Until now. Here. With her. Hope flooded her heart.
The music faded into silence and the orchestra took a small break. Although the waltz had ended, he did not release her from his arms. One by one, the other couples left the floor in search of champagne or darkened corners. Masked revelers lined the perimeter, but only she and Lord Sheffield remained on the dance floor.
All eyes were on them.
Masked, she reminded herself as her heartbeat spiked. No one knows who we are. We could be anyone.
Lord Sheffield tucked a stray tendril behind her ear and cupped her cheek in one hand. “Do you see a kissing ball anywhere?”
“N-no.” She darted a quick glance about the room. It was decorated as a Venetian masquerade, not as a Christmastide celebration. There was no holly to be found. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I don’t want you to think I have any reason for doing this other than because I wish to.”
Before she could do more than part her lips in question, he slanted his mouth over hers.
His mouth was soft but firm against hers. His tongue hot and spiced of sweet tea and lemon. Masked or not, her heart raced at the idea of doing such a shocking thing, here, in front of so many witnesses.
Yet she had no wish to stop. She twined her hands about his neck and pulled him closer.
The feathers of his mask tangled with the feathers of her own, and for one rash, glorious second she considered ripping the mask from her head rather than break the kiss.
She had never had such a foolish thought in her life. Or felt so alive as she did with Lord Sheffield. Or wished so desperately for the night to never end.
When he lifted his mouth from hers, she felt the loss to her very soul.
Chapter 9
Christmas Eve. Amelia stood at the head of the stairs and surveyed the elegant crush of people swirling below. The viscount was never without a mob of well-wishers. Every face was animated, every mouth smiling. The ballroom might have been transported directly from the Sheffield estate. The kitchen had outdone itself. The orchestra had never sounded finer. The kissing balls were an unqualified success.
Yet she fought the most appalling urge to wring her white-gloved hands.
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d suffered from such an unlikely sensation as nerves. Why should she? Not when she managed everyone and everything she ever interacted with down to the minutest detail. Tonight’s gala was no exception. It was perhaps the most painstakingly orchestrated soirée of her entire career. And while she had no prior history of giving herself over to fun at such gatherings, they had never previously caused her neck to sweat and her stomach to twist...until today.
Viscount Sheffield’s seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball had to be better than perfect. She needed to be better than perfect.
She was doing this for him.
A voice came from behind her. “My lady? A note has just arrived for you.”
She turned her back upon the whirling madness below to behold one of her footmen bearing a small silver tray with a single folded missive. Her fingers shook as she plucked it from the tray. She had absolutely no reason to fear such a small square of parchment, save for its very unexpectedness. This was not the regular post. The only exterior writing was a single word: Urgent.
With an incline of her head to dismiss the footman, she unfolded the missive and read the contents therein:
Boo.
She frowned. Boo?
Before she could call out to her footman to interrogate him on the missive’s origin, two strong arms encircled her from behind. She bit back a shriek. The missive tumbled from her fingers as her captor spun her to face him. Lord Sheffield. Her lips parted. He covered her mouth with his, searing her. Branding her. Leaving her breathless.
“Boo,” he whispered in her hair, then pointed a finger at the ball of holly overhead. “Did I surprise you?”
Growling, she pushed him on the shoulder. “You frightened the stuffing out of me!”
“So it can be done!” He grinned at her. “I win!”
She laughed. “Were we playing?”
“Were you not?” He swung her in circles and stole another quick kiss before setting her at a respectable distance. Perhaps semi-respectable. The twinkle in his eyes indicated he might kiss her again at any moment. “Thank you. The party is everything you said it would be and more than I ever dreamed.” He frowned. “My sole complaint is that you’re not dancing.”
“I mustn’t.” She gestured toward the crowd. “I’m working.”
“You’re not working! You’re standing on the stairs.” He linked her arm with his. “Wouldn’t dancing with me be a tiny bit more diverting?”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I can’t oversee the staff and monitor the guests’ comfort if I’m twirling about with you.”
“Precisely. When was the last time you let yourself do as you wished, without analyzing or managing? Never?”
She opened her mouth to agree with him (she could no more cease analyzing than she could stop breathing) when she realized it was no longer true.
“Once,” she said in wonder. She held herself perfectly still as she finally admitted the truth. The world hadn’t ended just because she’d ceased managing it. She peered up at him from beneath her lashes. “At the masquerade. With you.”
“Have you enjoyed your time with me?” he asked softly. The unwavering intensity in his eyes gave the impression he might be holding his breath.
She smiled up at him. “You know I have.”
“Then let’s dance.” He pulled her back into his arms, his face serious. “Enjoy the moment with me, my love. Not just today, but every day. I want you in my arms for the rest of my life.”
Her legs trembled. Once again, he’d managed to surprise her. As she twined her arms about his neck, she was struck with the sneaking suspicion that as much as she’d been guiding him into making the party decisions she’d already chosen for him, he’d been just as skillfully steering her down a path of his own.
“Have you maneuvered me into falling in love with you?” Her voice was teasing, but her eyes surely betrayed all the joy in her heart.
“It would be impractical for me to be the only one of us in love.” He affected an exaggerated leer. “My next step is to maneuver you right into the marriage bed.”
“And to think,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss him. “I’d been planning the very same thing.”
THE END
* * *
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Acknowledgments
As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Emma Locke and Erica Monroe for their advice, encouragement, and slaps upside the head. You are the best!
I also want to thank the Dukes of War facebook group and my fabulous street team, the Light-Skirts Brigade. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen. Thank you so much!
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
A Dukes of War romance
An Impossible Love…
Oliver York returns from war to find his father dead, his finances in arrears, and himself the new Earl of Carlisle. If he doesn't marry an heiress—and fast!—he and his tenants are going to be pitching tents down by the Thames. He definitely shouldn't be tr
ading kisses with a penniless debutante...no matter how captivating she is!
Miss Grace Halton is in England just long enough to satisfy the terms of her dowry. But a marriage of convenience isn’t as easy as she’d hoped. Back in America, her ailing mother needs medicine only Grace’s dowry can afford. Which means the dashing earl she can't get out of her mind is the one man she can't let into her heart.
Copyright © 2014 Erica Ridley
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1939713277
ISBN-13: 978- 1939713278
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design © Erica Ridley
Photograph on cover © Gromovataya, DepositPhotos
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Four left for war…
Only three made it home.
Chapter 1
January 1816
London, England
It could be worse, Lord Carlisle reminded himself as he trained his narrowed eyes on this newest battlefield. It had been three years since he’d set foot in a ballroom. The styles had changed and the faces had aged, but London soirées were as treacherous as ever. He tried to relax. At least no one was shooting at him.
When he’d left home, he’d been plain Mr. Oliver York, heir apparent to a silent dictator whom he’d been certain would live forever. Full of ennui and patriotism, he’d defied his father and skipped off to fight the French with his three best friends. Because what was the worst that could happen?
Answer: War.
He’d lost all three of his best friends. Edmund had been felled by an enemy rifle. Xavier hadn’t spoken a word in months. And Bartholomew… Oliver had lost that friend when he’d had the bad grace to save the man’s life.
Not that Oliver could blame him. Bart had made it back to England without his left leg or his brother. He would rather have died than let go of his dying twin. He would have succeeded in that endeavor, had Oliver not hefted his mangled body in his arms and speared his way through the bloody battlefield to the last surviving sawbones.
It was a miracle the man survived. An even bigger miracle that he hadn’t picked up the first blade he’d chanced upon and driven it between Oliver’s ribs.
Heroes, all of them. Heroes and murderers.
They each had blood on their hands. Scars in their hearts. One couldn’t slice a bayonet through someone else’s neck to save one’s own, and then pick right back up in London with carriage races and drunken wagers.
Drunken, yes. He was very good at drunken. Alcohol was the only thing that dulled the anger. And the guilt.
There had been no postal service on the front lines, so he’d actually made it all the way to his front door before the rest of the news had reached him.
He’d lost his father. Oliver was earl now. Congratulations.
His father—per the subsequent scandal sheets—had come to his untimely end in the bed of his latest mistress, when her cook, unaware of his seafood allergy, had sent a tray of salad tossed with lime and prawn to the lovers’ boudoir.
Death by salad. And just like that, Oliver inherited an earldom.
He didn’t know a button about being earl, of course. His father had rarely even spoken to him; therefore Oliver was in no position to replace him. It would take months just to go through the journals and correspondence. Let alone set about producing an heir.
Nor was he in the market for a wife. He could scarcely be responsible for one. He was having a hard enough time wrangling this beast of an earldom without adding a dependent to the mix. Not with his future uncertain, his past a nightmare.
Men of his class didn’t marry for love. Men with his past shouldn’t marry at all.
War had taught him that there was no vulnerability like being helpless to save someone he cared about. Like his best friends.
Xavier still had a chance to recover. At the moment, he was propped up in the library like a great silent doll, but Oliver had faith his listless friend would come out of his fugue.
That belief was precisely why Oliver, savior of all people who did not wish to be saved, had shoved his friend into a carriage and forced them both into an environment alive with lights and color. He might be dead inside, but he refused to allow the same to happen to Xavier.
Captain Xavier Grey had once been the jolliest rattle of them all. Now, he was one ragged breath away from catatonia.
Surgeons were at a loss. He was more dead than alive, but there was nothing visibly wrong with him. Perhaps all he needed was some re-assimilation. Wine. Women. Dancing. A reminder of what they’d fought for, and what was still worth living for.
So Oliver had sent for his friend and an army of tailors. The two of them could out-dandy Brummel himself. Xavier had been easy enough to shepherd along, since he was mute and pliant as waxwork. Perhaps a smidgen more lifeless.
And now they were at a ball. One look at Oliver’s face ensured no one would deny them entrance. But what was he to do with Xavier? He had fallen off his chair when Oliver had attempted to seat him in the ballroom with the spinsters, so Oliver had been forced to settle him in the library, in a wingback chair with plenty of pillows.
That had worked. Somewhat. The man hadn’t changed position in the past two hours, and would likely sit there like a lump of clay right through Armageddon.
Oliver trudged from the library back to the ballroom. He clearly wasn’t curing Xavier tonight. Maybe the one most in need of wine, women, and dancing was Oliver himself.
Except the ratafia was warm, the wine bitter, the music off-pace. The debutantes were only attracted to his ignominiously gained title. The men only approached him to hear gore-splattered war stories Oliver had no inclination to retell, much less relive.
Ballroom Waterloo. The deafening orchestra, the cloying perfume, the swirls of satin and lace—it was as much a hell as the battlefield he’d escaped.
Anybody who fantasized about war was an imbecile. Anyone who fantasized about inheriting a title was an even bigger imbecile. This whole ballroom was chock full of imbeciles, and Oliver was the biggest of them all for thinking Xavier was a soldier he could save, this soirée a skirmish he could win. He didn’t know these people anymore. He wasn’t certain he even wished to. He curled his hands into fists.
Look at them planning their attacks. Sharpening their rapier wits. All of them, pawns in the same war, playing the parts they were born to play. He could no more have escaped inheriting his earldom than a wallflower could avoid being labeled a—
Oliver frowned. Brow furrowed, he squinted through the swirl of dancing couples and frowned again.
There was a girl. Across the room. Pressed into the wallpaper. A pretty girl who didn’t know her part.
Not a wallflower, this young woman, despite her back-to-the-wall stance. True wallflowers dressed in drab colors and did their best to blend with the shadows. This one wore a gown with enough silk and lace to befit an empress. The colors could blind a peacock. Her cleavage would tempt the Prince of Wales himself.
And yet, something about her gave the impression that her come-hither bodice and opulent trappings were nothing more than costuming. The true her—whoever that might be—was hidden from the naked eye. Oliver tilted his head. Something in the set of her jaw, the stiffness in her spine, the softness of those ripe, full lips…
Even as he watched, she trapped her plump lower lip beneath a row of straight white teeth. Dark hair. Pale skin. Voluptuous curves. He shifted his weight.
This Snow White belonged to a different type of bedtime story. What man wouldn’t want those soft red lips on every part of his body?
She must’ve infatuated half of London by now. The delicate lace at her bosom, the way those thick black lashes blinked a few more times than strictly necessary…
Oliver’s intrigued half-smile died on his face as he realized the truth. This wasn’t coquetry. His enticing wallflower was uncomfortable. Nervous. His jaw tightened. Where the devil was her chaperone? Her friends? Hell, her suitors? She was utterly alone. Someone this beautiful, with skin that fair and hair that dark couldn’t have any difficulty attracting a man.
“Got your eye on the new one, Carlisle?” came a sly whisper from behind Oliver’s shoulder. “Better dip your wick now, before all the others have their way. Miss Macaroni won’t be looking half as nubile once she’s had a mouthful of—”
“Macaroni?” Oliver interrupted, barely managing to tamp down his impulse to plug his fist into the speaker’s face, sight unseen. He wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation for long. War did that to a man.
The voice chuckled. “Eh, she’s a Yank. Best thing for anyone to do is keep a hand over her mouth, because you can’t understand a single word coming out of it.”
Oh, mother-loving shite. That was Phineas Mapleton talking. The ton’s worst gossip.
“Not that anyone’d want her for conversation anyway,” Mapleton continued. “Every female worth her salt has already given her the cut direct. The only creatures putting themselves in her path now are the desperate hostesses and the profligates planning to give her a tumble or two. Dirty money, dirty gel. Not much else a chit like that can hope for. Old man Jarvis already put his name down in White’s as being the first to tup her. Got fifty quid on it, myself. Want to add your name to the pot?”
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