Wallflower (Old Maids' Club, Book 1)

by Catherine Gayle

  “Did he succeed?” When he asked his question, Lord Devonport did not turn to face her, staring instead out the opened draperies that lined the bay window.

  Ought she to tell the truth or a lie? Tabitha had only a moment’s hesitation in which to decide. “No,” she said before she could second-guess herself. “I struck him for his impertinence and left.”

  Several moments passed in which Lord Devonport seemed to be having a silent argument within his own head. He vacillated between nodding and murmuring and then shaking his head in frustration. Finally, he turned to her. His eyes were more heated than she’d ever seen them, burning her to the core. “You’re certain he did not succeed, Tabitha? I have reason to believe he would not have given up so easily.” His gentle words hung on the stillness between them.

  He knew. She couldn’t fathom how he had done it, but he knew. Tears stung her eyes, spilling over without her blessing.

  “Don’t cry.” Lord Devonport rushed back to her side, stepping over the fallen occasional table and her bonnet with ease and drawing her into his arms. Somehow, he extracted the handkerchief from her grip and dabbed it to her cheeks again. “Please don’t cry. Just tell me—tell me what he did. I need to know, sweetheart.”

  Tabitha had to tell him at least a closer semblance to the truth. He would not give up until she did. Drawing in a breath to staunch her tears, she said, “He kissed me. I didn’t want his kiss, so I struck him—” No, Lord Devonport had not believed that part of the story moments ago. “I struck him with my knee between his legs. When he was howling in pain, I left him where he was and headed home.”

  One corner of Lord Devonport’s mouth curled up in a smile. “You kicked him between his legs? Good girl. Your brothers taught you well.”

  “My brothers had nothing to do with that,” she countered.

  “Of course not.” He patted the back of her gloved hand in a placating manner. She ought to kick him between his legs for his unwanted mollification. But after several moments had passed, he still did not set her hand free. His grip grew tighter, more insistent. “You’re all right then, Tabitha? You are no worse for wear?” He drew her hand over to hold it between both of his own on his lap, tracing through her glove the unseen lines of her palm with a finger. It tickled, sending warm waves of pleasure all the way to her toes.

  “I’m fine, my lord.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  The finger causing such delightful tingles moved to the soft flesh on the underside of her arm, swirling a tormenting cascade of delight up to her elbow. Tabitha watched its path as it went. She jumped when he touched her there, on the inner bend of her arm, until she could hear the blood roaring through her veins. And then his hand moved over, ever so slightly, until his torturous finger was working enchantments on her breast.

  She ought to stop him. Lord Devonport’s behavior was highly inappropriate. Scandalous. Heaven.

  The hand that still held hers captive slid up slightly, his fingers lightly brushing against her wrist where he could feel the telling pounding of her pulse. “Should I stop?” he asked. She couldn’t answer. She could do nothing but feel. “I should stop. I should stop immediately.” But he didn’t. He splayed the fingers over her breast until his entire hand enveloped it. When he gently squeezed and then slid his palm over the silk of her gown, her nipple hardened into a tight pebble of need and he groaned deep in his throat.

  Tabitha reached for him. She wanted to erase the memory of Lord Oglethorpe’s vile tongue in her mouth, the feel of his hand on her thigh, the odor of his foulness in her nostrils, the unclean way he’d made her feel. She wanted the memory of Lord Devonport to replace it. The rich, musky scent of his cologne. The loving care his touch evoked. The heady taste of his tongue, his mouth. The frantic, yearning need he kindled in her womanly places.

  She wove her fingers through the tangled disarray of his blond waves and pulled him down to her, eyes open the entire time. He, too, looked down at her as they came together. When their lips met, his eyes glazed over in a silent entreaty.

  His mouth was so soft, like smooth velvet. Just as she’d imagined them to be for so long. Just as she remembered them to be from their first two kisses. He begged entrance with his tongue, sliding it along the crevice of her lips in a controlled frenzy until she couldn’t bear to deny him any longer. When he slipped inside, he tilted his head and swallowed the small sounds she let out. She was drunk on his wet, honeyed heat.

  And then his hands were everywhere. Drawing over the silk bodice of her gown, tormenting her already sensitive breasts. Sliding down her ribcage and coursing over her hips. Cupping against her bottom, lifting her up to drape her legs across his lap and drawing her closer to him. The evidence of his growing erection pressed against Tabitha’s thigh, sending a flood of dampness to amass at her center. “I should stop,” he said again, although he did not pull away.

  “No. Don’t stop.” Tabitha used both hands on his head to keep his mouth on hers, despite the fact that he had not even attempted to leave her.

  Leaning over until he was half lying on top of her, Lord Devonport murmured, “Oh, God,” against her lips. His chest pressed her down into the sofa and he brought his hands back up her arms. With a firm tug, he slid the cap sleeves of her gown down, freeing her breasts.

  The cool air of the room came as a shock to her heated nipples and she sucked in a gulp of air. Lord Devonport took that opportunity to kiss a path down her throat, over her chest, and directly to one of her breasts. When he flicked his tongue against the taut nub, she shuddered in hedonistic pleasure. Her enjoyment threatened to shatter her when he took most of her breast into his steamy mouth and covered the other with his large, powerful hand.

  She wanted it never to end. She wanted to drown in his touch. She wanted to give him the same exquisite torture he was giving to her.

  A loud indrawn breath sounded from across the room. “Bloody hell.” Toby.

  Bloody hell, indeed.

  “I suppose this is settled, then.” And Owen, too.

  She wanted to die of mortification.

  ~ * ~

  This was not what he wanted to have happen. Not really. Noah eased himself away from Tabitha, careful to keep her hidden from her brothers’ view as he did. Sweet Christ, she was a vision below him, pink everywhere he could see, with swollen lips and chagrin pouring out of her eyes. “Cover yourself,” he whispered as he turned to face his executioners, ever wary of keeping her half-naked form from their view.

  Shelton stood with his feet spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, and daggers shooting from his eyes.

  Raynesford, on the other hand, seemed mildly amused. “I’ll arrange for Father to speak with you tomorrow. You can work out the details with him.”

  “Details?” Tabitha’s voice shook behind him. “What details?”

  “Don’t feign ignorance,” Shelton drawled. “And it is far too late for innocence.”

  Raynesford quelled his brother with a look and then returned his attention to his sister when she stood to stand next to Noah. Properly covered. Disappointment and relief warred within him at the sight. “The details of your marriage contract,” Raynesford said. “You and Devonport will have to wed now.”

  “We most certainly will not!” Tabitha said.

  Noah reached down and took her hand to soothe her. “We will.” He kept his voice tranquil and smooth. With an indignant huff, she snatched her hand back.

  “He had his mouth on your—on your—” Shelton gestured madly, pointing somewhere in the general vicinity of her chest. Noah wished he could return his mouth to just that location. It had been pure euphoria, until the Shelton brothers had walked in and brought him crashing headfirst back down to earth. “You don’t have a choice, Tabitha.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, slightly beneath her breasts, propping them up. Noah tamped down the urge to groan. “I’m not some flighty, underage debutante. I’m a woman old enough to know my own mind. I have a choice
.”

  “Your reputation—” Raynesford started, before she cut him off.

  “My reputation will survive. No one knows what happened except the four of us in this room.” She passed her gaze between the three of them. “There is no reason for anyone else to know.”

  Livingston cleared his throat at the open double-doors, just behind where the two brothers stood. “Lord Leith and Miss Faulkner,” he announced stiffly. Tabitha’s face fell.

  “Well,” Leith said as he came through the entryway, “I had no idea we were joining a funeral.”

  Miss Faulkner planted her hands firmly on her hips. “What’s going on here? Tabby?”

  “We were just discussing whether Tabitha’s reputation is ruined or not, after Owen and I walked in on Devonport with his mouth on her naked breast.” Shelton closed his eyes and shook his head, as though trying to shake the memory free. “Care to offer your thoughts on the subject?”

  “Oh, Tabby,” was all Miss Faulkner could say.

  Leith caught Noah’s eye with a wink. Like he’d planned it this way. Like he should be proud of himself.

  But how could he be?

  “It doesn’t matter,” Tabitha said in the thick silence blanketing the room. “I won’t have him. Lord Devonport and I were both fully aware of this before we acted. There is nothing more to be said.”

  “Why won’t you have him?” Shelton asked.

  “I will not marry a man who wants my money more than he wants me.”

  “If I may, Lady Tabitha,” Leith put in, “it seems plain to me that Devonport wants you a great deal.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Her brothers simultaneously lifted their brows at her.

  “All of you. You’re all wrong,” Tabitha repeated.

  “They’re not,” Noah said softly, so only she could hear. “You know they’re right. You’ve felt how much I want you. How much I need you. Tabitha, you have to marry me, because I’ll go mad with need if you don’t.”

  “I suppose you’ll just have to go mad then, won’t you?” she replied.

  The minx was determined to send him to the asylum. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Why don’t we see what your father has to say?”

  Her murderous glare did nothing to vanquish his raging lust.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “He’s in the library with your father,” Jo said as she let herself into Tabitha’s bedchamber. “I talked to him for a minute before he went in. He doesn’t seem inclined to keep the truth—any of it—from Uncle Drake.”

  “Hmm.” Tabitha didn’t move. She lay flopped down on her back with her arms spread out behind her head, languidly combing through her hair and staring at the canopy of her four-poster bed. If given the opportunity, she might remain in precisely this position for the next millennia or so, particularly with the curtains surrounding her drawn. Here, she was in her own world, her own thoughts. Here, she couldn’t be bothered by ridiculous, overbearing men thinking they could order her to do as they wished over something as silly as a kiss. Here, it didn’t matter if Lord Devonport told her father that she’d been his model for a series of nude sculptures, or that she’d agreed to become his mistress, or that she made a habit of selling her services near Haymarket.

  Tabitha remained in blissfully dreary darkness until Jo ripped back one of the curtains and dropped to sit beside her. “Tabby, enough of this. Talk to me.”

  “Close the curtain, please.” Tabitha scowled up at the invasive light as her cousin did not comply. With a huff, she pushed herself up and snapped it back into place how she wanted it. Then she slumped back again. “What would you have me say?”

  “Before saying anything, I’d like you to cease acting like I am somehow at fault for anything that has been going on.”

  Tabitha nodded her agreement, giving no thought to how her cousin might see such an action in the dim light peeking through the curtains. She had been acting quite the overindulged toddler around Jo of late, who had done nothing to deserve it.

  “Excellent.” Jo pulled back the curtain again and tied it in place so the light could come in from the windows. “Now, what is your plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan.”

  “Well, let’s make a plan then. Clearly, your father will insist that you marry. Do you want to marry Lord Devonport?”

  If she was honest with herself, Tabitha most decidedly did want to marry him. However, she had no intention of doing so, no matter how much Father may wish for it. She wanted to please him as often as she could, but Tabitha would not be the one to go back on the pact she’d made with Jo and Bethanne so many years before. And even if that weren’t a factor in her decision, she wasn’t entirely convinced that Lord Devonport wanted her for anything other than her dowry.

  Yes, he claimed he wanted her. She knew he lusted for her. But was lust enough? Lust was not love. Even if lasciviousness was enough, Lord Oglethorpe had proven to her in the park that money lust could provoke physical lust.

  “No,” she lied. “What do you think Father will do when I refuse? He can’t force me to marry, not at my age.”

  Jo’s eyes narrowed in thought. “True. But he could toss you out on your ear. If he does, you’ll have to come live with us.”

  “Uncle Thad wouldn’t let me stay if Father has tossed me out though, would he?”

  “If he knows what is good for him, he will,” Jo said. “But I suppose we should prepare for that potential eventuality.”

  She’d said ‘we’. “If your father won’t let me stay, that isn’t a good enough reason for you to leave, as well.”

  “Rubbish. We’ll go to stay with Bethanne and Aunt Rosaline.” Jo picked at the ribbon adorning her waist. “Aunt Rosaline, at least, will insist we can stay. And I’m sure Bethanne would appreciate the help and company.”

  “Yes. Right,” Tabitha said. “Well, I suppose that is our plan then.”

  “But there is always the possibility that Uncle Drake will refuse to allow you to stay at Aunt Rosaline’s cottage. He does provide for her support, after all. He could take the allowance he grants them back.”

  Tabitha sat up and pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin upon them and locking them in place with her arms. This was not looking good. Not at all. “If we can’t go to the cottage, then what will we do?”

  Jo took one of Tabitha’s hands. “We could always take up a profession. I’m good with figures. I could handle the financial aspects. And I suppose you could always sell more of what you were giving away to Lord Devonport.”

  Tears stung Tabitha’s eyes. She tried to tug her hand back, but Jo wouldn’t let it go. “Josephine Faulkner, I cannot believe you just said that.”

  “And I can’t believe you, Tabitha Eleanor Shelton, are going to walk away from the best opportunity you’ve ever had for love. I adore you, Tabby. I love you more than I know how to handle. But you’re a great, blithering idiot if you don’t accept Lord Devonport’s offer. And I’ll tell you one more thing. If you don’t accept him, if you don’t give him the opportunity to love you the way he clearly does, I’ll cut you off, no matter what Uncle Drake does. I swear I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “But our pact—”

  “Our pact was made when we were three silly little girls with romanticized notions of our aunt and unrealistic ideas about ourselves and who we are. No matter how much we love Aunt Rosaline, we aren’t her. We each have to make our own paths, Tabby.”

  Tabitha could do nothing but stare slack-jawed at her cousin. Never, since that day so many years ago when the three girls had agreed to become old maids together, had she allowed herself to think for a moment that she would ever marry. For over half of her life, she’d known she would never know a man’s love. It hadn’t been something she had allowed herself to hope for. Hope could only serve to crush her dreams and break her heart when it frittered away.

  Jo leaned over and kissed Tabitha on the forehead in a gesture reminiscent of Tabitha’s mother. “I’ve been thinkin
g over these past few weeks as I’ve watched you with Lord Devonport, and the way he is with you. I did you a great disservice when we made our pact. You and Bethie both. I let you believe the horrible things your father and brothers said about you, that no man would have you if not for your money because you were plump. I allowed Bethie to think that because she had no dowry of which to speak, she’d never find a man to offer for her. Clearly I was wrong about that, now that Miranda has married well and is quite content with her lot.” Jo took a ragged breath and wiped a tear from her own eye. “It may be too late to change things for Bethie, now that she’s caring for Aunt Rosaline and has Finn to look after as well. She may never have her opportunity, and I’ll have to live with that forever. But you do, and you’re squandering it.”

  “And what of you?” Tabitha asked, flabbergasted. “What of your opportunity? Lord Leith—”

  Jo cut her off before she could finish her thought. “I wanted you and Bethie to become old maids with me, because I have always known I would be one. I will never marry. You know I would never agree to any relationship in which I am not on equal footing—as a partner, of sorts—not as a subservient. Lord Leith will have to come to accept that fact.” She quirked a grin in Tabitha’s direction. “Be honest with me, Tabby. Be honest with yourself. You love him, don’t you?”

  The answer must be in her eyes, with the way it coursed through every pore of her body like the Thames running to the sea. “I—”

  “If you fib again, I’ll draw your cork.”

  Time to let the truth out.

  ~ * ~

  “Jo pled your case with her. I’m sure of it.” Shelton walked to the sideboard in his father’s library and poured two glasses of some spirit. “And Father is surely doing the same now. She’ll see reason. Eventually.”