Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  She was working up her courage to broach the subject with Nicholas when she noticed that the musicians had begun to play a waltz. The ballroom was alive with excitement over the still-scandalous dance, and she panicked.

  “Oh, my lord…Nicholas, I really do not dance well at all, and I have never waltzed before. Not ever.” She balked, trying to slow him on his course to the dance floor, but Nicholas was much larger and more determined than she was, and the crowd of guests parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

  “I must insist. I am in desperate need of a reprieve from your aunt’s interrogation. I assure you that my injury”—he indicated his left leg, which he clearly favored—“only prevents me from dancing the liveliest of the country dances. But I can maintain some grace through a waltz. Just follow my lead.”

  He reached the edge of the sea of whirling dancers, pulled her into his arms, and looked deep into her eyes.

  “Trust me.”

  And with that, they began to dance.

  She took the opportunity to study his face. Ashfield’s presence was fiercely compelling. It was not just his size, which was considerable—he easily stood several inches taller than any other man in the room and, despite the leanness of his frame, his shoulders were massive in his dark evening coat. Rather, it was the brutal intensity of his pale gray eyes, the unmistakable spark of intelligence that shone there. He was not exactly handsome. A thin white scar cut down his left cheek following the curve of his jaw, his nose was entirely too sharp, and he wore his hair unfashionably long, in an out-dated queue. Yet there was something magnetic about him. Mira could easily believe the rumors about him dabbling in the dark arts were true. If the devil materialized as a man, he would look exactly like Nicholas, Lord Ashfield.

  Still, with the warmth of his hand at her waist and the lilting strains of the beautiful music, she felt no fear. With Nicholas guiding her firmly about the dance floor, she felt…graceful. Almost delicate. It was divine.

  As they moved, her every sense was heightened. The hot smell of the blazing beeswax candles mingled with the spicy scent of Nicholas’s soap. The pulsing buzz of conversation and the rhythmic whisper of her skirts underscored the hypnotic strains of the music. Beneath her fingers, the fine fabric of Nicholas’s evening coat rode the hard contours of his shoulder and chest as he carefully guided her between the other dancers, who were nothing more than softly colored wraiths fluttering on the edges of her perception. Her mouth was filled with the taste of excitement, anticipation for some unknown wonder, and her field of vision was occupied entirely by the sight of Nicholas. The combination of sensations was heady, intoxicating, breathtaking.

  As they completed a turn, the music faded to silence, and Nicholas spoke, his low voice—meant for her ears alone—sending echoing vibrations through Mira’s body. “I must say, Mira, that you are not at all what I expected.”

  She stiffened at his remark. She had been so caught up in her own enjoyment, she had forgotten about the horrible ruse she and her family were perpetrating. She had to act quickly, to give him a way out of the engagement, but the shifting sea of guests afforded inadequate privacy for the delicate proposition Mira intended to make.

  “My lord, I confess I need to speak to you in private. Perhaps we could go riding tomorrow in Hyde Park? Could you call around five o’clock?”

  As soon as the words were out, Mira realized what a faux pas she had committed, how fast she must seem. It was not her place to demand his presence, ordering him about like a servant.

  Nicholas stared down at her, eyes wide with almost comical bemusement. “By all means, Mira,” he said wryly. “I am at your disposal. I shall call tomorrow at five.”

  “Oh, my lord,” she said, the words tripping over themselves in a mortified rush, “I did not mean… I only thought… Oh, I am so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” he asked, his stunned expression giving way to amusement. “I am flattered you crave my company.”

  “But I did not mean to suggest that at all, my lord!”

  “So you do not crave my company?”

  Mira frowned in consternation. “No. I mean, yes. Oh heavens, I don’t know what I mean,” she concluded, throwing up her hands in surrender.

  Nicholas’s expression softened. “Mira,” he said, “I shall be happy to call on you tomorrow at five o’clock. For now,” he continued, “I am afraid I cannot withstand further examination by your Aunt Kitty, and I must excuse myself. Until tomorrow.” He inclined his head in a small bow and, lips still lifted in a faint smile, he headed toward the door, leaving Mira quite abandoned in the crowd.

  He had been teasing her, Mira realized. The Butcher of Bidwell had been teasing her. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  She had taken only a few steps toward the corner in which she had last seen Kitty and George when a woman’s voice behind her called, “Miss Fitzhenry?”

  Mira turned and found herself face to face with an exquisite, yet unfamiliar, young woman, not much more than a girl. Her rich chestnut hair presented a striking contrast to her alabaster skin, but it was her wide green eyes that captured and held the attention. Not only were they beautiful in color and shape, but there was a haunted look to them that made the young woman seem fragile and forlorn.

  “I am Mirabelle Fitzhenry. I’m sorry, have we met?”

  The young woman shook her head. “I am sorry if I startled you Miss Fitzhenry, but I felt I must speak with you. My name is Sarah Linworth.” She paused, as though the name should carry some import. Although it seemed vaguely familiar, Mira could only wait for Miss Linworth to explain.

  “My sister was Olivia Linworth.” Mira’s heart sank when she made the connection: Olivia Linworth, who had been promised to Nicholas—and who had perished, allegedly at his hands.

  Sarah moved closer so that she could speak in confidential tones. “Miss Fitzhenry, might I speak with you in private?”

  Mira nodded slowly, wary. She followed Miss Linworth through the crowd to a quiet corner, a small space tucked behind a flourishing potted palm.

  “Miss Fitzhenry, I do not mean to be presumptuous, but I feel it is my duty to warn you, one woman to another, that Viscount Ashfield is an evil man, a monster. Whatever you do, you must not marry him. Indeed, you must never allow yourself to be alone with him.”

  Sarah spoke with such conviction, yet it was difficult for Mira to reconcile the gentle man who had led her in her first waltz with the man Sarah described, the man brutal enough to murder his own betrothed in cold blood.

  Her skepticism must have shown in her face, because Sarah desperately grasped Mira’s arm, and her eyes burned with a feverish intensity.

  “You must believe me, Miss Fitzhenry. I was at the house party that summer. I saw how oddly Ashfield behaved. He was forever up in his tower room, hardly mingling with his guests at all. He barely spoke to my poor sister. She confided in me that she felt she was being watched. One night, she looked out her bedroom window, and she actually saw a figure darting through the shrubberies. She heard footsteps following her down the corridors of that big, drafty house, but when she called out, no one answered.”

  Miss Linworth paused, worrying her lower lip with her teeth and glancing nervously from side to side. “Miss Fitzhenry,” she said finally, her gaze boring into Mira’s, “Miss Fitzhenry, I hesitate to be blunt, given that we have not even been properly introduced, but the circumstances are dire and call for plain talk. Just the day before she died, my sister told me that someone had broken into her bedroom and searched through her belongings. Her unmentionables were in a tangled heap in their drawer, her jewelry was scattered across her dressing table, and her locket—a beautiful etched gold locket containing a miniature of our mother—her locket was missing. She told me about the intrusion after dinner that night, and she was beside herself with fear.

  “The next day, they found her, dead at the foot of the curtain wall leading to Ashfield’s tower room.” Sarah’s lovely green eyes filled w
ith tears, and she continued in an agonized whisper.

  “The constable—a second cousin to Blackwell and dependent upon him for his income—said Olivia had probably been out walking and fallen. The mist had been thick that night, the allure, the walkway atop the curtain wall, was undoubtedly slippery. And Olivia was a bit short-sighted. Without any inquiry at all, the constable declared it an accident, and no one—not even my father—was brave enough to stand up to Blackwell and swear out an information that said differently. Besides, without a confession, Ashfield could not be convicted of murder, and he is hardly likely to suffer from an attack of conscience. But I know better, Miss Fitzhenry. Olivia was terrified, she was terrified of him. She would never have wandered out alone at night, certainly not in the direction of his room.”

  Sarah paused to collect herself before continuing in a stronger voice. “No, Miss Fitzhenry, I know my sister was murdered,” she stated emphatically, “and Ashfield killed her.”

  …

  As the exhausted Fitzhenrys made their way home from the ball, they rode in relative silence.

  Suddenly Kitty barked out a laugh. “For a murderer, that Ashfield is a charming fellow.” Her own joke sent her into a gale of laughter, George following close behind.

  “No one knows if Nicholas is guilty,” Mira protested softly, turning her head to stare into the darkness beyond the coach’s window.

  But as she watched the fog of her own breath dissipate on the glass, Mira realized her words were not true. One person did know for certain if Nicholas was guilty: Nicholas himself.

  Guilty or innocent, perhaps he would betray his true nature when she ventured out alone with him the following day.

  Chapter Three

  “Good afternoon, Mira. You are looking fit. That shade of pink becomes you.”

  Mira knew very well that pink of any shade did not become her in the least. She tallied another point in Nicholas’s favor.

  Nicholas ushered her out to his phaeton, an elegant vehicle drawn by four exquisite horses—all the same shade of pale gray as Nicholas’s eyes. After handing her into the carriage, he climbed up to take his place beside her, his movements surprisingly graceful given his bad leg.

  There was no way to avoid touching one another on the phaeton’s single seat. When they had danced the night before, his hand had touched the curve of her waist, but this was more intimate. More than the touch itself, she felt the radiating heat of his body. The scent of sandalwood, warmed by his skin, mingled with the faint aroma of Mira’s rosewater to create a lush new perfume.

  “So. Well.” She could not think of anything clever to say, and the silence begged to be filled. Her gaze sweeping the sky with its oppressive yellowish haze, she remarked, “It is a lovely day, isn’t it?” What a noddy.

  As Nicholas urged the horses forward, Mira caught him casting a sidelong glance in her direction. “Mira,” he said, “do I make you uncomfortable?”

  A nervous bark of laughter escaped her lips before she could clamp them tightly together. “Well, my lord, you certainly do not prevaricate, do you?”

  Nicholas merely smiled.

  “Indeed, if you must know, you do make me a bit uncomfortable. Please take no offense.” She could not bring herself to look at him, so she concentrated on a snag in the fabric of the bright pink pelerine she wore over her rather plain gray morning dress. The pelerine belonged to Bella, who would be livid if it came to harm.

  When it appeared that Nicholas did not intend to comment, Mira rushed on. “It is really not surprising that you should make me nervous. After all, we have only just met, and yet we are affianced. I cannot imagine one could ever adequately prepare for such a situation. So, you see, it is not you per se who makes me nervous, it is the circumstance in which we find ourselves.” She coughed lightly and turned to view the passing scenery.

  “I do not. Take offense, that is. But I do not think the circumstances are entirely to blame. I think, perhaps, you are nervous because you have heard the rumors, and you wonder if they are true.”

  Mira snapped her head around, stunned.

  Nicholas, himself, appeared utterly indifferent, his expression no more animated or expressive than if he had just commented on his preference in tea. He did not appear to expect a response, and Mira had no notion of what to say.

  Certainly she was concerned that the stories might be true. She did harbor some concern, even, for her own safety. But she could hardly admit that to him. Yet, at the same time, she could not deny her fears. She was simply not that accomplished a liar.

  After a beat of silence, Nicholas turned the subject quite suddenly. “Mira, do you believe in magic?”

  Mira laughed. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “Curiosity. I would think that magic would suit you.”

  “I’m afraid I do not. Magic is for children. Adults must rely on reason and logic, no matter how unpleasant.”

  He tsked softly. “Poor Mira. The world is full of magic. You have only to look for it.”

  Mira huffed in disbelief. “Nonsense. If we look for magic, we may seem to find it, but it is not real. There is a rational explanation for every phenomenon we encounter. It just requires a little thought to find the explanation. Sometimes, it is simply easier to ascribe things to magic.”

  A slow smile spreading across his face, he shook his head. “Mira, believing in magic is not easy at all. I think it is easier to close yourself off from the wonder of the world by confining yourself to order and logic.” He pointed to a bed of jonquils blooming in a window box.

  “There is magic,” he said.

  “The flowers?”

  “Yes. Have you ever paused to wonder how they know when to open? If they bloom before the temperature is warm, they will die. If they wait too long, the summer heat will kill them off. Yet somehow, they know exactly when to bloom. Naturalists cannot predict the precise date of their flowering, but it is always the right date. The date that will give them the longest time to grace us with their beauty.”

  Mira frowned. “I suppose I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  “Well, now you have. The jonquils know when to bloom, and you will know when to do the same. Without reason, without logic, but with magic.”

  Nicholas’s curious comment having effectively foreclosed idle conversation, they rode in silence to Hyde Park, where the fashionable had turned out in droves to take advantage of the refreshing breeze that had blown in the night before. Mira had never been to Hyde Park during these celebrated late afternoon hours. The sheer number of people was astounding. Here, young bucks came to demonstrate their skills with horse and carriage. Here, matchmaking mamas came to display their available daughters. Here, the fashionable impures came to seek new protectors. And here, courting couples came to enjoy some respectable privacy. She craned her head in every direction to take in all the sights.

  And, thus, she saw trouble coming. There, heading straight toward them, was Bella in the company of a painfully pretty young man who could only be Mr. Henry Penrose. Worse yet, Bella had clearly seen Mira, as well, for she clutched Mr. Penrose’s arm and gestured urgently toward Mira and Nicholas.

  Mira had only a moment to brace herself before Bella began waving and shouting excitedly. “Mira! Mira! What a wonderful surprise!” Even as Bella called Mira’s name, her inquisitive gaze was firmly trained on Nicholas. Mira knew what Bella was thinking, that she would finally have a chance to meet the monster in the flesh.

  Bella’s companion expertly maneuvered his gig up alongside Nicholas’s and drew up the reins so they might stop to chat. Bella wasted no time. “Mira, may I introduce Mr. Henry Penrose. Henry, this is my cousin Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry.” Bella, impatient for an introduction, looked pointedly back and forth between Mira and Nicholas.

  With glum resignation, Mira obliged. “So pleasant to meet you, Mr. Penrose. Mr. Penrose, Bella, this is Nicholas, Lord Ashfield. My lord, permit me to introduce Mr. Henry Penrose and Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry. My cousin.
”

  One side of Nicholas’s mouth quirked up a bit, but that was the only indication he gave of being surprised at meeting the other Mirabelle Fitzhenry. His voice betrayed no emotion at all when he remarked, “You must be George and Kitty’s daughter?”

  Mira winced. It must have been difficult enough for Nicholas to realize the night before that he had been duped, saddled with the lesser marriageable Mirabelle Fitzhenry, but for him now to see what might have been…it was painful beyond bearing. Here Mira sat, feeling like nothing so much as a gray potato in a bright pink scarf, her garish red hair a gaudy banner atop it all. And there sat Bella, her perfectly pressed pale blue day dress setting off her sky blue eyes to perfection, her rosy lips pursed in a delicate pout, her golden ringlets framing her heart-shaped face, her pristine straw gypsy bonnet shielding her creamy skin from what little sunlight filtered through the London sky. Nicholas must be livid.

  For a long and rather awkward moment, Bella thoroughly studied the infamous viscount, her narrowed gaze moving slowly down his long, rangy body, from the top of his unfashionably bare head to the tips of his well-worn boots. Apparently satisfied that he was just an ordinary man after all, Bella began chattering away. Mira was too lost in misery to pay attention. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on a spot just beyond Bella’s shoulder and did her best not to contemplate what Nicholas must be thinking. Because as soon as her mind wandered in that direction, and she thought of how she must compare to Bella, tears welled in her eyes.

  Mira was vaguely aware of Bella and Mr. Penrose taking their leave, and she managed the necessary niceties. Then the phaeton began moving, and Mira was alone again with Nicholas. Now she would likely have to explain.

  She braced herself when he cleared his throat to speak.