To Win a Wallflower

by Liz Tyner

  He tapped the monocle against his leg and stared at her mother. ‘I would certainly pass the word throughout the staff and family that they are definitely not to disturb her at this time. It seems the humours are most likely to be put askew by the people who are closest to her the most often. I—’ He put his monocle away. ‘I could speak with her for hours and it wouldn’t bother her as I’ve hardly been near her. But there’s something shared, a miasma of sorts, in people who have been closest to her... She needs to be away from them for a bit.’

  ‘Are you certain it will cure her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have studied this extensively. For years. I wrote a paper on it.’

  ‘Well, let me know which room and I will tell the maid to wake her in time for her recovery regime.’

  ‘I don’t want to do that,’ Annie said. She didn’t trust the man.

  The doctor looked at her as if her spleen had just spoken back to him.

  ‘Miss Annabelle. You must. You have no choice. I have my reputation to keep.’

  ‘You’ve not been able to cure Mother’s headaches.’

  Her mother leaned towards Annabelle, reached out a hand and swatted at Annie’s arm. ‘They are so much better, though. And the lavender oils he has the maids rub into my feet... It always eases my pain.’

  The doctor raised a brow in one of those I told you so gestures.

  ‘Very well.’ She stood and looked at her mother. ‘But only if you promise to let me go somewhere the next week.’

  Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where do you wish to go?’

  ‘Anywhere. Anywhere but a soirée or a gathering. I would just like to not feel I am being coddled every moment.’

  ‘Your father will forbid it.’ Her mother’s lids lowered. Her eyes drooped closed and she pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘My pain just increased tenfold.’

  ‘We will get that corrected right away.’ The doctor stepped forward, but glanced at Annie. ‘I will discuss which room for you will be best and I expect you to be there from four to five in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Annie.’ Her mother opened one eye. ‘Do as the physician says.’

  Annie left. She would do as the big miasma of a physician said, but if it became too tedious, she would walk in the gardens, darkness or not. She was tired of being a puppet.

  Chapter Three

  Annie bundled her dressing gown tight and took the lamp from the servant and waved the woman away. She twisted her hair up, unwilling to have the wisps tickling her face. After pinning it, she added the jewelled one—the pin her grandmother had given her.

  The physician had told her mother to send her to the portrait room. Annie hated the Granny Gallery. It had apparently become a tradition for every woman of her heritage to have a portrait painted and, if the woman didn’t like the portrait, she would commission another and another until one finally pleased her—and then the artist would soon be asked to paint a miniature, or two, or ten.

  Annie walked into the room, past the two shelves of miniatures her mother had insisted Annie and her sisters pose for. She held watercolours in her hand and a sketchbook under her arm. The barest flutter of air puffed the closed curtains. The doctor had insisted the window be opened the width of a finger. No more. No less.

  Eyes from musty portraits almost overlapping stared at her. The ancestors. They’d probably all died in the house.

  She put the lamp on the table between the chairs, which faced away from the window. They were the only two chairs in the room. Both squat, flat, and with clawed feet. The chairs were heirlooms and probably looked the same as the day they were made because no one willingly sat on something so uncomfortable.

  This was the room where her mother put the furnishings that one had to keep because they’d been in the family forever, but that she would never have purchased.

  And now Annie sat in the middle of it, thinking of which road would be best to take her from the house.

  She rose, prepared her watercolours and stepped over to one of the portraits of her great-great-aunt. Very carefully, she took the wetted brush and added a beauty mark just outside the eye. It hardly showed against the oils. She sighed. She wasn’t even allowed the true paints of an artist.

  She put the brush away, crossed her arms and paced back and forth in front of the trapped eyes.

  If she went to find her sister, her mother and father would be desolate. She was the good daughter. The Carson sister who wasn’t wild. The one that took after the Catmull side of the family. And now she was inheriting her mother’s afflictions and she was standing in a room of discarded furniture. She jerked her arms open, her hands fisted, and grunted her displeasure. Making a jab at the world which had trapped her. She punched again.

  ‘Keep your thumb on the outside of the fist, don’t swing the arm and thrust forward with the motion. It works better.’ A masculine rumble of words hit her ears.

  She jerked around and backwards at the same time.

  A man stood in the doorway. Although it wasn’t that he really stood in the doorway. More like he let it surround him. A dark shape with an even darker frame. The man she’d seen earlier.

  He took one step closer to her and she took in a quick bit of air so she could remain standing.

  He wore a coat and cravat and could have been stepping out to attend a soirée, except no one would think him in a social mood with the straight line of his lips and the hair hanging rough around his face. He needed a shave—really needed a shave.

  His eyes looked as if he’d just woken, but not the softened look of someone gently waking from slumber—more the studied look of a predatory animal ready to swing out a paw at the little morsel who’d dared disturb the beast.

  She moved back.

  He extended his arm in one controlled move, but she didn’t feel threatened.

  He made a fist, held his elbow at his side, and moved the hand straight forward, but angled away from her. ‘This way. You don’t want to swing wide. Gives someone an easier chance to block.’

  Her eyes travelled down the length of his arm, past his elbow, and lodged at his fist. Four curled fingers and then a thumb. The scarred thumb alone could have flattened her.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded her head and moved her eyes to his elbow, his shoulder, past the chin, right to his eyes and then one dart back to his chin. She didn’t know what she’d said yes to, but at that moment, it was the best she could do.

  She forced herself to look into his eyes and felt she could see the solid wall behind them.

  ‘It would not matter if I kept my thumb in or out if I should hit you,’ she said.

  ‘I would think not.’ He shrugged. ‘But, I’m sturdier than most.’

  She nodded. ‘Especially stepping out of the shadows. You’re rather...daunting.’

  ‘I try to be. It helps.’ No smile to soften the words. He meant them.

  He walked forward, picked up the light and held it high. It flickered on her face. She stepped backwards into the curtains and her fingers clasped them tight.

  ‘I did not believe it possible,’ he said. ‘I thought my eyes lied and my memory as well.’

  Now he examined her.

  With splayed fingers, she touched her cheek. ‘I’ve been ill.’

  He choked out a laugh, lowering the lamp to the table. The side of his mouth curled. A smile that turned into a private chuckle before it reached his eyes. He looked away, seeming to discount her, and his own words. ‘Then I can hardly wait to see what you look like when you recover.’

  ‘Sir.’ She cleared her throat, because it hardly seemed to work. ‘I believe that is improper for you to say.’

  ‘Of all my choices, it was the most proper,’ he said. ‘But I do beg your pardon.’ A pause. ‘As I should.’ Words exactly perfect. Emotionless.

  Now he stood so close the light flickered on his face. He had
more ragged edges than smooth. She could not believe her father would invite this man into their home.

  But this man would understand others defending themselves.

  And if she were to go out without a true chaperon, she might need to take care.

  Presently all she needed protecting from was her embroidery needle and that she might tumble out of the chair when she fell asleep stitching. But by Tuesday morning, that might change. She was ready to take her chances with the outside world. ‘So how does one hit someone effectively?’

  A muscle in his jaw tightened. ‘Punch straight. Keep your elbow as close to the side as possible. Don’t swing out. Move like a lever. Not like a windmill. A windmill...’ he demonstrated, holding his arm straight from the shoulder and moving his fist forward ‘...is too easy to block.’

  ‘I will never be able to punch someone,’ she said, feeling helpless. She would never be able to go after her sister. ‘I’m always surrounded by chaperons,’ she said, concluding her thoughts out loud. ‘You would think I am gold, the way my parents guard me.’

  True lightness touched his eyes. ‘Perhaps you are.’

  Then darkness moved into his face. ‘You are standing alone in a room with a man you know nothing of. The world is full of evil and evil enjoys waiting for just the right moment.’ He stared at her. ‘Evil is patient. It only needs one moment of opportunity.’ His eyes narrowed and he leaned in. ‘One moment.’

  ‘You were invited by my father. He makes no decisions rashly.’

  His slow intake of breath through his nose raised his body enough to show a muted dismissal of any disagreement she made to his statement.

  ‘I can scream.’

  ‘You would be surprised,’ his voice thundered, ‘how little noise can carry—even on the most silent night.’ He waited and cocked his head. Listening.

  Then his voice took on an innocence. ‘Well, perhaps my words were not loud enough to summon help for you. Scream,’ he said. ‘See who comes running.’

  ‘It would be embarrassing for you.’

  ‘Just say I startled you in the shadows. You thought me an intruder. A ghost. A raging bear. You were sleepwalking. Whatever.’

  ‘I could say you accosted me. Do you not realise the danger in that for you?’

  ‘I’ll take that risk.’ The muscles at the side of his face moved. ‘I’ve taken many worse.’

  He gave a twitch of his shoulders and blandness settled in his eyes. He took two steps to the door. When he touched the door, he moved with liquid stealth and turned back to her. ‘And how truly unsettling for me to be thought a rogue.’

  Instead of leaving, he shut the door. He leaned against it, arms relaxed, hands behind his back, trapped by his body against the wood. ‘Now. Embarrass me. Scream. And not just once.’

  Her stomach thudded, but she wasn’t truly afraid. He’d put his hands behind him and he had one of the I told you so looks in his eyes.

  Silence engulfed them. ‘I’m not trying to scare you, nor am I jesting.’ He spoke in measured tones. ‘Your voice cannot carry through wood and stop dreams of dancing angels. By the time the first shout was out of your mouth, my hand could be over it and, if someone awakened, they would think it an imagination. They might lie awake for a moment to listen, then sleep would grab them again, telling them that they heard nothing.’

  She rubbed her arms, trying to soothe away the chill. ‘If you’re trying to make me uncomfortable, you are succeeding.’

  He opened the door and stood aside. ‘You can leave at any time you wish.’

  He paused a second. ‘Did you hear my last words? Really hear them? You can leave any time you wish. Why would I even think it necessary to say such a thing to you? Is this not your house? Where you are safest in the entire world? I take it for granted that I am stronger than you and can control you because you are smaller.’

  She couldn’t untangle his words. They just didn’t make sense to her.

  ‘Make a fist properly and use it properly.’ His chin lowered. ‘You can leave after punching me. Fair enough?’

  ‘Not fair at all.’ She stared at the beast in front of her.

  ‘A fist,’ he commanded.

  She did.

  ‘Thumb out.’ He stepped forward.

  She did.

  ‘Not like that. Your thumb is in a straight line.’

  With two steps and keeping his body to the side so he did not block her exit, he moved closer. His eyes locked on hers for a moment, no threat, and a softer question behind them. ‘May I?’ He raised his hand level with her side as he spoke.

  With one fingertip reaching out, he rested it at the base of her fist. Then with his other hand, he slid her thumb down until it rested against the outside space after the second knuckle of her hand, making sure her fingertips folded in, and her hand had a square shape to it.

  This beast of a man touched her as lightly as if she were made of silk. His fingers, so tender against her hand, shot bolts of awareness into her. She couldn’t move her hand.

  ‘It might save your life some day.’ His voice rolled over her, reaching deeper into her than the touch had.

  ‘I doubt that.’ She took a step back, causing his hands to fall to his side. ‘I am careful. To have you in my house is an aberration.’

  ‘True.’ His eyes registered the jab and lightened. ‘But aberrations happen and sometimes more than once. You may still shout if you wish. As many times as you like.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone would come instantly to your rescue. Perhaps you would see how much longer it takes for someone to rescue you than you realise, or perhaps I would truly see how safe you are. Convince me of how well you are watched.’

  ‘What kind of game are you playing?’

  ‘I want you to see how much your survival could depend on you and how much fighting back is the best, or even only, friend you may have at hand.’

  ‘I am coddled. Every moment of my life.’

  ‘Which makes you a perfect victim.’

  His gaze lingered on hers. He held up his hand, fingers splayed, but curved inwards. ‘Hit me. Hard.’ His voice softened. ‘Just don’t hurt your hand.’

  ‘No.’

  He brought his hand closer. ‘Hit me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I hardly know you. And though I don’t like you at all, I don’t have any wish to hurt—much wish to hurt you.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve hit men I didn’t know at all. And men I knew quite well.’

  ‘I will not hit you. It’ll only hurt my hand.’

  The tension in his face relaxed. ‘You’re right.’ He moved to the sofa and pulled a pillow into his hands and raised it. ‘Hit gently, then. Just to feel the movement. Not the windmill, but the direct hit.’

  ‘I said no.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s as if you like to fight.’

  ‘I do.’

  He shook his hand sideways, emphasising the location for her punch. ‘I’ve never not hit anyone who asked me to.’ His lips curved. ‘Chaperoned Miss who cannot even scream.’ His face moved closer. His breath burned at her cheek. ‘You may hit me any time you wish, buttercup.’

  His face not moving away, chin so close she could almost feel the bristles.

  ‘A woman designed to do nothing but wed well.’

  The words jabbed her skin.

  ‘You’re a sweet confection only to look at, a well-designed form to display jewellery. If you’ve a thought in your head, you bat it away with your eyelashes so it will not confuse you.’

  He moved around her, circling. ‘You’re dandelion fluff. The feathers in this pillow have more of a brain than you.’

  She swung, straight to the chin.

  His left hand moved up, his fingers trapping her wrist before it touched him. With a soft clasp, he moved her hand away from his f
ace.

  Then his eyes flinched and he tensed. He snapped his fingers back from her.

  She touched her skin, to cover the heat his grasp had left behind. ‘If you only did that to show you’re stronger than I, you proved it. To yourself, I suppose. But I already knew it.’

  He threw down the pillow. Again he raised his hand, palm to her and fingers open to clasp her punch. ‘Hit it.’ His voice now had the raggedness of anger. He shook the right hand again. ‘Don’t be scared, Miss Fluff. Don’t be afraid.’

  Again she refused.

  He leaned in. His eyelids dropped, humour and venom mixed, even as his voice softened. ‘Pretend I took your favourite doll.’

  She punched out, force behind her arm. He didn’t clasp his fingers around hers, but moved back with the hit. ‘Better.’

  All movement of the room stilled while their eyes locked.

  ‘Again,’ he commanded. ‘And don’t look at where your fist is going. Your eyes tell me your plans. Before you tried to hit my face, you looked at my chin. I saw your movements before they were made. Watch my face. Read my actions. Lie to me with your eyes.’

  ‘Why?’ She let the word flow with her breathing. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  After gazing at her for a second, he dropped his arm. ‘Because everyone should know how to protect themselves. I was taught it by my father.’

  Thoughts raced. Yes. A father might teach his son to box. But why was he doing this to her?

  ‘Apparently you did not hear that my mother died from falling down the stairs. Breaking her neck.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, yes—I think.’ Perhaps she’d heard it. But it was a very long time ago. ‘My condolences on her passing, but what has that to do with—?’

  The glare from his face would have stopped a horse from rushing ahead.

  She said nothing, stepping back.

  ‘I was in the house that night.’

  His sigh was silent. He waited long enough to blink. He frowned, shrugging away the words. ‘Servants carried her upstairs and put her on her bed. My grandmother instructed everyone exactly how Mother’s hair should be prepared and what clothes she should wear and told them to be quick about it. For the first time, she seemed to want my mother to be beautiful.’