by Erica Ridley
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
Erica Ridley
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
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 trading 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.
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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.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Blurb
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Thank You
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress
Sneak Peek
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 s
wirls 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?”
Oliver’s lip curled in disgust. Ballrooms were treacherous indeed. This jackanapes had an innocent American in his sights. One who didn’t even seem to have a duenna, much less friends to keep away wolves like Mapleton.
His temples began to throb as he forced his fists to unclench. This was a different type of combat, he reminded himself. The worst thing to do would be to make a scene with Mapleton. The scandal would be horrific.
Yet he couldn’t walk away. Not when the wallflower needed rescuing. His goddamn Achilles’ heel, no matter how disastrous the outcome tended to be. He wished his heroics would work out for once.
He kept his eyes trained on the pretty black-haired American, every muscle tensed for action. An eternity ticked by. No one approached her. She had no one to dance with, to talk to. She looked… lost. Hauntingly lonely. Frightened and defiant all at the same time.
’Twould be better for them both if he turned around right now. Never met her eye. Never exchanged a single word. Left her to her fate and him to his.
It was already too late.
Chapter 2
The plan had seemed so simple when Grace Halton’s mother had first proposed it. Sail from Pennsylvania to England, meet her long-lost grandparents, and use their modest dowry to attract a husband able and willing to provide for both Grace and her ailing mother.
Three simple steps. Three exercises in futility and failure.
First catastrophe: the ocean. Grace had spent the entire transatlantic journey with her face in her chamber pot, more than willing to trade the endless waves and deadening horizon for the flimsy, landlocked shack she’d shared with her mother.
Second disaster: her grandparents. They’d been aghast at Grace’s uncanny resemblance to their black-haired, green-eyed daughter. The one who had fled in scandal and never returned.
Almost every word out of their mouths since had been a criticism of Grace’s bearing or person or upbringing or education. Or reiterating that her dowry money hinged upon her finding a groom of whom they approved.
All of which made step three—Operation Husband—that much more difficult. She didn’t just need a beau. Attracting a suitor was a brainless, simple goal every debutante in this ballroom expected to accomplish by the end of the Season.
Grace didn’t have that long. Not with her mother so sick. She needed someone who could be brought to scratch—and to the altar—in a matter of days.
But the invitations her grandparents’ money attracted weren’t for venues like Almack’s. These were smaller soirées, in private homes. The “Marriage Mart” was quite out of Grace’s reach. What she had were a handful of hostesses for whom the novelty of an American guest was worth an invitation to dinner. If she made a good impression on the right people, there might be more invitations to occasional dinner parties in her future.
But she didn’t have a future. She had right now. And time was running out.
Grace shook off her despondency and straightened her shoulders. There was only one path forward. She needed a wealthy, controllable, kindhearted, grandparent-approved, banns-read-and-bells-rung husband, and she needed him Right. Now. If she didn’t return in the next few weeks with enough coin to save her mother and their home, there wouldn’t be a mother or a home to come back to.
It seemed insurmountable. If a gentleman was remotely moneyed and kindhearted and marriage-minded, he’d been snapped up long before Grace’s spindly legs had trembled ashore.
Her accent had taken care of the rest.
She’d set sail believing in her mother’s bedtime tales of glittering ballrooms and bejeweled gowns befitting a princess, promising Grace she’d be likely to have the ton at her feet and her hand on the altar before the first week was through.
But the only Brits willing to look down their noses long enough to speak to her were the fops so desperate for attention that even a gauche American would suffice, or the decrepit old libertines so entranced by pretty young flesh that they didn’t much care what her accent sounded like. After all, they didn’t plan to speak with her.
Even the lady’s maid her grandparents kept sending along as a chaperone consistently disappeared within seconds of arrival. If a paid servant had better things to do than be seen publicly in Grace’s orbit, what hope was there for finding a husband?
At this point, what she mostly could use was a friend. But even that was hopeless.
The most exalted of the English roses would have naught to do with her. Grace was not only a penniless American; her grandparents’ smal
l dowry carried the filthy taint of trade. And worse.
Grace’s grandfather had invested in some sort of fabric processing plant during the American Revolution, and then purchased a handful of sword and bayonet armament factories just as Napoleon rose to power. The recent battle of Waterloo had put paid to Napoleon’s rule, but Grace’s grandparents had become rich off the spilled blood of their countrymen. She shivered at the thought. No wonder she was a pariah.
“Cold, chérie?” A rich but toothless roué grinned down at her over the curve of his gold-plated cane, marriage—or rather, the marriage bed—obviously on his mind. “A turn with me in one of the balconies might warm those bare shoulders, eh?”
Grace leaped to her feet and out from under his calculated stare. She’d thought herself invisible among the sea of spinsters and chaperones along the far wall, but the come-hither cut of her fashion-plate gown had undoubtedly given her away. Three weeks of seasickness had whittled the plumpness from her body, giving her a wasp waist and actual cheekbones for the first time in her life.
Such a diet was not one Grace could recommend. Especially since it seemed to go hand in glove with attracting the lecherous eye of men older than her grandfather.
“Sorry,” she blurted in a tone that indicated she was anything but. “This set is already promised.”
She all but flew out of his palsied grasp, sidestepping the matrons to squeeze against the shadowed wainscoting at the opposite end of the ballroom.