Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  Well, perhaps he had garnished it a lot.

  Oh, what a tangled web he had woven, Orsino thought darkly, as his carriage drew up outside Glamorgan House. His attempts at using Lady Olivia as a shield against Miss Grazia had inadvertently scuppered his fledgling romance with Miss Havisham. No wonder the poor girl had refused to see him--she probably thought him a rake of the highest order. And worse, there was no way in which Jack might be able to explain himself--at least not without exacting Lady Havisham's ire. One did not speak of faux engagements or would-be mistresses to young ladies unless one was willing to risk a box. And Jack had no doubt that Lady Havisham would deliver him a black eye more surely than Gentleman Jackson himself, if she thought that he had upset her niece.

  Jack needed to explain himself and swiftly, but how...

  Of course, Jack grinned, he could explain himself most plainly to Sebastian Havisham, who could then inform his sister--with a much-redacted version of events--that Jack was innocent.

  "Grahams," Jack addressed the young footman who had opened the front door, "I shall need you to deliver a note to Jermyn Street post haste."

  "Yes, your Grace," Grahams stood swiftly to attention and extended his hand for the letter which was not yet written.

  "At ease," Jack instructed him, "I am yet to write my missive. Come to the library in a quarter of an hour, and it shall be ready then."

  With a nod to his eager servant, Jack departed for the library, frantically wracking his brain for a valid excuse for calling on Havisham.

  Later that night, just after ten bells, Jack knocked on the door of Havisham House. No light shone from any of the windows which faced out onto the street, and as he waited, Jack nervously wondered if, perhaps, no one was at home.

  The muffled sound of footsteps approaching soon put paid to this thought, and after much clanking of bolts and locks, the door opened.

  "Havisham," Jack said by way of greeting to Sebastian, who stood in the darkened hallway.

  "Your Grace," he replied, his tone sounding rather surly to Jack's ear, "Won't you come in?"

  Jack ignored his testy host and sauntered into the entrance hall. As before, the candles burned low in their sconces, offering little light and casting deep shadows.

  "Thank you for agreeing to see me," Jack continued, as he followed Havisham down the hallway toward the library, "Especially at such short notice."

  "Your note did not give the impression that my agreement was optional," Sebastian replied dryly, as he ushered Jack into the chaotic room.

  Jack winced; perhaps he had laid it on a bit thick in his letter. His style of correspondence was perfunctory in a military way. Iris often said that she was never quite certain if she was being ordered somewhere, or invited when he wrote.

  "I hope I have not interrupted your plans for the evening," Jack replied, by way of apology, "However, this is rather urgent."

  Jack reached into the breast-pocket of his coat and fished out the "urgent" missive, which needed translation. The letter was, in fact, a year old, and had already been translated, but Havisham needn't know that.

  Jack handed the folded page across to the young lad, who squinted at it for a moment.

  "Shouldn't take long," Havisham muttered, before adding as an aside, "Would you care for a drink?"

  Jack gave a nod, and Havisham retrieved two bottles from the cupboard. He poured Jack a healthy measure of cognac, before pouring himself a glass from the other bottle.

  "Elderflower wine," Havisham said defensively, as he caught Jack's curious gaze, "I find it sits better in my stomach."

  Jack bit his lip to keep from smiling; Havisham was a slip of a man and evidently could not handle spirits as well as larger gentlemen. Jack himself, owing to his size, could drink brandy like water and never feel its effects.

  "A man must know his limits," Jack said agreeably, as he reached for his own drink.

  This seemed to settle Havisham, who sat down to work. The sound of his quill scratching against the page, as he wrote out the translation, was the only sound in the room for several minutes, as Jack waited for a suitable opportunity to bring up Violet.

  "This is rather nice," Havisham said with some surprise, a while later, as he finished his glass of wine, "It does not taste at all like alcohol."

  "Have another," Jack suggested, hoping that the drink might lubricate the young man's lips, for it already appeared to have lightened his mood.

  Havisham cheerfully poured himself a second glass of wine and took a large sip. Jack waited a little while longer, until the second glass was near finished, before broaching the subject of Violet.

  "How is your sister?" he queried, his attempt at sounding casual falling flat, as his deep voice cracked across the silence of the room.

  "Eh?" Havisham glanced up from his work, the cheeks beneath his beard rosy-red--though from alcohol or indignation, Jack could not tell.

  "I asked," Jack repeated, attempting to keep his voice calm, as frustration overwhelmed him, "After your sister."

  From the irritated scowl that Havisham cast him, Jack knew that Violet had confided about him to her brother.

  "She is well, thank you for asking."

  A curt reply, which left no opening for further enquiries, was exactly what a man who wished to protect his sister from a rake should offer. Jack was torn between begrudging respect for Sebastian's loyalty and sheer frustration at his own predicament.

  Thankfully, the army had trained him to master his impulses, and he valiantly ignored the urge to take Havisham by the shoulders and shake him until he offered news on Violet. Instead, Jack cleared his throat in a manner which let the lad know their conversation had not ended, before he spoke again.

  "I called on her thrice," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Havisham, who was staring pointedly at the page before him, "But she was not at home to me. Why do you think that is?"

  The wine had obviously taken effect, for Havisham gave a derisive snort--the type one most definitely did not offer to a duke--and cast Jack a surly glare.

  "Hmm," the lad said, stroking his beard as he faux-pondered Jack's question, "What on earth could have inspired my sister to refuse the calls of a duke? Could it, perhaps, be the fact that he is promised to another? Is that a reasonable enough excuse for His Grace, or is he so pig-headed that he thinks I--I--my sister should be grateful that he deigns to pay her any attention at all?"

  Well. Jack exhaled slowly as he attempted to come to terms with the depth of Havisham's grievance. He could not blame the lad for being angry; had Iris been in a similar position, Jack was certain that he would be similarly apoplectic with rage. In fact, he rather admired Havisham for not having punched him in the face--with a brick--upon greeting him.

  "I can explain," Jack began, leaning forward in his chair, "I know that Miss Havisham must be rather confused--"

  "Not confused," Havisham corrected him, "Insulted."

  "I did not mean to insult her," Jack growled, "In fact, I have not insulted her. I am not promised to anyone. When I assumed the title, I did the honourable thing and offered to marry Lady Olivia in my brother's place. She refused, but her father begged me to wait a while to see if she would change her mind."

  "Well, the ton seems to think you in love with her," Havisham grumbled, "And why on earth would you remain semi-promised to a woman who does not wish to marry you?"

  "Convenience," Jack was slightly shame-faced as he offered his answer, "It suits me to be thought of as off the market. I have no time for lovers or mistresses, and the only excuse for refusal most women seem to accept, without taking insult, is the love of another."

  Havisham's face was now so red that Jack could have warmed his hands on it. For a young-blood, he seemed awfully prudish when it came to talk of mistresses.

  "I did not think you a Puritan," Jack said with a laugh, "I'm sure you have half the demi-monde vying for a place under your bedsheets."

  "Oh, no," Havisham squawked indignantly, "I have not--I have neve
r--I am a virg--ooh, no..."

  Havisham trailed off, nervously wiping his brow with the back of his hand, as he realised he had spoken too much.

  Jack blinked; was the lad confessing what he thought he was confessing? If so, it was rather refreshing to hear--especially to Jack--for most men did little except boast of their bedroom prowess and conquests.

  "No need to look so embarrassed," Jack grunted, "Wenching is a choice made by men who give little thought to the consequences of their actions. I have no time for it myself."

  "Your Grace?" Havisham blinked his big, purple orbs in confusion. Jack could not fault the lad his perplexion; the papers had linked his name with dozens of women since he had assumed the title, yet Jack had bedded not one. Jack, in fact, had never bedded any woman.

  "When I was a lad," Jack began, marvelling at how the brandy and the shadowed room had led him to a mood of confession, "My father had little time for me. I was the spare heir, and he felt that his time was better spent on educating Frederick in his duties. I was cast aside, and not being a great student, I spent much of my time outside in the stables. There, I was taken under the wing of the head groomsman, Evans. Evans was a proud Welshman, who taught me that honour, responsibility, and duty were what made a boy a man. It is because of him that I joined the army, and it is because of him that I discovered what really matters in life..."

  Jack trailed off, shocked to find there was a slight lump in his throat. His childhood had been filled with all the material things a child could want for, but one thing--love--had been sorely missing. His mother had expired from a child-bed fever soon after delivering Jack, and his father had cared only for Frederick, his heir and protégé. Iris and Jack had been left to fend for themselves, and while Iris had found solace in reading, Jack had looked elsewhere and found it in the tiny cottage that Evans and his wife, Mavis, had occupied with their daughter, Gwen.

  There, he had witnessed what true family really was. He had seen how Evans doted on Gwen, how she was the centre of his world, and that everything the man did, he did for his daughter.

  Jack had seen what a father could truly be, if he cared.

  "I could not, in good conscience, father a child and have nothing to do with its life," Jack shrugged, embarrassed by the croak of emotion in his voice, "The world is cold and cruel, and I could not bring a child into it, lest I knew that I could provide it with a home filled with love. Nor could I bed a woman, lest I knew that I could provide her with a home, protection, and my heart."

  There was a momentary silence, as Jack finished speaking, and for a moment, he regretted his speech. It was not fashionable to admit to wanting love; Havisham was probably doubled over with mirth at his confession.

  "His Grace is a romantic," the lad eventually replied, and Jack looked up to find Sebastian looking misty-eyed as he clutched his glass of wine--which had been refilled during Jack's soliloquy.

  "I suppose I am," Jack shrugged, his cheeks burning a little, "Though, I beg you, don't tell anyone. I have a reputation as a cold-hearted brute to uphold."

  "Pah! Men," Havisham muttered, rolling his eyes with annoyance, "Why must they always pretend to have no feelings?"

  "You tell me why we must," Jack retorted with a laugh, "Or are you excluding yourself from the male of the species now, Havisham?"

  The poor lad must have been deeper into his cups than Jack had assumed, for he knocked over his glass of wine in his haste to reply.

  "No, no, no," Sebastian cried, "I am most definitely of the male of the species. So--so--so--what you are saying, is that you are not promised to Lady Olivia?"

  The sudden change of topic was so swift that Jack's head ached. In the convivial atmosphere, which had fallen between the two men, Jack had forgotten the original purpose of his visit.

  "No," he said flatly, "And I would be much obliged if you could explain that to your sister."

  "Perhaps you are giving up on her too soon?" Havisham barrelled on, as though Jack had not spoken at all, "A love note or a sonnet might turn her head."

  "I do not wish to turn Lady Olivia's head," Jack growled, "I do not love her. I--"

  Jack cut himself off before he could finish his sentence, aware that professing love for a woman to whom he had spoken twice to was faintly ridiculous. Although, while he did not know himself to be in love with Violet Havisham, he knew that he could fall in love with her--if she just let him.

  It was an inexplicable thing; a primal awareness of her beauty, a poetic understanding of her soul, a feeling of longing each time she was near him. Jack had never been given over to great feelings about anything, so he could not ignore the current of emotions that Miss Havisham had awoken in him. Nor could he ignore the strange feeling that he might drown in them, should she refuse him.

  "Will you please," Jack continued, "Explain to your sister the truth of my circumstances."

  His voice must have sounded pained, for Havisham nodded quietly in agreement.

  "Do you think, should I call on her tomorrow, that she will receive me?" Jack ventured, hoping that he might finally get to begin his courtship of Violet.

  "Oh, no, not tomorrow," Havisham replied quickly, "She has tickets to Saville House."

  Jack's face must have expressed his confusion, for Havisham gave a sigh, before explaining further.

  "Tickets to see Miss Linwood's exhibition," he continued, "Violet has been waiting all season to go see her work."

  Jack vaguely recalled having read something about Miss Linwood's exhibition in the papers, and he made polite noises of interest, though really his mind was elsewhere.

  He might not be able to call on Miss Havisham the next day, but that did not mean he could not by "chance" bump into her elsewhere.

  "Right you are," Jack said, jumping to his feet, "My thanks, Havisham, for your time."

  Jack leaned over to pick up his hat, which he had rested upon the table, and when he straightened up, he spotted Havisham peering at him with a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

  "Did you forget something, your Grace?" the young man queried dryly.

  "Eh?" Jack blinked in reply.

  "Your urgent missive, which could not wait another day to be translated."

  Sebastian Havisham held up the letter which he had spent the last hour translating and waved it in the air for Jack to see. Jack flushed a little, thankful for the shadowy room, which would hide his blushes.

  "Yes, of course," he blustered, puffing his chest out and bringing himself up to his full height, in order to look impressive. "With all our talk, I had forgotten this was not a social visit, Havisham. Ah-ha. I'll just take that..."

  Jack reached out and took the letter from Havisham's hand, with a small nod of thanks. The lad's eyes seemed rather knowing, and beneath his beard, a smile was definitely playing on his lips. Jack, who was accustomed to being in control of most situations, was annoyed to have been caught out in his lie.

  "I'd best be off," he growled, attempting to sound as important as he could muster, "This is headed straight for Whitehall, to be examined. My thanks, on behalf of the Crown, for your good work, Havisham."

  It was a rather pompous declaration, but Jack felt that the use of a little pomp and ceremony was one of the privileges of being a duke. If only to help soothe his battered ego.

  Havisham, who quite obviously did not believe a word of it, merely offered Jack a polite smile.

  "Please, don't let me keep you," he said, as he walked Jack from the library, back to the front door, "I would not like to get in the way of, ah, urgent Crown business. Goodnight, your Grace."

  "And to you," Jack responded, donning his hat as he exited the door.

  While it was obvious that he had not managed to disguise the true purpose of his visit, Jack found that he did not care. He felt so light, that he near skipped down the steps of Havisham House to his waiting carriage, his heart full of hope for the next day.

  Chapter Seven

  Violet stood silently in the hallway for a moment
after closing the door on Orsino. She listened as his footsteps clattered down the steps, and waited until she heard his carriage pull away before she let out a groan of frustration.

  Drat that man, she thought, as she stalked down the hallway back toward the library, where a fire still danced in the grate. Drat him, drat his soulful green eyes, and drat his romantic nature.

  Far from being the rake Violet had presumed him to be, Orsino had unveiled himself to be the noblest of gentlemen. Violet's cheeks flushed a little, as she recalled their conversation, and said a silent prayer of thanks that Orsino would never know it was she whom he had confessed to.

  Except he would, Violet paused, if he continued on his determined quest for Violet's hand.

  "Drat," Violet whispered again, reaching for the bottle of elderflower wine upon the table. She did not usually imbibe alcohol, but given her current predicament, she could not help but fill another glass for herself.

  Violet plonked herself back down at the desk, silently mulling over the night's events.

  It was clear, now, that Orsino had called on a false pretext. The letter she had transcribed into English had mentioned places in France where--even Violet knew--fighting had long since ceased. Her suspicions that Orsino had merely brought the letter as a ruse to gain an audience with "Sebastian", were then confirmed when the ruddy-great man had sought to leave without it.

  Thanks from the Crown indeed, Violet thought irritably, as she sipped upon her cordial-like drink.

  She was in trouble for two reasons, Violet thought, with a jolt of shock. The first was that Orsino seemed determined to have her, and the second--and more frightening--was that Violet herself wanted Orsino to get his way.

  It was not just the duke's handsomeness which appealed to Violet, but his goodness. Despite his large, brutish form, Orsino was gentle as a kitten--it was irritably appealing.

  Not only that, but when he had spoken of siring children, Violet had been overcome with a vision of the huge, bulky man cradling a small babe, and found that she had wanted to weep with longing.