Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series

by Vivienne Lorret

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Daring Miss Danvers

  An Excerpt from Finding Miss McFarland

  About the Author

  By Vivienne Lorret

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  DEDICATION

  For Michael

  PROLOGUE

  Hampshire, England, 1816

  The manor looked much the same as he remembered it from his youth. Few windows graced the towering limestone façade, and those that did were shuttered and sunken. Barren yew trees flanked either side, resembling the gnarled hands of Death reaching up from hell to reap his grandfather’s soul.

  Satisfaction pulled Bane’s lips into a tight grin. At last, he would reclaim what was rightfully his.

  Without anyone to stop him, he strode up the weed-choked walk and through the door.

  The grizzled old butler shuffled into the foyer. His one good eye narrowed, he huffed a sound of disgust. No doubt, Bane was the only man with gypsy blood in his veins who had dared cross the threshold.

  “Don’t worry, Mangus. I’m not here to set the place ablaze,” he said as he whipped off his greatcoat and tossed it onto a bench. “At least, not yet.”

  The butler ignored him and altered his slow procession to head in the direction of the drawing room. “His lordship has been laid out in here, if that’s the reason you came.”

  “It is indeed.” Bane clapped his hands together and chafed them back and forth. “I must make sure he’s good and dead. Tell me, Mangus, were his final moments terribly painful?”

  Not missing a beat, the butler sneered. “You’ll be pleased to know he passed peacefully in his sleep.”

  “You old codger,” Bane said with a laugh and chucked him on the shoulder. “If the devil’s own could sleep in peace—even for a single night—then there must be hope for us all.”

  Mangus grunted in response before he turned around and left Bane standing alone beneath the wide arch leading to the drawing room.

  A table, covered in black silk, stood before him. The former Marquess of Knightswold had been dressed in all his finery. Wall sconces cast the corpse in eerie shadow, undulating in a way that gave the illusion of breath rising and falling in his grandfather’s chest. For the first time since learning the news from the solicitor, a chill slithered down Bane’s spine.

  After all, if any man could possess enough evil and hatred to resurrect himself from the dead, Bane was staring at him now. His limbs felt full of porridge as he moved closer. However, it was his own pain and rage that propelled him, seeking confirmation.

  Marked by spots of age, his grandfather’s pallor resembled the ashy remains of a cold hearth. Beneath his paper-thin flesh, generations of aristocracy had formed the broad line of his brow, the bold curve of his nose, and the high set of his cheekbones. However, Bane was equally as certain that obstinacy was the reason for the rigid squareness of his jaw. Well, that, and the cloth tied around his chin and knotted at the top of his head to keep his mouth from gaping.

  Yes, the Marquess of Knightswold was most assuredly dead.

  Two gold sovereigns covered his eyes to pay the ferryman. “It still won’t be enough to keep you from the gates of hell,” he growled.

  Bane expected to feel a sense of victory, of rightness, in knowing that the man who’d murdered his parents and driven his uncle to suicide had finally paid the ultimate price. But other than the anguish that had transformed into rage over the years, only emptiness filled him. Nothing could undo the damage his grandfather had done—and all because of a ruthless pursuit to keep the Fennecourt bloodlines pure.

  Staring down at the monster, he fisted his hands and felt his one-quarter gypsy blood surge, boiling beneath his palms. His mother had been half gypsy and proud of her heritage. His father had loved her so dearly that he’d gladly accepted the terms that—should he marry her—he would be cut off completely and no longer recognized by the man who’d sired him.

  However, stripping his eldest son of wealth and land hadn’t been enough. Since Bane’s father was legitimate by birth, the title would have passed to him, no matter what, and from him to Bane. This didn’t sit well with the old marquess. He couldn’t stand the thought of a mongrel inheriting the title and lands.

  So around the time of Bane’s thirteenth birthday—a year before his parents were killed—the marquess ordered the church records of marriage between his eldest son and gypsy wife destroyed, in addition to the ledger containing Bane’s baptism.

  Those acts effectively made Bane nothing more than a bastard in the eyes of society. Of course, there were those who knew what his grandfather had done, but if anyone had dared to speak out, they soon would have found themselves in dire financial straits, in debtors prison, or even in the grave.

  The only one who’d stood up for Bane, even after his parents’ murder had made the stakes much higher, had been his uncle Spencer. Yet soon, he too was attacked by the Fennecourt patriarch.

  Financially crippled and facing the loss of everything he held dear—including the estate that had been in his wife’s family for centuries—Spencer could see only one solution to end the tyrannical quest of his father. So on a clear night, three years past, his uncle had stolen into this very house, tied a rope around a beam of the vaulted ceiling in the old marquess’s study, and hanged himself directly above the desk.

  Undeterred, Bane’s grandfather had gone about begetting another heir. Ultimately, a man so completely obsessed with pure bloodlines couldn’t risk his title falling into the hands of a gypsy. His efforts, however, were in vain. His young wife and their child had died a mere year ago.

  And now there was nothing to stop Bane from taking his revenge.

  “Ah, so you are here,” a familiar voice purred from the doorway. He turned to see his late uncle’s wife standing there, bedecked in mourning garb. Absently, he wondered if her new husband, the elderly Lord Sterling, realized what expensive taste Eve had. “I’d wondered if you’d heard.”

  Bane inclined his head. “Mr. Shirham came to see me late last night with the news.”

  “Your grandfather’s solicitor dropping by to see you? How crafty of him.” She sauntered into the room as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Yet her expression was cold and closed. She was always careful not to reveal herself, but he already knew it bothered her to be here in this house even more that it did him.

  “I believe it’s more of a matter of frugality,” Bane added with his own degree of detachment. As a young man who’d made his fortune at the tables and track, he knew it never served to reveal too much. While he was fond of Eve—primarily because of how much his uncle had adored her—he never quite trusted her. Then again, he didn’t trust anyone. “Without an employer, a solicitor’s situation can be fairly bleak.” And also, there was no reason to put a man in desperate circumstances if he could be useful.
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  “You would hire the man who’d conspired with your grandfather”—this time she said it with a trace of venom, a notable tell—“to destroy the lives of your parents and my husband?” After a quick intake of breath, she released a hollow laugh and turned her attention to the jewels at her wrist. “How unconventional.”

  He didn’t put much stock in her rancor today or delve too deeply. They both had their reasons for despising the dead man in the room. “Oh, how did he put it? . . . Something to the effect that not all who worked for the old marquess shared his beliefs on purity.”

  “And you believe him?” She looked at him as if he were a fool.

  “He came bearing gifts.” Bane lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Apparently, he’d found a family register at the bottom of a desk drawer years ago and held on to it with this”—he gestured to the shell of the old marquess—“eventuality in mind. It bears the name of my father and the date of his marriage, albeit with a thick line of ink striking through them. Then my birth was listed below it, with another fat line through it. Yet the names remain legible beneath.”

  For once, Eve had nothing to say. Her eyes gleamed with an uncanny light, as if she were trying hard not to reveal the depths of her emotion. However, the oddest thing was, he could almost swear she was furious with him and not with his grandfather. Which, he knew, couldn’t be the case since he’d done nothing to her.

  In the end, he’d taken on the burden of her debt. Of course, he’d done so mostly out of guilt because he still felt partly responsible for the reason Uncle Spencer had taken his own life. Therefore, this reaction from her puzzled him.

  Curious. His ability to read people was usually flawless. He counted on it.

  “I’ll never forgive you for any of it.” Eve’s quiet whisper drew his attention to where she now stood facing his grandfather’s body.

  “He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said quietly.

  She made a sound, something shy of a laugh. After a subtle swipe of her fingers against her cheek, she turned to him, her features carefully in place. “Then it will be only a matter of time before the title is restored to you,” Eve said, her lips pressed into a brittle smile as she toyed with the clasp of her diamond bracelet. “What a fine coup. Revenge at last.”

  At last? No. This was only the beginning.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1823

  Merribeth Wakefield closed the door and leaned against it as if marauders waited on the other side. A single bead of perspiration trickled down her temple.

  “It’s no use,” she said to the only two other occupants of the retiring room. Thankfully, Lady Amherst’s other guests in the ballroom below were now progressing to the outdoor amphitheater and wouldn’t notice their absence. “The plan won’t work.”

  Aunt Sophie released a slow breath and sank down onto the window seat in a rustle of lavender crepe. “The first hour of mingling went even worse than I imagined.” Lifting away her brass-rimmed spectacles, she pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Much worse. Merribeth expelled a puff of air that stirred the configuration of hot-ironed curls carefully situated over her forehead. The raven tresses threatened to frizz. Yet when she lifted her hand to her brow, she noted that beneath the lace edge of her fingerless gloves, her palms were damp as well. While she’d like to blame the weather, her nerves were the likely culprit, as it was only the first of June. Even so, the breeze from the open window felt divine.

  Perhaps, if she locked the door and hid in here for the remainder of the night, no one would notice.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” The exclamation came from Aunt Sophie’s friend, who stood in front of a bank of mirrors. Lady Eve Sterling—or simply Eve, as she preferred not to be reminded of her late husband—gave her cheeks a pinch before drawing the tip of her finger over tawny eyebrows. Once satisfied with her reflection, she shifted her gaze and stared pointedly at Merribeth in the looking glass. “Tonight is your chance to prove you have nothing to hide. That your reputation is faultless, no matter what those wasps downstairs were whispering behind their fans,” she needlessly pointed out. “Be brave.”

  “Brave?” Merribeth’s heart had nearly frozen on the spot from the glacial stares she’d received the moment they’d crossed the threshold. “I felt as if I were standing in my shift and stockings and nothing more.” A spectacle on display at the Museum of Wallflower Specimens and Ghastly Occurrences.

  “That would certainly have made for a more interesting party.” As it was, the only people invited to Lady Amherst’s play were the scandalous—her—and the scandalmongers—everyone else. Or so it seemed.

  “I’m so glad I could add my own turmoil to your list of this evening’s entertainment.” She should have known Eve wouldn’t understand. The woman lived and breathed scandal and likely held a permanent place on Lady Amherst’s invitation list.

  “Oh, me too, darling,” Eve responded with a wide grin, apparently not understanding sarcasm.

  Sophie, however, did understand and cast Merribeth a disapproving glare. “Eve was kind enough to procure an invitation at a time when our other options have diminished.”

  It was true. She was ruined. News of Mr. Clairmore’s betrayal, after five years of being nearly betrothed, had spread through every fiber of the ton like red wine on muslin. Now, for the past ten days, the only correspondences they’d received were apologies and rescinded invitations, as if Mr. Clairmore’s leaving was her fault. That somehow she was lacking.

  Perhaps she was.

  She released a sigh. “You’re right, Aunt Sophie. Forgive me, Eve. Apparently, my nerves have overrun my manners. I’m having trouble deciding which is worse: blending into the wallpaper as if every gown I wore were a damask print or these sideways glances of speculation.”

  “At least people notice you’re not simply a wallpaper ornament,” Eve said as she smoothed her hands down the front of a daringly cut plum-silk gown. Only weeks into mourning the loss of her second husband, no one would ever accuse Eve of blending in. In fact, most men said she rivaled her biblical namesake for Queen Temptress.

  “Yes, I’m the piece peeling away from the crown molding,” Merribeth muttered under her breath. Everyone noticed a flaw.

  “Were we to live in a more primitive society, you could very well have been stoned for the rumors against you. Then again, I suppose this was the ton’s way of doing the same, just shy of the cut direct.” Sophie retrieved a handkerchief from inside her glove and began to rub the lenses of her spectacles, mulling over them in contemplation.

  It wasn’t until her distinctive sense of logic was met with silence that she looked up. No doubt, she saw all the color drain from Merribeth’s face when she replaced her spectacles. She cleared her throat. “Perhaps coming here was a mistake after all.”

  Merribeth cringed. Her aunt’s more bookish nature didn’t always provide her with the sense of comfort she craved. Not that she didn’t appreciate all that her aunt had sacrificed over the years, but right at this moment, she wished her mother and father were still alive.

  Eve spun around and shook her head. “Not attending would have been tantamount to confirming that Mr. Clairmore found her reputation lacking in some way. After all, he’s declared his love for a vicar’s daughter. Anyone would look sullied by comparison and, mind you”—she pointed the tip of her fan at Merribeth—“that was precisely the argument that helped procure your invitation.”

  The argument did nothing to bolster Merribeth’s confidence or resume the blood flow to her cheeks. With her aunt and Eve, she need never worry about being coddled. In fact, part of her had always wondered if Eve had insisted on sponsoring her for a Season solely out of charity. Yet anyone who was acquainted with her above a week’s time soon realized that Eve didn’t possess altruistic intentions, no matter what Aunt Sophie might want to believe.

  “Yet this entire scheme won’t work if you continue to cower whenever your gaze is met. Stop looking like a stable puppy afrai
d of being kicked,” Eve continued. “You must be confident. Head raised. Shoulders back. You must show them all that you have done nothing to lose Mr. Clairmore’s good opinion and that he . . . merely had cold feet.”

  “Cold feet,” Sophie mused, as if the two words were a cipher.

  Merribeth looked from Eve to her aunt and felt like a puzzle missing several pieces. That day in the garden, when Mr. Clairmore had professed his overwhelming ardor for another woman, it hadn’t seemed like cold feet to her. It had seemed more maniacal than anything else. He’d been positively possessed.

  “It wasn’t planned, you see. This violent feeling for Miss Codington has taken me by surprise,” he said with a laugh as he looked up to the sky. Closing his eyes, an incandescent smile broke over his face, as if he were reciting a prayer of thanks.

  She remembered staring at him, all the while wondering if she’d heard him correctly. Miss Codington, the vicar’s daughter? Surely she’d been mistaken. The reason William had wanted to speak with her privately was because he was finally going to make their betrothal official, proposing in a grand romantic gesture. Any moment, he would have kneeled down. She’d been sure of it.

  However, his words had disoriented her, forcing her to repeat them inside her mind. Even now, she tried to make sense of what he’d said. Why should feeling violent toward someone make him happy? And shouldn’t he feel violently—whatever that meant—toward her and not Miss Codington?

  Then, when he’d looked at her and his smile hadn’t faltered for a single, solitary moment, she’d thought—hoped—he would tell her it was all a joke. A horribly cruel joke.

  Instead, he’d laughed again and scratched the top of his head, mussing his golden locks in a way she’d never seen him do before. His eyes had been wild, his grin peculiarly lopsided. He’d looked a bit mad. Even more so when he’d reached out, snagged a cluster of lilacs from the overgrown shrub beside her, and buried his nose in the blossoms, inhaling the fragrance with obvious reverence.

  “I never knew it could be like this . . . should be like this. Oh, Merr, I’m quite overcome with the rawness inside me. You would laugh to know how savage I feel when I’m near her, not at all the sedate, even stoic person I’ve always thought myself to be. Yet one simple kiss changed all that. Her lips . . . Great heavens! Her lips are like summer wine, and her skin is incredibly soft . . . soft like butter.”