by Meara Platt
Emma clasped Olivia’s hand in hers and offered a reassuring smile. “Then we shall, at least as much as we are able.”
“Oh, I know. Let’s go to the fair.” Juliet turned an excited grin on them, fairly bouncing in her seat. “I’m told there’s a fortune teller there. You can see her and maybe she’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do.”
Olivia’s spirits heightened a fraction at the idea. Juliet had always believed in such things while Emma called them pure nonsense. Olivia did not hold any firm opinions about the unknown but she did believe that some people were blessed with special intuitions and abilities. She believed it possible that the fortune teller could tell her something useful, leastwise; she was willing to reserve judgment until she’d seen the woman.
“Perhaps, the fortune teller can give me some guidance,” Olivia said and smiled at her friends.
“Perhaps,” Emma released Olivia’s hand with a sigh, “though it’s far more likely she’ll provide nothing more than a moment’s entertainment.”
Juliet glared at Emma for a heartbeat, then shook her head. “You needn’t always be so serious.”
“You well know how I feel about such things. I simply do not want to get Olivia’s hopes up.” Emma stood. “Shall we be on our way, then?”
Juliet rose then threaded her arm through Olivia’s. “Ignore her, there’s nothing wrong with hope.”
Olivia gave a slight grin not wanting to dampen Juliet’s excitement, but she well knew that Emma’s warning had merit. Pushing the thoughts aside, she looped her arm through Emma’s and gave a slight squeeze. “Thank you both.”
Olivia’s heart pounded, a mixture of foreboding and excitement turning her insides to knots as the three of them made their way from the parlor. Even if the fortune teller had nothing good—nothing helpful—to say, she would escape the future being forced on her. She had to.
END
Get A Wallflower’s Folly and see all the books in the Fortunes of Fate connected series here.
EARL OF WESTCLIFF
CHAPTER ONE
Wicked Earls’ Club, London
October 1815
TYNAN BRAYDEN, THE sixth Earl of Westcliff, peered out of the window of his club onto Bedford Place, knowing he had a choice to make – either remove the last of his clothing and join the beautiful viscountess who was already naked in his bed, eager to share a night of pleasure with him – or leave his bedchamber to discover the identity of the young woman draped in moonlight who was standing alone across the street from his club for the third night in a row and find out what she was doing there.
Was there a doubt of his decision?
He eyed the strawberries and cream, the peacock feather, and the black silk ribbons sitting atop his bureau and sighed. “We’ll have to do this another night, Daniella. Something has just come up.” He intended no pun by his remark, nor was the viscountess clever enough to understand the double meaning in his words.
“Is it my husband?” Daniella, Lady Bascom, leaped from his bed and hastily tossed on her elegant silk gown. “He must have returned to London early. Or never left at all. Why, that deceitful liar! He must have hired Bow Street runners to follow me.” She gathered up the undergarments she’d removed moments earlier and fled from his room without giving him so much as a passing glance.
“Have a good evening,” Tynan muttered as she slammed the door behind her. In truth, he was relieved. Their nights, despite the sex games she often enjoyed playing, had grown quite dull and unsatisfying to him. Intimacy, he supposed, required the participating parties to actually feel something for each other. Something more than indifference.
He returned his attention to the young lady who stood alone on the street, no sign of her driver or carriage this evening, which left her easy prey for any passerby who wished to take advantage. Out there, she was vulnerable. A lost rabbit among a pack of wolves.
“Bollocks.” Three of those wolves had just spotted her and were now about to circle her.
He grabbed his boots, quickly stuffing his feet into them, and at the same time glancing around for the shirt he’d removed only moments ago. Daniella, he realized, must have scooped it up along with her undergarments in her mad rush to flee his chamber. There was no time to grab another, for those three not so fine gentlemen were dangerously close to his little rabbit, eyeing her for their next meal. His little rabbit? No, he didn’t know the girl and had no intention of getting involved beyond rescuing her from this scrape.
Tynan knew he had to move fast. By the sidelong glances these men were casting her, and their sudden whispers to each other, they were about to make their move.
He reached for his pistols and hurried downstairs, hoping to make it out of the club and across the street before the girl was harmed. Not that he should care or feel protective of her in any way. Or that he should still nonsensically be thinking of her as his little rabbit. Where was her family? Did no one notice her missing?
There was a chill to the air on this October evening, a hint of upcoming winter. Tynan felt the wind’s cool prickle against his chest the moment he stepped out of his club. “You there… girl.” He didn’t know what to call her. My darling bunny was not at all appropriate. Was she married? A spinster? No, she looked too young to be on the shelf. But not too young to know better than to be traipsing about London alone at night. “Get behind me.”
She frowned at him. “Do I know you, sir?”
“No, nor do I believe you know those three gentlemen who are eyeing you for dessert.” He turned to the three obviously inebriated men and trained his pistols on them. “Take another step toward the girl and it shall be your last.”
“No need for that, m’lord,” said their leader, an arrogant fellow with a cruel smile and an avid gleam in his eyes that revealed his less than honorable intentions toward the girl. He had no business here. Not that this was one of the finer London neighborhoods, but neither was it anywhere near the worst. The townhouses on Bedford Place were neatly maintained and might have been considered elegant if not for their occupants who were mostly mistresses and courtesans who plied their trade to a fashionable clientele. “We’re willin’ to share her with you.”
The girl scurried to Tynan’s side. “I am indebted to you, sir. I hadn’t noticed them. I’m glad you did.”
Her voice was soft and lilting.
He caught the scent of roses on her skin, with a subtle hint of lemon and summer sunshine mixed in.
She was prettier than he’d expected, but he dared not take his gaze off the blackguards, not while they were obviously mulling how best to overpower him and grab the girl. “Get inside,” he ordered her. “You’ll be safe with me. I give you my word of honor.”
She hesitated.
“I have no wish to spill blood, but these gentlemen are determined to have you. I’ll be forced to shoot them if you continue to stand here and provide temptation.”
“Oh, I see.” She stepped into the club.
He backed in after her, his gaze and pistols trained on the men who were not at all pleased that their little rabbit had just gotten away. He shoved the door closed and called for two passing footmen to stand guard. “Keep weapons at hand. We might have trouble from those drunken fools tonight.”
They both nodded. “Aye, m’lord.”
“Has Lord Coventry arrived yet? Or Sussex or Wainthorpe?”
“No, m’lord,” the older footman said. “Nor any of the other earls.”
“When they do arrive, warn them to remain alert.” He waited for these trusted retainers to take their positions by the door, and then turned scowling toward the girl. “Are you attics to let? Where is your driver? More important, why have you been standing across the street, scouting this building for the past three nights?”
When she did not deign to respond, he tucked the smaller pistol into its holster in his boot, grabbed her hand, and attempted to haul her upstairs to his quarters. She stood her ground and fought back, determined to shove away f
rom him. “Unhand me!”
“Not until I have my answers.” Having no patience for her resistance, he lifted her over his shoulder.
She gasped and pounded on his back. “You gave me your word of honor! Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere we can continue this discussion in private.” He did not particularly care who saw her, but the lords and ladies who frequented the Wicked Earls’ Club expected discretion and could not afford to be seen by her… whoever she was.
He marched into his chamber and shut the door behind them, ignoring her startled cry as the latch fell into place. He set her down in the center of the room and moved away, for she was obviously scared of him and he needed to calm her down. “What is your business here?”
“You wretch!”
He growled when she unexpectedly kicked his shin and tried to dodge around him to reach the door.
He grabbed her by the waist and drew her up against him, his intention merely to prevent her escape. To his surprise, she felt soft and wonderful. He released her, but made certain to stand between her and the door. “Why did you kick me?”
Instead of replying, she fumbled through her reticule and withdrew her own pistol. With a small, trembling hand, she pointed it at him. “You assured me that I would be safe with you.”
“Put that thing down before you hurt yourself.” He moved toward his desk and set his own pistol down on it. “You are safe with me. I have no interest in making you my next bed partner.” Although he’d just gotten a good look at the girl and – holy hell – she was beautiful. Auburn hair that was lush and silky, and hinting of curls that were too unruly to ever properly behave. Big amber-brown eyes that were the vibrant color of expensive brandy. And a body that had his heart pounding so hard, it almost dropped him to his knees.
He doubted that she trusted him, and in this moment, he wasn’t certain that he could be trusted with her.
Her lips were tantalizingly soft and pink. He’d been too busy staring at them to realize she’d lowered her weapon. “I may as well introduce myself. Tynan Brayden, Earl of Westcliff, at your service.”
Her lips puckered as he gave a mock bow. “An earl,” she said, placing emphasis on his title. “My goodness.”
He arched an eyebrow, relieved when she finally stuck the pistol back in her reticule. He noted that her hands were still trembling. “Your turn,” he said, purposely keeping his voice gentle. “Who are you?”
“No one of consequence, I assure you. Lady Abigail Croft. My brother is Peter Croft, Baron Whitpool. His is an old title, but that’s about all that can be said for the good. In truth, I feel it is more of a family curse.”
He could hear the heartbreak in her every word.
“I wasn’t here because of your club.” Her release of breath came out in a ragged and rather forlorn sigh. “I was trying to work up the courage to enter the house next door. It is where my brother goes nightly… for his… to forget about the demons that haunt him.”
Any irritation he might have felt toward the girl’s folly had now fled. If Tynan understood her correctly, her brother was an addict. Bollocks, that was trouble. He and his fellow earls had become increasingly concerned by the fashionable artists salon next door that had lately turned into something more sinister. The place was frequented by romantic poets, many of whom were darlings of the ton. Someone in very high authority shielded them, perhaps not realizing this house was more of an opium den than a salon for patrons of enlightened literature. “I’m truly sorry, Lady Abigail. How long has this been going on with your brother?”
“Ever since he returned home from the war. He was recalled from his regiment when he came into the title last year. But his condition has gotten especially bad these past few months. Perhaps he’s been like this for years and I hadn’t noticed until now. He was wounded years ago in Spain fighting Napoleon’s forces, you see.”
Tynan regarded her with concern. “He was a soldier?”
She clasped her hands together, wringing them as she nodded. “The youngest of four sons, so it was either fighting or the clergy for him. He chose fighting.” She cast Tynan a wincing smile. “I love him, but Peter was never the pious sort. My parents knew it, too. As for me, I was the accidental fifth child, the girl they had hoped for and finally got. Being the only girl among all those boys, and the youngest as well, I was either picked on mercilessly or worshiped. There was never a middle ground.”
If she had four older brothers, then where were the other three? Why was she left the task of bringing Peter home? It made no sense.
She cleared her throat. “My lord, have you lost your shirt?”
“What?” He glanced down, noting he was clad only in his trousers and boots, and only now recalling he’d run out in this state of undress. He kept a wardrobe at his club, but he’d been too distracted by the girl to bother making himself respectable. Was it necessary? She was in his chamber. Alone with him. They were strangers to each other. There was nothing respectable about their situation. “Give me a moment.”
He fetched a clean shirt and slipped it on, buttoning it only part way up and rolling up his shirt sleeves since he wasn’t going to fumble with cufflinks or don a bloody cravat, vest, or jacket for her sake. In truth, there was a sensual innocence about the girl that made him think of shedding clothes – mainly hers – rather than tediously putting his on.
Her gown was seductively prim, he noticed. A dark blue woolen weave with a white lace collar that buttoned to her throat. A man would have to work for hours to slip that gown off her slender shoulders. He ran his gaze up and down her body once more. Ah, but she’d be worth every bit of the effort it would take to peel those layers off her. “I’m afraid I cannot leave my club yet, Lady Abigail. If you promise not to run off the moment my back is turned, I’ll have my carriage brought around to take you home.”
She nodded. “I give you my word. Thank you. This was my driver’s night off and I foolishly thought… well, clearly I wasn’t thinking. I’d hired a hack and paid the driver to wait for me, but the horrid man disappeared the moment I handed over the money. I was stranded and didn’t know what to do.”
As though fully realizing just how incredibly idiotic and dangerous her actions had been, she blushed and glanced away.
Her innocent eyes lit up the moment she noticed what was sitting upon his bureau top. “Are those strawberries? And cream?”
Tynan realized she was hungry and not thinking of the games one played in bed with… never mind. “Yes, please have them. I’ll ring for some more food to be brought up for you while you await your ride home.”
“Oh, no. It isn’t necessary. The strawberries are perfect. Thank you.” She dipped one in cream, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back to take it into her mouth. Her tongue darted out to lick at a spot of cream that had landed at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, my. This is heavenly.”
Holy hell.
Her eyes were still closed while she slowly savored each lush, juicy bite. “Would you care for one, my lord?”
“No, Lady Abigail.” His throat was suddenly as tight as the rest of his body. “Have them all. I wouldn’t deny you the obvious pleasure.”
She opened her eyes and smiled at him in appreciation, a genuinely sincere and warm smile that upended his heart once again.
“Oh, and what a lovely feather.”
Bollocks.
“It’s a peacock feather, isn’t it?”
He wished the girl would keep her hands off those things. In truth, they weren’t his. The viscountess had brought the peacock feather and silk bindings along in anticipation of a night of erotic fantasy. Her fantasies. Not his. He was merely her chosen stud bull.
Since he was single, unattached, and feeling particularly restless lately, he’d accepted her proposition. Meaningless sex with a beautiful woman who wanted no commitment.
So why was he relieved that it had not taken place?
Worse, why was he enjoying his night of celibacy with one of the mos
t clueless young women ever to cross his path?
“Oh, what lovely silk ribbons. They’re a rich, lustrous black. What are you–”
“Give me those.” He grabbed them from her fingers and stuck them in the top drawer of his desk. “I gave you permission to eat my strawberries, not dig through my belongings.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise. “The ribbons are yours?”
He cleared his throat that was still so tight, it was a miracle he didn’t sound like a bullfrog. “They belong to a friend. None of your business who she is.”
“I suppose the peacock feather is hers, too.” She held it up against her hair, no doubt believing it was a hair adornment and not… never mind.
“Put that thing down. Where were you raised? In an isolated abbey in the wilds of Yorkshire? Did no one ever teach you manners?”
She glanced up at him in surprise. “Yes, my abbey was in Yorkshire. How did you know?”
He frowned. “But you just told me that you had a family. Four brothers. Parents.”
She nodded, her expression suddenly turning pained. “My mother died when I was five. My father passed on shortly afterward. My eldest brother, Thomas, became Baron Whitpool. He tried to keep us all together, but couldn’t manage us and the Whitpool properties, all of which were run down and plagued with debt. I was too young to help out, and my other three brothers were terrors even when under our parents’ strict supervision.”
She paused a moment and glanced around. “My lord, may I sit?”
“Of course. Forgive my rudeness.”
However, before he had a chance to pull out the lone chair that was situated behind his writing desk, she sank onto his bed and released a breathy sigh. “Thomas married a girl from a wealthy, local family,” she said, her slender shoulders sagging from the weight of her obvious unhappiness. “He hoped she would help him restore order to the Whitpool household. She did, by shipping me off to the abbey. I remained there until I was sixteen.”