Waltz 0f The Wallflower (Delicate Hearts Book 1)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Other Books by this Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Read More from Catherine Mayfair
Waltz of the Wallflower
Catherine Mayfair
Copyright © year 2019 Catherine Mayfair
All rights reserved.
***
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Regency Stories Series by Catherine Mayfair
Stranded with the Marquess
Duke of Chance
The Baron’s Charade
Chapter One
Beyond the sound of her own heartbeat, only the angry breathing of Baron Shuttley filled the parlor. The father of Miss Lydia Fortescue was an easily frustrated man, and she knew he would continue to be so for what remained of the Season. For the third year in a row, she was in London, the purpose to find a gentleman to whom she would eventually wed. The two previous Seasons had been utter failures, at least according to her father, who now picked up where he left off in his rant as he paced the carpeted floor.
“I fear the rumors that have been going about naming you a spinster will come to pass,” her father said. “That my daughter, who is already known as a wallflower will add spinster to her title. Do you have any idea how hearing such terms being assigned to a daughter of mine makes me feel?”
Wallflower. Lydia winced at the word. It was a horrible term for anyone to use; how her father threw it around so carelessly pained her all the more.
Her father sighed heavily. “I can see by your face those words hurt you.”
“Yes, Father,” Lydia replied with a nod. “I do not believe it fair to use them. Even on me.”
The man snorted and then let out another sigh. “I do not mean to hurt you,” he said. “However, you must understand how important this Season is to us. We cannot allow for failure. You must find a gentleman. Will you not at least try?” His look of plea punctuated his tone, and Lydia nodded her agreement, though she doubted it would be because of any fault on her part if she was unable to follow through.
“Excellent,” her father replied.
As he continued his rant, despite the understanding to which they had come, she allowed her thoughts to wander. The first Season she had danced with a few young men, though none were worth even the slightest consideration for courtship. They did not want to speak of books or nature, but rather they showed interest in speaking only of themselves and their latest conquests, both personal and professional.
Then another thought came to her. Perhaps all men were that way.
Lydia sighed. Regardless if that were true, that all men were selfish and considered fulfilling only their own needs, she would keep her promise to her father. She knew the number of requests to dance would be fewer this year than they had been in the past, and those who did give her a card only would do so in mockery. To dance with a woman who had the features of a donkey could only be done so in jest, as a way to make the friends of such a man laugh.
This had been the case of one William Montgomery, the recently titled Duke of Bennington. She remembered the moment the card had been given to her by his friend. It had been near the end of the last Season, and although she had received few cards, this one was exceptional. The words written on it had been cruel, and the memory still brought her pain. Though she had discarded the note, she could still recall it by heart.
Perhaps a lady such as yourself should join the circus. With the face of a donkey and the legs of a goat, you would have great wealth in such a place.
And to think she had thought the man so handsome that she wondered if he were authentic and not some Greek statue carved from marble!
“Lydia,” her father said, calling her back to their current conversation. “I repeat, there will be no failure, will there?”
“No, Father,” Lydia whispered.
“Good. Now, I’m sure gentlemen will be fighting over you, for there is no eligible woman more beautiful in all of London than my daughter.” The man beamed with pride, and though Lydia wanted to believe him, she could not.
Indeed, wallflower, as hideous as the word was, described her quite well, for her love of books and her studies of wildlife and philosophy placed her in such a category. If that was the only definition of the term, she would have been more than pleased to be named as such. It was not that she thought herself ugly, but she certainly could not be considered one of the great beauties. She could not decide if her hair was the color of wheat or oak and her face was plain and lacked the doll-like features preferred by most men. However, after receiving the cruel card the previous year, she had come to realize that no man would dance with her, let alone wish to marry her.
Lydia turned as the parlor door opened and her chaperon, Mrs. Eleanor Ridge—the woman had never been married and yet she used the title anyway—entered the room. The woman was well past the age of sixty, her hearing all but gone, and her sight was nowhere near what it once had been. She refused to wear glasses, which would have helped tremendously. However, Lydia adored the woman, who had been hired specifically for her current position.
“Ah, Mrs. Ridge,” her father said in greeting, “I believe my daughter is ready. Please, be sure she finds a suitable gentleman, one of whom I will approve. There will be a monetary bonus if she finds a suitor before the season ends.”
The old woman grinned. “My Lord,” she said with a slow curtsy, “there is a reason why I am considered the best chaperon in London. By the season’s end, a gentleman of renown will be begging for her courtship.”
As her father shared his approval, Lydia thought about the party they would be attending this evening. Would she receive another nasty card as she had before? Had the rumors her father feared already started? Well, regardless if such rumors had begun or not, she would still be required to attend every party and function. Therefore, she rose from the chair and followed Mrs. Ridge to the carriage. What other choice did she have?
***
William Montgomery, Seventh Duke of Bennington, took a small sip of his port. He would be leaving to attend the first party of the Season, and he found himself more nervous than he had been the previous. Last Season had been a disaster, one full of regrets, but he vowed this one would be different.
“Your Grace,” Hughes, the butler, said as he entered the library, “your carriage is ready when you are.”
William sighed and turned to face the old man. For longer than William had been alive Hughes had served the Montgomery family, and William wondered if the man ever aged. He had the same silver hair and lines around his eyes William remembered as a child.
“Thank you,” William replied to the older man’s announcement. He set his glass down on the oak desk. “Another Season is upon us. I believe I am ready.”
“Is that a statement or a question?” Hughes asked with his usual stiffness.
With a loud barking laugh, William answered, “Perhaps it is both, Hughes.” He walked around to the front of the desk and leaned against it, his hands crossed over his chest. “I am unsure as to what to do.”
“It is simple, Your Grace,” Hughes replied. “You give a card to a young lady to whom you show an interest. Then follows a dance…”
William shook his head and let out another laugh. “I know that, old man,” he said, still chuckling. “I speak of Miss Fortescue.” He sighed as he pushed himself from the desk. “I had hoped my card would have found me favor, but instead it gained me scorn. I do not understand what I did wrong.”
“They were beautiful words, Your Grace,” the old butler said. “You truly are a poet.”
With a nod of appreciation at the man’s words, William could not help but wonder what had gone wrong. It was at another party that the woman was engaged in conversation. As William listened in, he found her love of the world intriguing. She was called a wallflower by others in the circles in which he ran, but he found the word misused when speaking of Miss Fortescue. After he heard the topic of discussion at that party, he had spent the greater part of a fortnight writing that poem he had given her. He had been proud of his accomplishment and had even shared the great news with his friend Barnard Egerton.
Yet, when the time had come for him to give the card to Miss Fortescue’s chaperon, Barnard had insisted on doing it. His argument had been that he feared that such bold words concerning the beauty and wisdom of Miss Fortescue might seem inappropriate. With reluctance, William had taken the advice Barnard gave him and allowed the man to take the card for him.
He had watched with anticipation as Miss Fortescue read the contents of the card. When her smile faded into a look of shock, William thought his heart would break. After all the thought he had put into those words, to see her unexpected reaction had devastated him. Barnard had been right; William had been much too forward with his thoughts.
“Your Grace?” Hughes said, and William looked up at the man. “Your suit is perfect, made of the finest blue thread. Your shirt was woven with skilled hands. However, you are missing one thing to take with you tonight.”
“And what is that?” William asked with amusement.
“A smile.”
William chuckled. “Right you are,” he said, placing the recommended smile on his lips. “I will not accept defeat.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
William led the way down the hall, passing numerous paintings of the former Dukes of Bennington who held the title before him. All had been known for their bravery and cunning, and although it was several generations back, the First Duke of Bennington had been brother to the King himself. William had a heavy burden to bear, but he had been well-trained by his father and took his position in society with great earnestness. Not one of the men who carried the title before him left the world with even a glimmer of scandal or defeat, and he would not be the first.
Though he was surrounded by all that had been left to him—wealth, power, title—he wanted to be able to share it all with someone special. A woman who would appreciate the finer things in life, but also have knowledge and an appreciation for art and nature.
William had no doubt which woman could do just that, and he was determined that, by the end of the Season, he would be courting Miss Lydia Fortescue.
Chapter Two
The estate of Stephen Porter, Fourth Duke of Spandington, was perhaps one of the finest William had ever seen. Located in the wealthiest area of London and within walking distance of Buckingham Palace itself, it offered a large enough area in which the most lavish of parties could be held. Despite the plain white facade on the front of the building, inside, the ballroom offered a multitude of ornate decorative vases from all over the world, red velvet drapes on the windows, and several large tapestries with depictions of some of the greatest battles the world had ever seen. The man had spared no expense when it came to décor, and he walked about the room as proud as any peacock strutting in his pen.
“It is quite the crowd this year,” Bernard, Marquess of Easley and longtime friend of William, said in a bored tone. “From Baron to Duke, I believe all of the ton is here.”
William nodded in agreement as a new dance started. “I admit I find your words difficult to argue,” he said. “I did not realize how many chaperons were in London.” He glanced over the women standing behind a line of seated young ladies, each whispering words of encouragement or reminders to keep straight postures.
“What a collection of wallflowers and spinsters,” Barnard said with a snort before taking a drink of his wine. “I have seen women begging on Regent Street who are more attractive.”
William shook his head.
“What?” his friend demanded. “Do I not speak the truth? I find the choices this year horrendous, to say the least.”
With a glance over the women swirling on the dance floor and those seated in front of their chaperons, William went to agree once more but then stopped, his breath catching in his throat. Miss Fortescue wore a yellow dress with a sweeping neckline that showed just enough bosom to feed the imagination without being immodest. He was surprised to find that her beauty had grown over the past year. “Not all are horrible, Bernard,” he said without taking his eyes off Miss Fortescue. “Some are quite lovely.”
“Are you speaking of the Wallflower of Maldon?” Bernard asked. “She is near spinsterhood. Besides, the rumors of her antics continue to grow with each passing year.”
“What rumors?” William demanded, annoyed at the choice of words the man used. They had been friends since childhood, and yet at times, William wondered why. The man was rude, treating others with disdain, and William struggled to think of a time when the man did not complain about something.
“She slips out at night to drink in pubs,” Barnard said with a sigh. “Do not give me that look, old friend. The rumors are true. I have it on good authority that she has been seen on more than one occasion in areas in which she should not be found.”
“I do not believe it,” William said adamantly as his gaze returned to Miss Fortescue. Her gaze was cast down, and somehow, he could sense her sadness. “No, not her.”
Barnard clapped him on the back as Mr. Clancy Sparking, a mutual friend of the two men and the only one to not yet receive his title, greeted them. “Say, Clancy,” Barnard said to the man who would soon be Baron Brogan if rumors of his father’s illness were true, “what do you know of Miss Lydia Fortescue?”
Clancy grinned. “The wallflower who entertains men at the pub?” the man asked. “Regina told me that last Season she was caught with a man thrice her age engaged in a quite passionate kiss. A drunken one at that.”
Barnard barked a loud laugh that made several people look their way, but William could only shake his head at such foolishness. Clancy’s sister was a known gossip, and William doubted any word that left the woman’s mouth was true.
“I do not believe it,” he stated firmly once again. “Tell me, how did Regina come to know of this matter?” He raised his eyebrows in expectation.
The impudent smile left Clancy’s lips. “Well,” he said in a rather abrupt tone, “the servants speak amongst themselves—you know this—and things are heard.”
“Oh, so you mean to say that your servants frequent pubs?” William accused.
“Well, no,” Clancy stammered. “It was a friend of Regina, Miss Alice, it was her cousin, whose friend, Mary, who was with her husband on a walk…”
William chuckled, though he found the man’s explanation confusing; trying to place the names was impossible. Finally, the man gave up.
Barnard shook his head and clapped William on the back. “Perhaps your poetry needs to be refined,” he said, and Clancy laughed.
William, however, did not appreciate the man’s humor.
“Maybe,” Barnard continued as he jut
ted his chin toward the group of young ladies seated across the room, “a line that speaks of going to a pub and sharing a pint is what will win over Miss Fortescue.”
Ignoring the laughs of the two men, William looked over at Miss Fortescue once more. The rumors concerning the woman were simply that—rumors—and he did not believe them for a moment. No matter how many times he heard it and from how many people the words came, he refused to believe such absurdities.
“Poetry will not win her over,” he said, “but a gentleman handing her his card will.” He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved one of his cards.
“You will only fail,” Barnard warned him. “Do not embarrass yourself.”
“I will not fail,” William replied, and then walked away, whispering, “Not this Season.”
***
Upon first arrival to the party, Lydia had found herself filled with hope. She had convinced herself on the short carriage ride from her father’s London townhome that this Season would be different. Indeed, several gentlemen smiled her way, though none had come forward to sign her dance card or to offer their card to her. Well, she would not give up; a new year called for a new outlook on life.
It was when she had left the ballroom to use the facilities that her confidence was left in shatters. As she passed a room where four women stood laughing together, she could not help but overhear the tale of a lady who had sneaked out into the night and engaged in kisses with older men. One of the women speculated that the innocence of the woman had been lost.
“Now, her father is hurrying to see her wed to a man of wealth before the news of her indiscretions become well-known,” the woman said with what was clearly feigned shock.
“Apparently, the older man was a simple chimney sweep!” another commented with disgust.
If there was one thing Lydia knew, it was that gossip served no one, so she berated herself for slowing to listen in the first place and went to move further down the hall when she froze upon hearing her own name.