Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Indeed. I told you she was the woman I almost married.” He gave Olivia’s waist a squeeze. “Well, now I’m beyond blessed to say that dream will at last come to pass.”

  Miss Rossington stomped toward Allen, her countenance contorted in rage. “You damned churl, toying with my affections. Do you know how many men’s address I refused?”

  Allen lifted a brow. “We both know that’s utter gamon. An alley cat has more discretion.”

  The blonde sputtered and choked, daggers shooting from her eyes. She whipped her arm back as if to strike Allen. “Why you—”

  Bradford swiftly stepped forward and snared her hand.

  “I wouldn’t. Do you truly want those denizens witnessing you acting the part of a shrew?” He thrust his chin toward the terrace. “I assure you, a dead codfish, green and rotting, has a greater chance of finding a husband amongst the haute ton than you do if you strike the son of a peer.”

  Yanking her hand from his, Miss Rossington turned on Allen. “You bloody bastard.”

  The curl of his lips simultaneously expressed his scorn and amusement.

  Teeth clenched and seething with rage, she glared at Bradford then Olivia. “Damn you all to the ninth circle of hell.”

  Hiking her gown to mid-calf, Miss Rossington spun on her satin slippered heel. She proceeded to stomp her way back to the house, muttering additional foul oaths a woman of gentle breeding should never have let pass her lips.

  Page nineteen, paragraph two.

  A form separated from the shadows on one side of the French windows.

  Olivia blinked in disbelief as Aunt Muriel emerged from behind the drapes. Olivia would wager the Prussian jewels she wore, her aunt had been watching the whole while.

  Aunt Muriel lifted her nose and pulled her skirts aside as Miss Rossington tramped into the house. Then with a little wave at Olivia, Aunt Muriel bolted out of site. Likely to apprise the Wimpletons of what she had witnessed.

  The adorable sneak.

  “It seems we’ve drawn a crowd.” Chagrin heated Olivia’s cheeks as she canted her head slightly in the terrace’s direction. At least a score of guests mingled about the porch, their rapt attention focused on the trio left standing on the grass.

  Dash it all. Allen hadn’t wanted additional fodder for le bon ton’s gossipmongers.

  A roguish glint entered his eyes. “Let’s make it worth their while, shall we, darling?”

  A lady never participates in public shows of affection.

  Olivia cast a glance heavenward.

  Then I guess I’m not a lady, Mama.

  She didn’t resist when Allen drew her into his embrace, although she cast her brother a hesitant look.

  Bradford winked. “Please do, Wimpleton. Give the chinwags something to babble about. Make it something quite spectacular, will you? Something scandalous to keep their forked tongues flapping for a good long while.”

  With a smart salute, he turned his back on them and, whistling a jaunty tune, strolled along the path wending into the garden’s depths.

  Bradford was proving to be every bit as indecorous as their aunt.

  Olivia inclined her head and eyed Allen. “Well? What outrageousness do you have in mind?”

  “A kiss, perhaps?” He ran his thumb across her lower lip.

  Olivia quite liked this rakish side of him. “Oh, yes.”

  Allen took another step closer, and his thighs pressed against hers, their chests colliding.

  Winding her arms around his neck, she raised her mouth in invitation.

  A scandalized voice carried across the expanse. “Do you see that? They’re kissing. Right there on the lawn. In full view of all.”

  “Yes. It’s utterly lovely, isn’t it?” Aunt Muriel’s delighted laugh filled the night air.

  Allen dipped his dark head until their lips were a hair’s breadth apart. “A kiss for Miss Kingsley?”

  “Perfect.” Olivia smiled as his mouth claimed hers.

  Epilogue

  Wyndleyford House

  September 1818

  “Do finish up, Olivia darling. We’ll be late.”

  Allen lounged against the bedpost, looking irresistibly dashing as he watched Olivia’s last minute fussing. His pristine cravat was tied in another new, complicated knot, and his waistcoat matched his green eyes to perfection. However, it was the gleam of male satisfaction in his jungle gaze that sent her pulse cavorting again.

  “It’s not my fault you decided to exercise your husbandly rights just as I exited my bath.”

  Olivia gave him a playful pout as she deliberately applied perfume to her cleavage. That quite drove him mad. She touched the emeralds at her throat. He had placed them there just before they’d spent a blissful half an hour abed. “My toilette would have been completed long ago.”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining overly much.” Allen straightened and after adjusting his jacket sleeves, crossed the room, his long-legged strides covering the distance in short order. He bent and kissed her bare shoulder. “I knew the Wimpleton emeralds would look exquisite on you.”

  “They are stunning. Thank you.” She turned her head up for a kiss. The scorching meeting of their mouths had her considering an even tardier arrival to her new in-laws anniversary celebration. “I’m honored to wear them to the festivities tonight.”

  “It’s our anniversary too, love. One month today, Mrs. Wimpleton. Slowest three months of my life, waiting to make you my bride.”

  She grinned. “I told you it was dangerous to let my aunt and your mother help plan our wedding. I about tripped over my dress when I saw Prinny sitting in a front pew.”

  “You and I both. I’d never seen a man attired completely in that shade of pink before. Looked rather like an enormous, glittery salmon.” Allen withdrew a bracelet from his pocket then lifted her hand.

  “More?” Olivia shook her head. “It’s magnificent but, you know, I’m not a woman who requires jewels. I have all I ever wanted.”

  He settled it around her wrist and set the clasp. “Would you deny me my pleasure?”

  Quirking her brow, she gave him an impish smile. “When have I ever denied you your pleasure?”

  With a mock growl, he pulled her to her feet. Swinging her into his embrace, he plundered her mouth.

  A scratching at the door interrupted the kiss. “Sir, madam, everyone has arrived.”

  “I suppose we must put in an appearance.” Allen sighed and leaned away, acting put-upon.

  Giggling, Olivia collected her shawl and fan. “Of course we must. Your sister and my brother are below with their spouses. Your parents must host more balls. Three weddings came about as a result of that one in May.”

  “I do believe that rout set a record.” He chuckled and scratched his nose. At the door he caught her arm. “Have I told you that I love you today, Mrs. Wimpleton?”

  She touched his face. “Yes, but I shall never tire of hearing it.”

  He dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “And I promise I shall never tire of saying it.”

  The End

  Coming in May 2017

  The Wallflower’s Wicked Wager

  A Waltz with a Rogue Novella #5

  Collette Cameron

  Chapter One

  Davenswood Court, Buckinghamshire

  August 1819

  A bead of perspiration trickled a dribbly, sticky trail between Shona’s breasts, despite her frantic fanning and the conservatory’s open doors.

  Would this summer’s sweltering temperatures never cease?

  How was she to appear dignified and fresh when moisture beaded every part of her person from her brow to her toes tucked into quaint new turquoise slippers?

  Desperate for relief and despite the impropriety, she’d removed her bonnet and gloves—who would know except her anyway? They now lay atop a quaint wrought iron bench along with her parasol and the abandoned book she’d thought to read. Cloying tendrils of hair stuck to her temples, and she feared her Indian sprigged mus
lin gown—chosen specifically for the fabric’s airiness—exhibited humiliating damp spots in equally mortifying places.

  Finger’s spread, she held one hand beneath the miniature waterfall cascading from the upper level of the burbling fountain centered in the greenhouse. Even the water was warm to her touch. The lush greenery and colorful flowers artfully displayed throughout the hothouse, including a lemon and an orange tree, thrived in the tropical-like atmosphere.

  Not so, Shona. She wilted like a pansy plopped in freshly poured oolong tea.

  Selecting the most humid building on the estate to steal a few moments alone hadn’t been the wisest of decisions. But even amidst this torrid heat, she’d relished the peace and privacy she’d filched by doing so. Truth to tell, she’d also fled Miss Rossington and her two cohorts, the Dundercroft sisters. That trio of mean-spirted chits had been nothing but malicious since Shona arrived.

  Lacy fan splayed in one hand, and the other lifting her skirts to a most indelicate height, Shona ventured to the conservatory’s far door, and once there covertly surveyed Davenswood Court’s sprawling, neat as a tailor’s seam, greens. So far, no one was addlepated enough to venture a stroll beneath the late-afternoon sun’s punishing rays.

  Excellent.

  A bittersweet smile tipped her mouth. She wasn’t ready to face the house party’s growing throng just yet.

  Never would, truth to tell.

  She was, to say the least, completely, hopelessly, and chronically socially inept.

  Oh, put her in a room with family or close friends and she produced the wittiest dialogue, the most intelligent, thought-provoking conversations. Even humorous ripostes. But amongst casual acquaintances or, worse yet, strangers? Utterly hopeless. A chair cushion or a teacup displayed more finesse and cleverness.

  A wistful sigh escaped as she eyed the sparkling indigo lake beyond the lush lawns. Bordered by a grove of towering, thickly leaved, gnarly-branched oaks, the refreshing waters beckoned. What she wouldn’t give to strip her stockings and slippers from her sweaty legs and feet and soak her toes in their cool depths.

  Out of the question, of course.

  More’s the pity.

  Despite the heat, an icy shudder scythed across her shoulders. Imagine the elevated brows, pinched mouths, and censured glances from the hoity-toity upper crust even now mingling within the manor house. They weren’t all pretentious and judgmental, of course. Regrettably, she seemed to be a magnet for those who were.

  Hence, Shona determined to remain as inconspicuous and innocuous as possible for the next interminable seven days, eleven hours, and—she squinted at the blazing sun—however many torturous odd minutes remained before her zealously anticipated departure.

  Too bad this wasn’t Wedderford Abbey, her Scottish estate—her blessedly temperate, mild-weather home. There—gown hiked to her thighs—she could frolic about barefoot or swim naked as a robin of she wished.

  Which, naturally, being a reserved and modest creature of twenty—one-and-twenty in three days—and possessing a title in her own right, she didn’t wish to.

  Verra much. Verra often.

  Last evening, several male guests, originally dismissing her as a frumpy, somewhat plump, beneath their touch Scot, became comically attentive and mooned-eyed upon learning of her position and not so modest fortune. Worse than hunting hounds in full cry, once they’d caught the scent of her money and power.

  A lady Lord of Parliament.

  Shona had finally stopped trying to explain the complicated title to the cod-patted popinjays. Unlike many things British, in this, she wished the Scots referred to the noble rank as a barony like the English did. And why, for heaven’s sake, couldn’t whomever dreamed up the classification have created a feminine equivalent for women holding the rank?

  Because in that, as in most things, men deemed women irrelevant, incapable, or insignificant.

  A movement caught her eye, and suddenly tense and alert, she swung her wary consideration toward the motion.

  A tall, hatless man, his rather longish, coffee-toned hair glinting with bronze streaks in the sunlight, strode with agile masculine grace across the manicured lawn. Headed straight for the lake, she’d be bound. The stranger held one bare hand angled against his forehead, no doubt shading his eyes from the unrelenting golden orb in the sky. Still, his profile’s silhouette revealed the sharp blade of a patrician nose, the slashing angle of high cheeks, and a sculpted, granite hard chin.

  Anger exuded from him in every stalking step of his powerful legs as he marched along.

  The fuggy air stalling in her lungs, like a doe in a hunter’s sights, Shona stood stock still, fearful of detection. So she told herself. What other reason could there be for her breath to snag and her pulse to pitter-patter? She was a sensible miss. Not a totty-headed nincompoop given to histrionics, giggling, pouts, waterworks, swooning, or any other absurd feminine dramatics.

  The gentleman’s jacket strained against his bicep and shoulders, and with each long stride, the back hitched up, revealing what was surely one of the finest manly behinds she’d ever seen. Not that she made a regular habit of inspecting gentlemen’s posteriors. In general, when dashing men were near, she seldom lifted her focus from the floor or her slippers’ toes.

  She needn’t have worried, for not once did he glance her way. His Spanish brown coat, biscuit colored pantaloons, and ebony boots blended with the oaks’ tawny-gray trunks, and in a moment, he disappeared from sight.

  Suddenly, a touch cross and uncertain as to why, she fervently resumed waving her fan and muttered, “Too much to hope I supposed that the country air would be cooler than London.”

  A much coveted breeze wafted past, carrying the essence of several late blooming flowers and vines. Her nostrils quivered in appreciation.

  At least it smelled scads better here.

  Town reeked most days. But in the summer, the stench became intolerable, and if required to venture outdoors, she often covered her nose with a rose scented handkerchief. She preferred the country, particularly the Highlands.

  Wheels crunching on gravel drew her reluctant attention to ostentatious mansion’s circular drive. She knew what the portentous sound meant. More guests for the Viscount and Viscountess Wimpletons’ week-long house party. Why did the Wimpletons have to be such gracious hosts? Favorites amongst the upper ten thousand, to be sure.

  Three dust-coated carriages rumbled to a stop, and a half dozen maroon and black liveried footman rushed down the stairs to assist with the passengers’ luggage. At least sixty of Society’s finest had arrived already, and the party didn’t officially commence until tomorrow evening’s grand ball. A masque ball, at that.

  A small, but, oh so, welcome reprieve.

  A strip of satin cloth across Shona’s eyes allayed a touch of her discomfiture and was a trifling better than hovering in an alcove and hiding behind potted plants or vast columns. Or the humiliating awkwardness of sitting—overlooked and disregarded—with the other wallflowers and spinsterish misses, false smiles bending their mouths.

  Nevertheless, she awaited the dance with the same enthusiasm as she might anticipate having a molar extracted or a carbuncle lanced. Not that she’d ever experienced either. But Mama had, and she’d been veritable bear for days before and afterward.

  Mama is a crotchety, unreasonable, demanding bear all the time.

  According to the maid helping Shona dress this morning, over one hundred guests, plus their servants, were expected. For a week. A whole, unbearably long, uncomfortable, angst-ridden, sure-to-make-a-cake-of-herself week. With the haut ton’s elite members milling about, constantly underfoot, and likely not another moment to herself until she reached Wedderford Abbey.

  Depending on how many guests did, indeed, accept the Wimpletons’ much coveted annual summer event invitation, Shona might very well be obligated to share her assigned room with a stranger.

  God help her if she found herself saddled with a chit of Miss Rossington’s petulant
ilk.

  What a perfectly horrid notion.

  Shona swallowed the sick feeling throttling to her throat.

  Why did she have to be such a coward?

  Nae, not a coward.

  Just wretchedly cow-handed and fearful of making a social blunder. Which she did with astonishing regularity and generally humiliating results.

  Chagrin-borne heat flooded her face.

  Perfect. Now her plump, riddy cheeks even more resembled two ripe apples.

  Stepping through the doorway, careful to remain within the building’s shade, she worried her lower lip and combatted the desire to escape to the lake for the rest of the afternoon.

  Most people thought her an insipid milk and water miss, which wasn’t the case at all. But neither was she a piss and vinegar chit either. She’d actually possessed a rather vibrant spirit—which she studiously kept subdued. But nothing so forward or unacceptable as actual brazenness, or—

  What was that colorful expression she overheard the stable hand mutter last week? Nose scrunched, she shut her eyes.

  Ah, that was it.

  The cheeky boldness of a bloke with bull-sized ballocks.

  If only she might claim a jot of such unarguable confidence. She didn’t want ballocks, of course. Just the boldness bit.

  Years of maternal abuse had turned Shona into a timorous, mouse of a thing, and she hated it. Loathed being a dowdy, bashful, gaffe-prone wallflower. Just once, she’d like to hold her head high, poised and self-assured. Once, dare something a trifle wicked or wanton. Or both.

  Her nape hairs prickled, and she darted an uneasy peek over her shoulder. No one approached the greenhouse. Must she be so jumpy? Her errant focus glided back to the lake. If only she possessed the nerve to test the inviting water. But such rash action would bring censure on those she cared for.

  If she had an ounce of steel in her, she’d use this house-party to her advantage. Perhaps even get herself kissed for the first time. Oooh. At the masque ball. Or, better yet, set her cap, her handkerchief—by heavens, her parasol and gloves too!—for a gentleman she found striking.