimes, if she’s ill or weakened, the mother knows she can’t save both her offspring and herself. So she abandons her baby in order to survive.”

  Penny’s heart squeezed. She rested her chin on his shoulder. “What a heartbreaking choice for a mother to make.”

  He stared into the fire. Amber warmth and cool shadows fought for dominion over his hard, unshaven jaw. “She’s a goat. Goats have instincts. People have choices.”

  “You’re right. People do have choices. Sometimes they make cruel, unforgivable ones. But we can choose to keep our little corner of the world warm and safe.” She slid her arms around his chest and hugged him tight. “If Marigold isn’t able to care for him, we will.”

  She reached to take the kid from his arms, but he pulled away.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not letting you coo over him. This one is mine, and I’ll do with him as I please. Send him to Ashbury’s estate. Banish him to a parsnip farm. Fatten him up for Christmas dinner. I told you she was breeding, and you didn’t believe me. I delivered the thing, and you weren’t here. You have no say in the matter.”

  “I suppose that’s only fair.”

  Although, watching him tenderly hold the little dear, she didn’t feel too worried about the kid’s future. Nor Gabriel’s. She would find it easier to part with him knowing he had some love in his life. Even if it came from a bottle-fed baby goat.

  “Have you given him a name?”

  “Considering what an insufferable pain he is, I’m leaning toward Ashbury.”

  Penny chuckled.

“I’ll tell you a secret about Ash. His Christian name is George. He hates it.”

  He nodded. “George it is.”

  George stirred and nosed at Gabriel’s chest and gave a warbling, plaintive bleat.

  “We should take him back to the mews, to be near Marigold,” Penny suggested, “so they don’t lose the scent of each other. Perhaps she’ll feel strong enough to nurse him now. If not, I’ll help with the milking.”

  George took another flask of milk a few hours later, and then again sometime after midnight, by the light of a lantern.

  At some point, Penny must have fallen asleep, because she woke to the first glow of daylight. They’d leaned against each another in one corner of the stall, atop an uncomfortable heap of fresh straw.

  Gabriel nudged her with his shoulder. “Look.”

  The newborn goat was standing on his own wobbly legs, taking drunken steps. When he toppled sideways, he bleated indignantly.

  Gabriel started to reach for him, but Penny held him back. “Wait.”

  Marigold roused herself and ambled over to her kid, licking him about the head until George lurched and swayed himself to his hooves, and when he nosed at her swollen underside, she allowed him to nurse.

  “Oh. That’s lovely.” Penny snuggled under Gabriel’s arm.

  “Thank God she finally took to him,” he said.

  “How could she not? Look how adorable he is. Best little goat in the world.”

  For a few minutes, they watched mother and kid in exhausted silence. Then Gabriel caught Penny’s hand and brought it to his chest.

  “They will all believe I ruined you,” he said quietly. “Married you for your money.”

  They will. Penny tried not to betray how her heart leapt at those two simple words. Not “they would,” or “they might,” but “they will.” “I don’t care.”

  “Others will care. Your family. Your peers. In society’s eyes, I’m unfit to stand on your carpet, much less share your bed.”

  She smiled. “I’ve shared my bed with far muddier, furrier creatures.”

  “You’re the daughter of an earl. I’m a bastard from the rookery.”

  “You’re a self-made marvel of business acumen. A brilliant financier. Besides, just look at Ash and Chase. They married a seamstress and a governess, respectively. It can be done.”

  “It’s not the same. Emma and Alexandra were elevated by those matches. You’d be the lady who lowered herself to marry a commoner. Not merely a commoner, but a criminal from the streets. The rumors would be vicious.”

  She lifted her head. “And you believe I care what the gossips say? You can’t think so meanly of me as that.”

  “I think that meanly of myself.” His eyes were dark with an emptiness that yearned to be filled. “You cannot understand. I can be wealthy as sin, live in the grandest houses, wear the finest clothes—and underneath, I’m still that starving, ragged boy from the streets. The hunger, the resentment . . . They never go away. I’ll never belong in the ton. I can take their money. I can command their fear. But I will never have their acceptance, much less their respect.”

  “You’ll have my love. And if I have yours, that will be more than enough.”

  “It’s romantic to think so. But years from now, when the respectable ladies still snub you in church, or when our children come home bruised or crying because their schoolmates were cruel . . . ?”

  She laid her head against his shoulder. “Then I will tell them an amusing story about a hedgehog in a ballroom and give them a hug and perhaps a kitten to hold, and you and I will remind ourselves that children are stronger than anyone suspects.”

  His chest rose and fell with a heavy breath. He released her hand and eased out of her embrace. “I need to go bathe and dress. I have a hundred things to do to prepare for the ball.”

  She cringed. “Do I truly need to attend?”

  “Yes, you truly do.” He brushed the hay from his trousers. “A lady must attend her own engagement ball.”

  Penny sat up straight. “Gabriel Duke. I know you did not just propose to me in the mews, without so much as going down on one knee, while my hair is a bird’s nest and we both smell like goat.”

  “I didn’t propose to you.” He swung his arms into his coat. Before disappearing, he gave her a slight, mischievous grin and a single syllable that had her heart cartwheeling in her chest. “Yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Between the hasty campaign of plumbing repairs, the hanging of wall coverings and draperies, and other frantic last-minute work on the former Wendleby residence, Gabe had put up with a great deal of noise in recent days. However, on returning to the house the following afternoon, he heard the most unexpected sound yet.

  Laughter. Feminine laughter. He followed the sound to the drawing room, and when he saw the source, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Mrs. Burns.

  He cleared his throat. “What’s going on in here?”

  The housekeeper wheeled to face him. “Mr. Duke.” She tried to school her expression, but not fast enough. Laughter had transformed the housekeeper’s appearance. Her countenance was not dour and pale, but lively. Warm.

  Human.

  “I could have sworn I heard laughter.”

  “Did you, sir?”

  “Yes. Perhaps it was a ghost? Or maybe a raving madwoman chained in the attic.”

  “It’s my fault.” Penny moved into view, carrying George in her arms. “I came to ask if there was anything I could do to help with the preparations.”

  “To begin, you could take the goat back to the mews. This carpet was rescued from a French chateau. Its owner went to the guillotine. That kind of provenance comes dear.”

  “I know, but look.” She set the kid on the floor, and George gamboled about the room, making high-pitched, chirping bleats. “He prances. Sideways. It’s adorable.”

  The kid attempted a leap and stumbled drunkenly to the side, landing on the carpet before picking himself up and shaking his head.

  Even Gabe had to admit it was rather adorable. Especially the way the newborn goat made its way to him from across the room, stopping at his boots to issue an entitled bleat. He was a demanding little thing already.

  Gabe bent to give the kid a scratch between the ears.

  “I’ll take him back to his mother.” Mrs. Burns gathered the baby goat in her arms.

  As she was leaving, the housekeeper paused. She addressed Gabe directly. “Mr. Duke, you may trust that I—and all the house staff—are committed to making the ball a success. The heart of the matter is, this house does have a grand legacy. A legacy that I regard as my own. You are part of it now.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I trust this means you take pride in your service. Not that you intend to trap my soul in a painting and hang it above the drawing room fireplace.”

  The housekeeper gave him a conspiratorial look. “Please don’t tell Mr. Hammond. It’s been too amusing, winding him up. I couldn’t help it. But I’ll put an end to it now.”

  “Oh, please. Feel free to continue. He deserves it.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The housekeeper squared her shoulders, banished the smile from her face, and summoned her usual solemn tone of voice. “Far be it from me to disobey my employer’s wishes.”

  The woman never failed to surprise.

  Once the housekeeper had left them alone, Penny crossed the room to give him a sweet kiss. “I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon. I was told you had urgent business matters.”

  “I had a great many calls to make. While you’re here, I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the stiffened bit of pasteboard scrawled with names in looping, elegant script.

  She took the paper and turned it over to examine both sides. “What is it?”

  “It’s your dance card.”

  “My dance card?”

  Gabe watched her closely as she scanned the card. He’d arranged dances—every set of the evening—to an assortment of highly placed, well-to-do, unmarried men. Peers, lords, gentlemen of note. All of them from families that stretched back generations, if not centuries.

  “I don’t understand. Why would you do this?”

  “I’ll be occupied with hosting, so I arranged suitable partners in advance.”

  She scanned the card. “Lord Brooking for the gavotte. A set of country dances promised to Sir Neville Chartwell. A midnight waltz with a royal duke?” Her eyebrows soared. “An ordinary duke wasn’t good enough?”

  “No man is good enough, where you’re concerned. But these are the best ones available at the moment.”

  “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide with whom I dance? Or if I wish to dance at all?”

  “That’s just it, Penny. Left to your own devices, you won’t dance at all. You’ll stand at the edge of the room. A wallflower.”

  She pushed the card back at him. “I don’t want to dance with these men. I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

  “Then do this for me,” he said, unable to hide his mounting frustration. “I planned this entire occasion with you in mind, starting right after that asinine masquerade. The right guests, the best orchestra, the finest foods and wine. This ball was never about selling the house. It was meant to be your second chance at a proper debut.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you deserve it. Because you’ve spent too many years hiding in the corners or among the shrubbery, when you ought to be the light of any party.”

  “That’s lovely and thoughtful. But I’m going to marry you. It’s not important anymore.”

  “It’s more important than ever. Do you think I want to watch you dance with other men? Hell, no. I want the guests to see you dance. Before we announce our engagement, I want everyone to know you could have had your choice of any gentleman. Everyone, including your family. Your aunt, your brother.”

  “My brother? He won’t be arriving until next week.”

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