Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  "Yes," it was Violet who now looked away, for a kaleidoscope of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. "It is a common feature in polite conversation. It looks like rain. It doesn't look like rain. If this rain does not let up, I'll eat my cravat. Et cetera et cetera."

  She was blabbering, she knew, but the funny feeling in her stomach made it impossible for her to concentrate on what she was saying. Thankfully, the dance they were watching came to an end, and it was time for Orsino and Violet to take their place on the floor.

  Violet said a silent prayer of thanks as she discovered that the next set was to be a Quadrille. The dance involved four sets of partners, and as such, she had to spend but a little of it with Orsino. When he did touch her--a clasped hand, or a touch on the small of her back as they changed partners--it made her feel most peculiar. Not to mention that when his eyes caught hers, and he half-smiled at her, she almost tripped over her feet.

  When the music came to an end, Violet allowed her shoulders to sag with relief; her ordeal was over. That other ladies might covet the idea of dancing with an eligible duke did not cross Violet's mind--she simply needed to be away from Orsino and the queer feelings he inspired in her stomach.

  "I apologise," Orsino said, as he came to claim her hand, "With all that dancing, I did not have a chance to discuss the weather any further. In my opinion, however, it does look like rain--et cetera, et cetera."

  Violet frowned slightly in confusion; had he made a joke? She glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, saw that his easy smile had disappeared, replaced instead with a fearsome glare, and decided that he hadn't.

  A man like Orsino did not jest, Violet thought, as she tried to quash the topsy-turvy emotions which threatened her equilibrium.

  Orsino offered her his arm, and with the eyes of the room following their every move, led her from the floor toward Charlotte and Penrith.

  Charlotte wore the look of a fox who had been encircled by a pack of hounds as she stood beside her own duke, and Violet felt a stab of pity for her friend who would be forced to pursue a man she quite obviously disliked. At least Violet might bid Orsino adieu and never have to set eyes on him again.

  Charlotte gave a smile of relief as she spotted Violet approaching, and once Violet had reached her side, she determinedly linked arms with her friend.

  "Well," Charlotte cried gaily, quite obviously glad to be on her way. "Thank you for the dance, your Grace. I am sure that there are a dozen other girls waiting in the wings to take my place."

  "Yes, thank you," Violet echoed, her eyes nervously avoiding Orsino's gaze as she allowed Charlotte to lead--nay, drag--her away.

  "Should you not try and engage Penrith further?" Violet whispered as she and Charlotte pushed their way through the crowd. Curious faces peered at them as they went, striving to catch a glance of the two girls who had managed to attract the attention of the two elusive dukes.

  "Oh," Charlotte wailed, her face a picture of anxiety, "I know that I should, but I cannot. Not when he took me by surprise."

  Violet felt a pang of sympathy for her friend, who seemed most overwrought. "Don't worry," she said reassuringly, "Men are strange creatures; Sebastian often says that when he thinks he cannot have something, he wants it even more. I'm sure that by making yourself unavailable, Penrith will tie himself in ribbons trying to get you."

  Her words did not do much to soothe Charlotte's nerves; in fact, she seemed even more put-out by Violet's assertion. It was almost as though she did not wish to succeed at the plan they had earlier hatched. They soon reached the chairs beneath the balcony, and Charlotte threw herself down into her seat, with a sad sigh.

  "Ladies," a voice called, quickly followed by the figure of Lady Julia, "Did my eyes deceive me, or were you both dancing with dukes in my absence?"

  "We were," Violet replied, patting the seat next to her for Julia to sit down.

  "My mama is in a quandary," Julia continued, her beautiful face near split in two with a mischievous smile, "She has spent the evening forbidding me from visiting the wallflower corner--as she calls it--and then the two most eligible men in the room decide that this is where they will pick their partners from. Needless to say, she sent me over to you both post haste, so that I might bask in your reflected glory."

  "I would hardly call dancing with a snoot a glorious occasion," Charlotte grumbled, "Penrith has all the charm of condensation related damp."

  "And Orsino is most fearsome," Violet added, not to be outdone, "' Twas like dancing with a particularly irritable mountain."

  "I rather think that there is nothing wrong with a man who looks like he could wrestle a cow if he had to," Julia replied, giving Violet a knowing glance, as though she could see through her facade of indifference.

  "Pray tell when might that particular occasion arise?" Charlotte queried with a laugh.

  "One never knows," Julia shrugged and offered Violet a wink, "But if it did, would it not be grand to have Orsino there to protect you from a bovine-related catastrophe?"

  Charlotte and Julia descended into gales of laughter, and Violet pretended to join them, though inside her heart was hammering a nervous tattoo.

  There was something about the duke which made her feel most peculiar, and she was glad that she would never have to see him again.

  As Charlotte and Julia chattered betwixt themselves, Violet experienced the strange sensation of feeling as though she was being watched. She turned her head and her eyes settled upon Orsino, who though chatting to Penrith, and another man Violet did not recognise, was glancing her way.

  Her eyes met his, and she quickly looked away, as a pleasurable shiver made its way down her spine.

  Orsino was dangerous, she decided firmly, as she turned her attention back toward her friends. And no level-headed woman would even think of entertaining any fantasies about him. But even as she had decided this, Violet felt her fingers twitch, and she realised that her hands were aching to put to paper the image of the man that was now emblazoned upon her mind.

  Drat.

  Chapter Two

  Gideon Michael Jack Pennelegion, the sixth Duke of Orsino, and Jack to his friends, frowned slightly as he considered his appearance in the mirror.

  His valet, Johnson, whom he had inherited from his late brother, had insisted on tying his cravat in a complicated knot which had taken a half-hour to complete.

  That the end result was the height of fashion was beyond doubt; what was doubtful was that Jack was at all taken by said end result.

  "It's a bit..." Jack trailed off as he considered himself now from the side.

  "Yes?" Johnson's tone was tetchy, for he realised in what direction his master's mind was headed.

  "It's just a tad..."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, it's pink, Johnson. And not a little bit. Nor a tad. It's very, very pink."

  "Campion rouge, your Grace," Johnson replied with a well-practised sigh, "Men are bashing down doors on Bond Street in an attempt to secure a cravat in that very colour."

  "They are?" Jack did not quite manage to keep the tone of disbelief from his voice.

  "They are." Johnson was definite.

  "And," Jack continued, despite knowing he would exact the man's ire, "It's a little bit frilly."

  "A little bit?"

  "It's very frilly," Jack gave a sheepish grin, "I look like a macaroni. I know you said that the Waterfall knot was the done thing this week, but perhaps we might try something simpler--and in white."

  Johnson gave another sigh and began to remove the offending garment, all the while muttering unintelligibly under his breath. Jack did not quite catch what it was that Johnson was saying, but he understood the gist of it. Even more so, when he heard the wounded valet whisper his brother's name.

  "You're correct," Jack said, startling poor Johnson from his mutterings, "It would have suited Frederick perfectly. And what's more, he would have been far more grateful for your efforts than I. But we must remember that Frederick i
s gone, Johnson. It is I you are dressing now, not he."

  A hesitant sniff greeted this declaration, and Jack averted his gaze from his valet's watering eyes. There was a lump in his own throat, and if he were to see Johnson's tears, he might dissolve into blubbering himself.

  Which would not do, for Jack Pennelegion never cried.

  "He was a fine man, your Grace," Johnson finally said, clearing his throat as he began work on tying a fresh, white cravat, "So fashionable, elegant, and refined. A man such as he was so easy to dress."

  "As opposed to a man like me?" Jack queried dryly, though he took no offence from Johnson's slip.

  It was universally agreed that his brother Frederick had cut a very dashing figure. The papers had oft said that his stature and looks had been pleasing enough to give even Beau Brummell a run for his money. Tall, slim, and fashionably pale, the late duke had been the very epitome of male perfection--especially when contrasted with Jack.

  Jack stood at over six foot three--so tall that his brother had once joked he ought to be measured in hands and not inches. His height, when coupled with his broad shoulders and muscular frame, gave the impression of a prize-fighter, or a manual labourer--not a member of the aristocracy.

  To add further offence, Jack's skin was tanned from his years spent on the continent with the army. No amount of Olympian Dew or any other concoctions that Johnson tried to slather him with would ever make it pale again.

  Which, Johnson often said, was a pity, for if Jack's dark locks had been coupled with alabaster skin, he just might have been able to pull off the look of a Romantic.

  Though probably not. Most Romantics looked as though they might collapse under the weight of a quill, whereas Jack--like his good friend Lord Montague often said--was so large that a bull might baulk if challenged by him.

  "'Tis perfect, Johnson," Jack said, once his gentleman's gentleman had finished for the second time.

  "It's the Irish knot, your Grace," Johnson sniffed, with a modicum of distaste, "Simple enough to suit a Hibernian. Make of that what you will."

  "I have never had any trouble with an Irishman," Jack laughed, as he allowed Johnson to assist him with shrugging on his coat.

  "Then you probably haven't met many," Johnson muttered, as he brushed nonexistent specks of lint from his master's broad shoulders.

  Once done, the older man took a step back to survey his work, gave a reluctant sigh and pronounced Jack ready.

  "It will have to do."

  "It will," Jack grinned, "For I cannot stand another minute's fussing, Johnson, and even if I could tolerate it, I wouldn't want to be late."

  Jack grabbed his hat from the dresser and raced out the door, afraid that if he lingered any longer, Johnson might find something else to do--like cut his hair. The valet's eyes had been longingly glancing from Jack's curly locks to the scissors by the wash table, but Jack had no desire to submit to yet another shearing.

  He was beginning to feel like a sheep, he thought, as he clattered down the stairs of Orsino Hall. Having a valet tend to his morning ablutions--not to mention his afternoon, evening, and night-times ones too--was not something that Jack thought he would ever become accustomed to.

  He had spent much of the past decade in the army, serving under Wellington. First on the Peninsular, then in France, for the One Hundred Days War and the bloody battle of Waterloo.

  Oh, he had been accompanied by a valet of sorts, but Higgins had been far more interested in making certain that Jack's musket and blade were in working order than worrying about his Captain's hair. And he had not followed the new duke back to London, when news of Frederick's death in a carriage accident reached Jack, claiming that he was unsuited to any life except an army one.

  Jack, now having spent a year suffering under the trappings of dandified wealth, was inclined to agree; Higgins had but one eye, and he would have resented using it to assess the latest fashions.

  Outside, a warm spring sun shone down on the stable-yard, where a groomsman hastily saddled up Ares, Jack's Arab hot-blood, whom he had purchased on his return to England.

  "Is His Grace certain that he does not wish to take the carriage?" the groomsman queried, with a dubious glance to the sky.

  "His Grace is quite certain," Jack replied dryly, still marvelling at how accustomed he had become to referring to himself in the third. There was not a hint of a cloud on the horizon, and even if there had been, Jack would have preferred to ride on horseback. He was a man of the outdoors, and would never choose a carriage--no matter that it was furnished with leather squabs and brocade curtains--over a good ride.

  He mounted Ares with practised ease and, with a light hand, guided him from the stable yard. Outside, St James' Square was quiet and sedate as always, but within minutes, Jack was trotting down the busier Pall Mall toward Horse Guards' Road and Whitehall.

  As he weaved expertly through the hordes of carriages and carts which clogged up the road, Jack's mind pondered over just why he had been summoned to the War Office.

  Since his return, he had engaged quite frequently with certain ministers, offering advice on all matters military. He had risen from the position of Captain to General during his years of service, and as such had accumulated a vast wealth of knowledge on tactics and diplomacy. Not to mention that he had met, face to face, many of the politicos Britain was now bargaining with, in Vienna.

  But, this particular summons had not come from any of the ministers with whom Jack usually dealt. No. It had come from a man by the name of Nevins, with whom Jack held no acquaintance at all.

  When he entered the building of the War Office, Jack was directed to a small office on the uppermost floor, where a watery-eyed gentleman awaited.

  "Your Grace," Nevins stood as Jack entered the room, nibbling nervously on a lip which was half concealed beneath a bushy moustache, "How good of you to come."

  "Please," Jack frowned at the ceremony, "Call me Orsino."

  "As you wish."

  Nevins waved a hand to the chair before his desk, and Jack settled himself in. The older man made quite the show of closing the door to his office, before returning to his chair and glancing at Jack gravely.

  "I have been tasked," Nevins began, after a minute of very serious staring, "With weeding out any spies who might have infiltrated Whitehall. Little birds have been singing in my ear about a certain someone in Vienna, who has been feathering his nest by providing information to the enemy."

  "Lud," Jack blinked; espionage was not his usual remit. He could not understand why Nevins had summoned him, of all people, for this task, but then Nevins spoke again.

  "I hear you're acquainted with the Honourable Mr Havisham, who is acting as an envoy for the Crown?" Nevins said, watching Jack from under hooded, cold eyes.

  "Yes," Jack nodded; he had worked with Waldo Havisham during the Congress of Vienna. He was quite dry, as those political sorts tended to be, but he was accomplished at his job.

  "We will instruct Mr Havisham, through coded letter, to find out what he can about this spy," Nevins continued, "I want this kept top-secret, so the letter must appear as if it came from a family member. Mr Havisham had offered his son's services as a translator, before he left," Nevins gave a sigh. "I don't suppose you could rope the lad in to help and have him write the missives in French--pretend they are for his mama, to throw anyone off the scent? And have him mention you, so Havisham knows who is instructing him. I don't see much coming from all this, but we must try."

  Nevins went on to detail just what Jack needed to write in the letter and the code that he should use.

  "This could all come to nothing," he said with a sigh as he finished, his bushy eyebrows drawn into a frown of annoyance. Nevins, Jack knew instinctively, was not a man who liked to waste time. This rather endeared him to Jack--despite his grumpy mien--for Jack was of a similar disposition.

  "Indeed, it might not--but we must try," Jack replied, taking the sheaf of paper upon which the notes were scribbled and placing i
t in the breast pocket of his coat. "Nothing worse than a spy."

  "No," Nevins blinked, "I don't suppose there is."

  Their discussion now at an end, Jack took his leave. He mulled over Nevins' instructions, which had been vague, to say the least. Still, if a little bird had chirped in his ear that there was a spy lurking in Whitehall with links to Vienna, then they were obliged to act upon it.

  With his meeting concluded far earlier than he had anticipated, Jack found himself at a loss as to what to do with the rest of his morning.

  At home, there was paperwork and correspondence from his various estates which could occupy him, but Jack did not feel much like sitting in his library. If he was in the country, he might have taken Ares for a long ride to inspect his lands, but this was London, and open fields were few and far between.

  On a whim, Jack decided to take a jaunt through Green Park, which was quite unfashionable, unlike its neighbour Hyde Park, where the bon ton sought to be seen parading along Rotten Row.

  This unfashionable state was a merit in Jack's eyes, for it meant that the bridle paths were near empty and that he might enjoy his ride without scrutiny.

  There had been many things with which he had been forced to become accustomed to when he had inherited the title, but the thing he struggled with most was his newfound notoriety.

  As a second son, even to a duke, Jack had never garnered much interest from the ton. Perhaps, had he been more fashionable and less fearsome looking, he might have enjoyed some degree of fame. He could have taken his place as another well-heeled dandy after Oxford, but Jack had not wished to enter into society, preferring instead the camaraderie, adventure, and relative anonymity of the army.

  After fate had forced him into the ducal seat, he soon found that his wish to live an undisturbed life would be more difficult than he had assumed. The papers detailed his every move; where he had been, with whom he had spoken, what lady he might choose to marry. It was galling for Jack, who truly believed that there were far more important things for the papers to discuss; such as the goings-on in Parliament, the riots up North, and the general poverty the country suffered under while their Prince Regent plundered the Kingdom's coffers.