The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3)

by Jillian Eaton

  She felt a slight tug, and looked down to see the stranger had pulled her bonnet from her grasp. Wordlessly he placed it on her head, his thumbs tracing the delicate contours of her jaw as he unfurled the satin ribbons and, while she held her breath, tied them in a bow beneath her chin.

  “That’s better.” His voice was deeper than it had been a moment ago. Huskier as well, and its velvety smoothness sent a tremble of awareness racing all the way from her head to her toes. Her feet curled inside of her shoes, and remained curled even when he stepped back and cool air penetrated the cozy cocoon of warmth that had held both of them ensnared.

  “Thank you.” Self-consciously her hand crept to the side of her face. Her fingertips touched the skin he’d touched, and the heat in her belly intensified before making a slow, slippery descent to her thighs. “I still don’t know your name.”

  The tension in his countenance had begun to unravel like a spool of thread, but at her words it wound itself back up again even tighter than before. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted in a sneer, and if her legs had been working it no doubt would have been wise of her to take this opportunity to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction. But her knees had melted to butter, and her thighs were liquid honey, and thus she remained rooted to the spot when he lashed out at her with all the brutality of a bullwhip whistling through the air before it landed on its innocent target.

  “You don’t need to know it. You don’t need to know anything about me, Miss Haversham, except that if given the choice I would have walked beneath this tree five minutes earlier to save myself the time I’ve wasted with you.”

  Her mouth opened. Closed. Her voice was trapped somewhere inside of her throat, but before she could find it the stranger gave her one last, searing glare, then walked away down the path without so much as a backwards glance.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you ready?” Sweeping into Calliope’s dressing room without waiting for a reply, Helena stopped short at the sight of her friend and gasped out loud. “Oh,” she cried, her eyes sparkling as she pressed her fingers to her mouth. “You look absolutely stunning.”

  Staring at her reflection in the floor-length mirror, Calliope shook her head in bemusement. Surely the woman staring back at her wasn’t really her. She didn’t have soft golden curls gathered in a loose topknot that allowed silky tendrils to frame the edges of her face. She didn’t have cheeks that glowed or long lashes that beckoned. She didn’t have a long, elegant neck or slender shoulders exposed beneath a thin, see-through layer of pink chiffon. Not to mention, whose breasts were those?

  Her lips, lightly glossed with beeswax, opened, then closed, then opened again. “I look…”

  “Stunning,” Helena repeated as she came up behind Calliope and met her gaze in the mirror. “Winchester won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.”

  But it wasn’t the earl Calliope was thinking about as they climbed into the carriage and set off towards the ball. And it wasn’t the earl she was picturing as they joined the long line of guests anxiously waiting to be admitted.

  Instead she envisioned a man with eyes like a storm, hair dark as pitch, and a forbidden touch that still made her tremble. She wondered who he’d been, and she wondered where he was, and she wondered why she couldn’t stop wondering. Because he had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her. Less than nothing, given he wished the entire incident had never taken place. But she couldn’t forget the way he’d softened, if only for a moment. Or the pain she’d seen in those deep blue eyes. Or the way she’d felt when his knuckles brushed against the nape of neck.

  “Your names and invitations, if you please,” a servant droned, his loud voice startling Calliope out of her thoughts.

  Belatedly she realized that while she’d been daydreaming they had climbed a flight of marble steps and were at the front of the line. Then she remembered they didn’t have invitations. Or at least none that she had seen. But before she could try to fumble through an excuse as to where their invitations may have gone, Helena reached inside of her reticule and smoothly produced two envelopes marked with Lord Galveston’s bold scarlet seal.

  “The Countess of Cambridge and Miss Calliope Haversham,” she said before she took Calliope by the elbow and steered her quickly past the footman and into the massive foyer. “Go,” she hissed in Calliope’s ear, and with a startled peek over her shoulder at the entryway Calliope followed Helena into the grand ballroom where they were immediately swallowed up by a large crowd of the ton’s elite. It was a circle she’d rarely, if ever, traveled in, but she still recognized a few faces, most of them peers. There was more wealth in Lord and Lady Galveston’s ballroom than there was in all of England combined, and it was intimidating to be in the presence of High Society royalty, particularly since she knew she shouldn’t have been there.

  “Those weren’t real invitations, were they?” she whispered to Helena.

  Plucking two glasses of bubbling champagne from the tray of a passing server, the countess kept one for herself and handed the other to Calliope. “They were very real,” she said before she took a long sip. Humor danced in the corners of her eyes. “They just weren’t ours.”

  Calliope’s mouth dropped open. “You stole invitations?”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” Helena said with a defensive toss of her head. Like Calliope, her hair had been pulled up and secured with dozens of pins that were artfully hidden amidst a fiery tumble of curls.

  Unlike Calliope, her dress was gold instead of pink, and her capped sleeves were so slight as to be nonexistent, giving the illusion of a shoulderless gown that was already attracting attention, most of it masculine

  “I simply…borrowed them. We’ll be fine,” she insisted when Calliope started looking for the closest exit. “There’s so many people no one is going to notice two more. Now let’s get you seen. Our plan isn’t going to work if we stay hidden in the corner all night.”

  Calliope started to point out that Helena’s two statements contradicted one another, but with a startled squeak she found herself being yanked towards the middle of the floor. They raised a few eyebrows as they darted past, but Calliope’s racing heart began to slow when she saw she and Helena weren’t being stared at out of suspicion…but rather, fascination.

  “I say, who were those women?” she heard a man murmur to his acquaintance, and her cheeks filled with color when she realized his tone had held a note of admiration instead of disdain.

  “Helena, people are staring at us,” she whispered in her friend’s ear as they navigated their way through clusters of debutantes preening behind their fans, matronly dowagers observing the next generation of nobility with tightlipped scowls of disapproval, and young bucks stealing sips of smuggled brandy from silver flasks. For Calliope, who had always observed the intricate workings of a ball from a lonely line of chairs stuffed behind the foliage, it was an entirely new experience. She didn’t know yet how much she actually enjoyed being the center of attention, when in truth she’d been quite content being a wallflower.

  “They’re staring at you,” Helena said with satisfaction. “They’re wondering where you came from, and why they’ve never been introduced to you before.”

  Calliope’s brow creased. “But I’ve been here all along. This is my fifth Season.”

  “The ton is a fickle lot. They only see what they want to see. And right now, they want to see you. This should do it.” Having reached the other side of the ballroom, Helena stopped in front of a set of glass doors that opened out onto a large, wraparound terrace. After a quick check of her reflection she turned to face the crowd and gestured for Calliope to do the same.

  “What do we do now?” Calliope asked.

  Helena’s lips curved. “We wait.”

  “Bloody hell, Mr. Corish!” Leo roared up the stairs. “Where is my damned cravat?”

  “It is on your neck, my lord,” the valet said calmly from behind the earl where he’d been standing the entire time. �
��Do you wish to exchange it for another?”

  Frowning, Leo tugged at the cravat in question. “No,” he said sourly. “This one will do just fine.” A quick glance out the windows framing either side of the front door and his expression cleared. “It’s raining. I should remain home. I’m sure they wouldn’t have a ball in the rain.”

  “Surely a light drizzle is not going to prevent an indoor event from behind cancelled,” Robert said as he went to the closet and retrieved a heavy black greatcoat.

  Leo’s scowl returned. “You never know,” he muttered as he shoved his arms into the coat and fumbled with the buttons, his long fingers made more clumsy than usual by the erratic beating of his heart.

  Bollocks, but he really did not want to attend Lady Galveston’s affair. And he was furious at Helena for making him. Favor or no favor, it was a rotten thing to ask. Rather like dragging a hibernating bear out of its den in the middle of winter. Never mind that he’d been hibernating for the better part of seven years.

  “Is the carriage ready?” he demanded once he’d managed to secure all the buttons and shoved a hat down on top of his head. He could hear the temper simmering in his voice and he knew it was being ill-directed, but Mr. Corish didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. It was what made him such a great – and aggravating – valet.

  Leo honestly didn’t know why the beleaguered servant hadn’t quit months ago. God knew he had an endless supply of reasons. But for reasons that mystified Mr. Corish continued to remain despite the poor treatment he suffered, making him the only constant in Leo’s life since the loss of Heather and Henry.

  Sometimes Leo wondered if he wasn’t such a bastard to his valet because he was trying to push him away. If Mr. Corish left, then he’d be surrounded by strangers. Strangers who wouldn’t ask him if he’d eaten dinner, or changed his clothes, or make a tsking sound under their breath when he refused a shave. If Mr. Corish left, then there’d be no one in the house who cared for him.

  Which was exactly what he wanted.

  More than that, it was what he deserved.

  His wife and child were gone. If his valet knew what was good for him he would leave too. Everyone else he cared about already had. What was one more loss on a burning heap of anguish and despair?

  “The carriage is waiting as we speak, my lord.” Oblivious to the dark turn his employer’s thoughts had taken, Mr. Corish walked to the door and pulled it open with hardly a whisper of sound.

  From outside came the patter of rain as it struck the top of the carriage, and the distant rumble of thunder from a storm slowly closing in. Pulling the collar of his coat close to his neck, Leo gave the valet a curt nod before he strode out of the house, down the stone walkway, and through the gate.

  The ride to Lord and Lady Galveston’s residence was a short one. Large and stately and glowing from the dozens of candles placed in every window, the grand manor sat back from the street behind a towering wrought iron gate. There was a long spiraling line of vehicles waiting to be admitted, everyone wanting to get as close as possible due to the wet weather. Leo’s surpassed them all, and belatedly he wished he’d thought to cover the Winchester coat of arms when he saw more than one head turn as his team of horses trotted briskly up the drive.

  The town coach rolled to a halt at the base of a long set of marble steps and the two footmen who had been clinging to the back quickly jumped off. Light spilled into the carriage when the door was opened, causing Leo to blink and a throw hand up in front of his face as he sat immobile on the edge of his seat, his limbs frozen at the enormity of the task that laid before him.

  “My lord?” said one of the footman, obviously uncertain what to do, and for a moment Leo was tempted to tell him to shut the door and return home. He didn’t belong here, in this glittering celebration of the wealthy and powerful. Whatever Helena had planned for him, it was never going to work. He was a broken thing. A discarded thing. And broken, discarded things did best when they stayed in the bottom of whatever chest they’d been carelessly thrown into.

  “Should I…close the door, my lord?” the footman ventured hesitantly. Gritting his teeth, Leo braced his hands on either side of the narrow frame and jumped down, skipping the set of wooden steps that had been placed out for him and landing on the ground with a wet crunch of gravel. He may have been a broken, discarded thing, but he’d be damned if he was ever called a coward.

  He’d buried his wife and son. Surely, he could manage a simple ball.

  “Have the carriage brought around to the back,” he ordered, his gaze on the steps. “I don’t know yet what time I’ll be departing, but I want you to be ready whenever I choose to leave.”

  “Of course, my lord. Right away, my lord.” The footmen jumped back onto the carriage and it rolled away, leaving Leo alone with a hundred pairs of eyes at his back and hundreds more waiting for him inside.

  “Bugger it,” he muttered as he marched up the stairs. He didn’t have an invitation – the ton’s hostesses had stopped wasting good paper and ink on him years ago – but he didn’t need one. His name was enough, and sooner than he would have liked he found himself walking into the ballroom.

  “The Right Honourable Earl of Winchester!” announced the butler in a deep, carrying voice.

  A gasp rippled through the crowd as everyone collectively stopped, some of them mid-waltz, and craned their necks to watch as Leo entered. A long, pregnant pause and then the music resumed and the rest of the room along with it, but there was nothing to stop the mad crush of curious onlookers who ran towards Leo as if they were a pack of starving dogs and he was a raw piece of meat.

  “I say man, it is good to see you out and about again!” Lord Hamburg, a distant acquaintance from boarding school, slapped the earl on the shoulder and grinned broadly. His smile rapidly faded, however, when Leo simply stared at the gloved fingers stretched across his arm until Lord Hamburg released his grip and stepped back. “I’ll, ah, be over there,” he said before he hurried away, and after several similar encounters the rest of the guests followed suit, keeping their distance from Leo even as they watched his every move.

  Frowning, he shoved his way through the crowd until he encountered a servant with a tray filled with champagne. Taking two flutes he drank the first in one swallow and held onto the second as he began to look for Helena and whatever poor chit she wanted him to dance with. The sooner he met the requirements of her favor the sooner he could get the hell out of this damned circus.

  “My lord.” A beautiful brunette with the sort of body men praised the heavens for jumped suddenly in front of him, blocking his view. “You may not remember me, but I–”

  “Go away,” he growled before he stepped around her.

  The brunette gasped. “Why, I never.”

  Leo barely heard her. He’d finally spied Helena standing by the terrace doors, looking resplendent as always with her bright auburn hair done up in a fanciful twist and pinned to the side of her head with some sort of feathery adornment. She’d been wearing feathers on the night they’d kissed, he recalled. After exchanging flirtatious glances all evening they’d snuck outside and stolen an embrace in the moonlight. Their kiss had been an impulsive, passionless exchange of spit that had left them both chuckling under their breath.

  “Did you feel anything?” she’d asked, tilting her head back.

  “No,” he’d admitted. “Did you?”

  “Not a thing,” she’d said cheerfully. Then her eyes had brightened. “But there’s someone I want you to meet…”

  That ‘someone’ had been Lady Heather Bingham, and the rest, as they said, was history. But as Leo stared at Helena from across the room it didn’t feel like history. It felt like it had happened yesterday, and there was a part of him that wanted to repeat their kiss if only to see if Heather would appear at the end of it. Then he glanced at the woman standing to Helena’s left…and everything inside of him flashed cold, then filled with heat. Because there, standing in a pool of shimmering candlelight, stood
the infuriating minx who had fallen on him in the park.

  The one who had wanted to know his name. The one who had asked him to pluck leaves from her hair. The one whose skin had felt like silk roses…and whose perfume had smelled like fresh soil and sunshine.

  Without being fully aware of moving, Leo discovered himself transported across the ballroom. Helena grinned when she saw him, and started to say something, but his attention was too focused on the blonde beside her to make out any words.

  In the park her beauty hadn’t made any noticeable impact on him. And why would it have? She’d had leaves in her hair, for God sakes. But now, seeing her in a pink, frothy ball gown that accentuated her narrow waist and slender shoulders and elegant collarbone, he didn’t know why – or how – he’d ever walked way.

  Her hair wasn’t just blonde. It was tawny gold streaked with sunlight, and the tendrils that fell loosely from her temple framed a delicate countenance with high, arching brows; hazel eyes that widened at the sight of him; and a full, pouty bottom lip that his gaze lingered on a moment too long.

  “You,” he accused.

  “You,” she breathed. Then her eyes thinned. “What do you want?”

  His scowl darkened. “What do you want?”

  “I think what we all want,” Helena intervened smoothly, “is to know what’s going on. Calliope, you never told me you already knew the Earl of Winchester.”

  Calliope jerked back a step. “This is the Earl of Winchester?”

  “And Leo,” Helena continued, apparently determined to ignore the tension simmering in the air, “you never told me you knew Miss Haversham.” She paused. “How delightful!”

  “It’s really not,” Leo and Calliope said, speaking at the exact same time. They glared at one another. Helena cleared her throat, then smiled.

  “I can see things have apparently started off a tad roughly. Not to fear! It’s nothing that a dance won’t fix. And wouldn’t you know!” She looked over Leo’s shoulder. “They’re just starting the German waltz. Miss Haversham’s favorite, as it so happens.”