Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  This was true; Montague had the devil's own luck. He could talk himself out of any scrape, and charm his way into any woman's bed, and had done both more times than he could count.

  Jack paused for a moment to think. In matters of love, Montague--who had spent years seducing the ladies of London--had far more experience than Jack--who instead had spent years on the continent in the company of hairy, smelly men. The marquess was the best person to advise Jack on how to proceed with his courtship of Miss Havisham, but pride--and the knowledge that Montague would never allow Jack to forget that he had helped him--forbid him to ask for assistance aloud.

  Instead, Jack decided that a little subterfuge was in order.

  "And how exactly would one ingratiate oneself with a lady who has no interest in being wooed?" Jack queried, mildly.

  "Oh, it's easy enough," Montague's mood had improved vastly, now that they had moved on to his favourite subject, "You just have to be persistent. Some women are more difficult than others, and these are the ones whom you have to grow on."

  "Grow on?" Jack raised an eyebrow.

  "Yes," Montague grinned, "Like mould. Any housekeeper worth her salt will tell you that once mould sets in, it's impossible to be rid of."

  "That doesn't sound very romantic," Jack frowned again.

  "This isn't romance," Montague shrugged, "It's war. And in the end, you either win, sweet victory, or you--"

  "Die a painful death?" Jack suggested.

  "I was going to say you end up with bruised pride and a hangover," the marquess smiled, "But I have had many a hangover that felt like death. Did I ever tell you about the night in Carlton House, when Prinny got so sozzled, he rode a piebald pony down the staircase?"

  Montague launched into a tale of his night with the Prince Regent, but Jack was only half listening. His friend's advice might not be very palatable, but given his success with women, Jack could not disregard it.

  He must treat his courtship of Miss Havisham like a battle, Jack decided. He must plan a strategy. Mount an offence. He must...

  Bring in reinforcements.

  Jack bit back a groan, at the realisation that he had one great ally he could call upon to help him achieve his task--his sister.

  Chapter Five

  Even a day later, Violet still could not believe that she had managed to pull off her audacious scheme. While Sebastian's love for the theatre was what had landed her in hot water, it had also offered a way out. In her brother's cupboard, amongst the many costumes he had collected over the years, Violet had discovered a wig and a false beard. She had used a smear of spirit-gum to affix the beard to her face, and its effect had been alarmingly realistic.

  She had then padded out the shoulders of one of Sebastian's coats with buckram wadding and donned a pair of his breeches, and when coupled with her height--which was above average for a woman--she had been unrecognisable as a woman.

  Before the duke called, Violet had made certain to blow out a few candles in the sconces, to better aid her disguise, and she had practised affecting a low, masculine voice. True, it had sounded somewhat like she was suffering from a cold, but it had worked.

  Violet shook her head again in disbelief, as her mind wandered over the events of the previous night. For the most part, she had remained in character, but she found she was still irritated by the one or two slips that she had made.

  Men don't offer each other tea, she reminded herself sternly the next morning, as her carriage travelled the short distance from Jermyn Street toward St James' Square. And they certainly don't giggle girlishly when a duke declares his interest in their sister.

  Violet's cheeks flushed at that particular memory. No man had ever taken an interest in her, and after three seasons she had almost believed herself invisible to the male of the species. To find out that a duke, of all people, had decided to take a fancy to her, was near unbelievable.

  And utterly impractical, Violet reminded herself. No matter how taken she was by Orsino's green eyes--which were delightful-- she could not encourage him to pursue her. Firstly, her scheme to take her brother's place until Orsino was finished with him would fall apart, for he would quickly realise the truth. And secondly, Violet sighed, romance was not in her own grand plan.

  She wanted to paint. She wanted to travel. She wanted to learn from the great masters in Venice and Florence.

  And none of that would be possible if she were to give in to the strange longing which Orsino inspired inside of her.

  Besides, she frowned, the man had only declared that he had found her "interesting". That was hardly a proposal of marriage. And certainly not enough to inspire her to cast aside her lifelong dream.

  The carriage soon drew up outside the home of Lord and Lady Cavendish, and Violet alighted without needing assistance. Which was lucky, for no assistance was forthcoming, given that it took Henry, the ancient driver, some ten minutes to get down from his perch.

  "I shall be but a short while," Violet called to the octogenarian, who had refused all of Aunt Phoebe's offers to be pensioned off.

  "Take yer time, Miss Violet," Henry replied with a lazy wave, contentedly resting back in his perch.

  Violet felt a little guilty for having dragged the elderly man out at all. Jermyn Street adjoined St James' Square, and she could have walked the distance in five minutes, but one did not walk anywhere in London.

  Well, not during the hours of morning calls, when the chances of being sighted were far higher.

  "Miss Havisham," the butler who opened the door of Cavendish House greeted Violet in his usual, perfunctory manner. "Lady Julia had instructed that you might call."

  His words contained a thinly disguised hint of distaste, for the staff of Cavendish House were as snobbish as the Marquess and Marchioness of Pembrook themselves. That Lady Julia insisted her friends be given free rein to call as they please--without even having to present a calling card--was, in the butler's view at least, akin to blasphemy.

  Violet ignored the man's manners and followed him down the hallway to the drawing-room, where Julia awaited.

  "Gosh," Violet cried, once the butler had closed the door behind her, "You look beautiful, Julia. Well, even more so than usual."

  Lady Julia was considered the most beautiful girl in all of London. Even after three seasons, hers was the face against which all new debutantes were compared, and usually found lacking.

  Today, she was resplendent in a morning dress of rose-coloured levantine, which was high at the neck and trimmed with a wide bouillonné of Irish lace at its hem. Her hair had been arranged loosely into a twist, and a few stray golden tendrils framed her heart-shaped face.

  Violet's heart ached a little, as it always did when she was confronted by Julia's beauty. What would it be like, she wondered momentarily, to be so perfectly formed?

  This slight stab of longing quickly left, as Violet recalled just what such beauty brought; queues of suitors a mile long, who cared not a jot for Julia's keen mind, but only her face and the triumph of winning her hand.

  During their three years of friendship, Julia had received dozens of proposals and had refused each and every one. Like Violet and Charlotte, she had no desire to marry, but unlike Charlotte and Violet, Julia's parents were determined to see her wed.

  "Mama insisted on a new morning dress for today," Julia said with a sigh, as she plucked at her skirts with a nervous hand. "I am apt to think of them as mourning weeds, however, for I fear her interference in my wardrobe means that my intended husband will be calling."

  "No," Violet gasped, feeling somewhat horrified at how quickly Julia's parents had moved. She had confessed before to Violet and Charlotte, at one of their weekly wallflower gatherings, that her parents had declared that this season would be her last as a spinster. Violet had not thought that they would source a match so quickly.

  Though she reasoned, Julia's beauty was coupled with a vast dowry, so perhaps it was not that surprising at all.

  "Oh," Julia gave a wan smiled
, "Don't fret. If he turns out to have halitosis and three heads, I'm certain that they will allow me to refuse. I am more worried that he will be--"

  "Yes?" Violet prompted.

  "I'm worried that he will be acceptable," Julia gave a shrug of her shoulders, "For then, I won't have any reason to refuse him. I have always known that one day I would need to marry, and if I am presented with an affable fellow, with good humour and the means to support me, what good will come of refusing him?"

  Her statement was most sensible, and despite being in possession of a slight stubborn streak, Violet knew that Julia was at heart, a very practical young woman. The world presented few opportunities for a woman to make her own way in the world. Unlike Violet--who had Sebastian's enduring support, or Charlotte--who was currently working on a plot to earn her freedom, Julia had no fall-back plan.

  While her parents would never cast her out into the street, they would, Violet knew, find some way of hiding Julia from the world if she disappointed them.

  "Mama has said that if I am not married by the end of the season, that I will have to earn my keep and act as a companion to Aunt Mildred," Julia said, confirming Violet's theory.

  "I don't recall ever having met your Aunt Mildred," Violet replied, searching her memory but drawing a blank.

  "Oh, she's a real diamond of the first water," Julia gave a dry laugh, "One of her tenants was tragically widowed and left near penniless. When the widow's son was caught stealing a pig, Aunt Mildred personally attended court to make sure the lad was transported to the penal colonies and sent the widow to the poorhouse."

  "Lud," Violet gasped, "How on earth did you discover that?"

  "Because the woman boasts of it, constantly," Julia gave a sigh, "She is a firm believer that the weakest go to the wall."

  Despite the sun which poured through the long windows, Violet gave a little shiver of fear. Her friend was truly stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  "Perhaps," Violet ventured, wishing to find a solution, "If you were to find a husband of your own before the season ends, it might not be so dreadful?"

  "Why try?" Julia shrugged again, "My parents will have put time and effort into researching potential suitors and ensuring that they meet their exacting standards. I know you think them cold, Violet, but they just want to ensure that I will continue to live as comfortable a life as is possible. I am blessed if you think on it. Truly blessed."

  Violet bit her lip; Julia's determination to see the best in her situation did not quite disguise the despondency which had affected her spirit. Still, ever the consummate host, she quickly turned the conversation back around to Violet.

  "You said you had something you needed to discuss?" Julia asked brightly, referring to the note that Violet had sent earlier.

  Oh dear, Violet frowned; she had wanted to confide in Julia about the mess she had entangled herself in, but she could not now burden her friend when she had her own worries to contend with. Nor could she confide in Charlotte, who was dealing with her own meddlesome duke.

  "Er, yes," Violet forced a smile, "I was wondering if you--if you--"

  Violet had never been particularly adept at lying, and she felt her face flush under Julia's confused stare.

  "If you had finished reading Glenarvon?" Violet blurted, referring to the book that they had assigned for discussion at last week's meeting of the Wallflowers. Well, the book that Charlotte had assigned. The running theme of most meetings was that Julia and Violet never quite managed to get around to reading the prescribed text.

  "No," Julia blinked in confusion, "Is that what you wished to discuss?"

  "Oh, it's really very good," Violet fibbed, though she could see Julia's mind quickly switching from perplexity to suspicion.

  Thankfully, the door to the drawing-room swung open, and Lady Cavendish came bustling in, mercifully interrupting Violet's attempts at deception.

  "He's here," the marchioness cried with delight, her face falling slightly as she spotted Violet, perched upon the chaise, "Oh. Hello, Miss Havisham."

  "Good morning, my lady," Violet replied in return, trying not to feel too insulted by the disappointment in her tone, "I was just leaving."

  "Oh," Lady Cavendish perked up most notably, "What a pity."

  Violet ignored Julia rolling her eyes behind her mother's back as she bid the pair goodbye. She made her own way down the hallway toward the front door, where the butler was only too keen to assist with her exit.

  As Violet tripped down the front steps, she tried not to peer too keenly at the gentleman who was exiting the carriage that had drawn up alongside Henry.

  He was tall, muscular, and--Violet gave a little gasp--devastatingly handsome. As he passed, he offered Violet a polite smile, and Violet's fear for her friend eased somewhat. A man who handed out friendly grins to strangers could not be so bad.

  Henry had fallen asleep in his perch, and it took Violet a good five minutes to rouse him. Once awake, they set off, circling the square before setting off toward home.

  "There you are, Violet," Aunt Phoebe cried, swinging the door open before Violet had even had a chance to knock, "I have been searching all over for you."

  "I told you at breakfast that I would visit with Julia," Violet reminded her, with a wry smile. Aunt Phoebe was oft distracted by grand ideas and regularly forgot any conversation which was not stimulating enough to retain.

  "Did you?" Lady Havisham frowned, "I must not have heard you. That reminds me! Where on earth is your brother? I feel I haven't seen him in an age."

  "He called, just yesterday," Violet replied swiftly, "When you were out. Was there something you needed me for, Aunt Phoebe?"

  Violet nodded at the letter which her aunt held in her hand, and luckily it served as a distraction from any more talk of Sebastian.

  "Oh, yes," Phoebe beamed, "We have received an invitation to a small gathering with Lord and Lady Lloyd. Iris is a dear friend, and she invites the most interesting people to dine with her."

  "Oh," Violet felt a surge of relief that it was not an invitation to another musicale. Why the mothers of society thought that forcing people to suffer through butchered performances of the greats would win their daughters a proposal was anyone's guess.

  "She is last-minute, as always," Phoebe clucked disapprovingly, despite her own legendary impulsiveness, "So if there is any dress that wants washing, you must tell Dorothy at once."

  "Are we to attend this evening?" Violet smothered a groan; she had been looking forward to an evening of painting.

  "Yes," Phoebe sighed, "Iris is a dear, but she can be quite commanding. She's so like her father that way. And, I suppose, her brother. You were not at all taken by him at Almack's, were you dear?"

  For a moment, Violet felt as though all the world was spinning, and she worried that she might faint. Aunt Phoebe couldn't mean..?

  "Oh, Orsino just looks fearsome," Phoebe cried, mistaking Violet's pallor for fear, "He's like a puppy underneath, you mark my words. A quick pat on the head and he'll soon come to heel."

  "I don't want to bring the duke to heel," Violet protested, "In fact, I don't think I wish to accompany you at all, Aunt Phoebe. I feel really quite ill."

  Aunt Phoebe's wrinkled her--already wrinkled--brow thoughtfully, as she assessed her niece. Violet tried to muster the look of one who was gravely ill, but under her aunt's scrutiny, she found herself flushing.

  "I'll have Dorothy prepare you a nostrum," Phoebe decided, with a glint in her eye, "That ought to perk you up before supper. Now, away with you, child. I can't suffer the complaints of the youth when my old bones are aching."

  "I am sorry, Aunt Phoebe," Violet replied, suitably chastised until Dorothy appeared, moments later, clutching two battledores and a shuttlecock.

  "Are you going out to play?" Violet queried, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

  "I'm going out to win," Lady Havisham grumbled mulishly, with a frown, "That little madam from next door bested me yesterday evening, and I need to bea
t her today so that I can regain my dignity. Come, Dorothy, we shall leave Violet to recuperate."

  Violet felt a stab of affection as she watched her septuagenarian aunt march down the hallway toward the drawing-room, which led to the gardens. She could think of no other peer who would do battle with the neighbour's children for the title of Battledore and Shuttlecock champion. Or any other peer who would take it quite so seriously...

  And Phoebe's mission seemed to have distracted her from having Dorothy prepare one of her unpalatable nostrums for Violet's supposed illness. Violet would far rather suffer the duke's company than try to ingest one of those vile concoctions.

  Iris, Lady Lloyd had the same colouring as her brother. Her dark hair was complemented by piercing green eyes, but unlike her brother, she was diminutive in stature.

  She was almost like a bird, Violet thought, as Lady Lloyd cocked her head curiously to the side, as Aunt Phoebe introduced her.

  "Miss Havisham," Lady Lloyd smiled, her grin warm and infectious, "How kind you are to attend my little gathering."

  Lady Lloyd waved a lazy hand around the entrance hall, which was filled with guests of all descriptions. Violet spotted a well known Whig, an opera singer, and several of society's more notable lords and ladies. Given the glamour of the other guests, Violet was glad that Dorothy had insisted on dressing her in one of her better evening gowns.

  "How kind you are to invite me," Violet replied sincerely, for, even though she suspected Orsino's hand in her invitation, she was quite taken by his charming sister.

  Violet moved on, to allow Lady Lloyd to greet her other guests. Aunt Phoebe had disappeared, no doubt to the card room and Violet was left to wander alone.

  She smiled shyly at people she vaguely recognised but felt too timid to join any of the chattering groups. Not for the first time in her life, Violet wished that she was in possession of an easy manner, which would allow her to converse with complete strangers. Instead, she found her cheeks burning, as she imagined that the gathered guests were eyeing her with pity or ridicule.