Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  "Orsino, you might fetch some lemonade and leave us ladies to converse amongst ourselves," Iris said, with a wink to Violet, "I am simply dying to interrogate the lady who has managed to finally get you to stick your head above the parapet of love."

  Orsino's blushes only went unnoticed because Miss Havisham had turned as red as a beacon. Not only did she look embarrassed, but she also seemed faintly terrified of Iris. And who could blame her; his sister was famed for pushing the bounds of propriety for her own amusement.

  "There will be no interrogation of my guests," Jack cautioned, adopting his most ducal expression in the face of Iris' sisterly mischief.

  "La! Fine, I shall not interrogate the girl," Iris pouted, "Instead I shall offer her some sisterly advice on how best to control the men-folk. Did you know, Miss Havisham, that it was your aunt who helped me to tame Giles when we were first wed? He was prone to gadding about town, like he was still a young blood, but Lady Havisham advised me to have the servants move all the furniture in his chambers when he was out too late at White's. If he was too deep in his cups when he arrived home, he could not find his bed. Such fun!"

  Lady Havisham boomed with laughter at this anecdote, whilst Violet looked torn between amusement and horror.

  Jack sighed; perhaps it would have been better for Iris to interrogate Violet rather than give her free rein to tell stories.

  "Iris," Jack whispered as he prepared to leave, "If I might appeal to your better nature?"

  "I don't have one," Iris winked, "Now hurry along with the lemonade or I might amuse Miss Havisham with tales of your misspent youth. What was it that you called the dolly you carried around when you were five?"

  Argh. Jack resisted the urge to groan in despair; instead, he cast Iris a warning glare, before he made his way downstairs in search of refreshments.

  No man had ever procured lemonade as quickly as Jack did that evening. He used all of his muscle and mass to push his way through the crowds to where liveried waiters were handing out glasses of the cloudy drink.

  Thankful that his hands were large enough to easily manage four glasses, Jack raced back to the box, just in time to hear Iris finish detailing how she used to make Jack dress up in a gown for play tea-parties.

  "You are determined to embarrass me, sister dearest," Jack said through gritted teeth, as he passed the glasses to each of the ladies.

  "Not at all," Iris protested, "I was merely trying to paint an accurate picture of you for Miss Havisham. You present such a rugged, manly exterior to the world that it is difficult for people to believe that you have a softer side. He is incredibly soft-hearted, Miss Havisham."

  "But I have not worn a dress in many years," Jack was quick to clarify, "And even then, it was under duress. Iris was quite the tyrannical older sister."

  "Oh, I know something of domineering siblings," Miss Havisham gave a light laugh, "Sebastian once convinced me to cut off all my hair and go in his stead to Eton."

  "Really?" Jack raised an eyebrow, "I cannot imagine you made a very convincing boy; your looks are far too feminine."

  Violet made a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a cry. Jack blinked a little, unsure if this was the usual female response to compliments.

  Any further enquiries he might have wished to make were abandoned by the arrival of two guests, who poked their heads around the curtains of the box.

  "Your Grace, Lady Iris," Lady Cardigan cried in greeting, "I thought that it was you whom I spotted."

  It took Herculean effort for Jack not to curse aloud at the arrival of Lady Cardigan, a woman he usually had great time for. Beside her, still dressed in half-mourning, stood Lady Olivia, appearing as pained as Jack felt.

  "Oh, you have guests," Lady Cardigan glanced pointedly at Violet and Lady Havisham, and Iris hastened to make an introduction.

  "I have heard a great deal about you from your nephew, Lady Havisham," Lady Cardigan said congenially, before turning to Violet with a frown, "Though I was not aware that Waldo had a daughter; he has never mentioned you, my dear."

  "That is no surprise," Violet whispered, so quietly that Jack assumed it had not been said to be heard. He frowned a little, as he watched Miss Havisham rearrange her fine features into a pleasant smile, as she listened to the three ladies chattering. Jack, who had spent his youth as an unneeded spare, recognised well the flash of pain that had dulled Violet's eyes. He understood all too well how it felt to never quite matter.

  Lady Olivia stood slightly to the right of her mother, her blue eyes glazed with boredom. It was only when Lady Cardigan made noises about returning to their seats, that the young woman finally spoke.

  "Is Mr Havisham with you?" she queried of Lady Havisham, whilst fidgeting nervously with a strand of her hair.

  "Sebastian?" Lady Havisham boomed, "Chance would be a fine thing, I have not seen the lad in weeks. Violet, where has your brother got to?"

  Jack watched as Violet paled and bit on her rosebud mouth nervously. He was so distracted by thoughts of himself nibbling on that lush bottom lip that he missed her response, and by the time his mind had righted itself, the gaslights were flickering for the second half of the play.

  Jack allowed a few minutes to pass before he shifted in his seat slightly, to whisper in Violet's ear.

  "I cannot believe that your father has never mentioned you to Lady Cardigan," he said in a low voice, "I am sure that he speaks highly of you to everyone he meets."

  A very unladylike snort greeted this statement before Violet turned her face toward him to reply.

  "I am afraid that you store far more faith in my father than I do," she said, as a sad smile played around the corners of her mouth, "He has room in his heart only for Sebastian."

  "Then he is a fool," Jack growled, and to his--and Violet's--surprise, he reached out and took her hand in his.

  He had meant to offer her a comforting squeeze, but as Jack held her small, gloved hand in his, he found that he could not simply squeeze it and let it go. So instead, he kept a hold of it for the remainder of the play.

  The two final acts of the play passed in a blur, as Jack concentrated on savouring the feeling of Violet's hand in his. For her part, she did not tense, or try and snatch her hand away, and when the play finally came to an end, and the gas lights flickered back on, Jack was gratified to find that her cheeks were rosy, and she seemed as flustered as he.

  "Well, that was simply wonderful," Iris cried, as their group began to find their feet.

  "Indeed," Jack replied, hoping she would not question him on any aspect of the play, for he could not recall a second of it.

  Iris and Lady Havisham led the way back downstairs, both debating the merits of the play and its actors.

  "Were you taken with the performance, Miss Havisham?" Jack queried lightly as they neared the foyer.

  "I can't say that I can recall much of it, your Grace," she replied, as her cheeks turned rosy red.

  Within Jack's chest, male pride roared, and for the first time, he understood why Montague happily dove headfirst into love every few months--it was intoxicating.

  When love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. Orsino had not been the brightest of students, but as he led Violet through the crowded foyer, a quote from Shakespeare sprang to mind. He felt as light and fluffy as a cloud--something he seldom experienced, given that he was built as solid as a rock.

  As they neared the doorway, where they would wait for their carriage, Jack felt an urgent need to secure a promise from Violet that they would meet again.

  "I would like to call on you tomorrow," he said, nervously clearing his throat.

  "Ah."

  With one syllable, Jack felt his heart drop to his feet.

  "I am afraid that tomorrow I have made plans," Violet offered, "With my friends Miss Charlotte Drew and Lady Julia. We meet once a week to discuss the prescribed text that Charlotte has set. Tomorrow we are discussing Evelina."

  "Is it good?" Jack as
ked as hope fluttered anew. Surely she would not have offered so detailed an excuse if she was simply trying to fob him off.

  "Heaven knows, your Grace," Violet laughed, "I have not read it. I am afraid that Miss Drew is the only one who ever reads the books she sets. Lady Julia and I are just there for the French Fancies."

  Not for the first time in his life, Jack wondered at the complexities of the female species, who always seemed to think one needed an excuse to eat cake. Still, Violet had not dashed his hopes completely, and ever the soldier, he battled on.

  "And the day after that?" he pressed, wondering if perhaps he might find a way to wiggle into one day of her schedule.

  "A ball at Lord and Lady Jacob's."

  "Ah, what a coincidence," Jack fibbed, "I had planned to attend that too. I hope that you will be kind enough to save me a dance, Miss Havisham."

  "If there is one thing you do not have to worry about, your Grace," Violet laughed in reply, "It is finding me with a full dance card. You might have your pick of them if you wish."

  "If that is the case," Jack lowered his voice to a soft growl, "Then I pick them all, Miss Havisham. All your dances."

  If he were braver, Jack might have added that he wanted to claim all her dances forevermore, but he was still a little unsure of Miss Havisham. Oh, he was certain that she felt the same attraction to him, as he to her. But she was still reticent, still nervous of admitting it even to herself. Her brother's assertion that Miss Havisham was the most determined spinster still played in Jack's mind, and he was afraid that if he revealed the depth of his intentions too soon, she might flee like a skittish doe.

  Any further conversation was prevented as the pair caught up with Iris and Lady Havisham, who were waiting for them at the door. Jack took charge and bid the doorman summon their carriages. Once they had arrived, he assisted first Lady Havisham, and then Violet, into their vehicle, before returning for Iris.

  "Well," his sister said, once they were seated inside their compartment and headed for home, "That went very well."

  "Do you think?" Jack questioned, hopefully. His sister was more attuned to the mysterious female nuances and signals, and if she believed Miss Havisham interested in him, then it had to be true.

  "Oh, yes," Iris gave a cat-like smile, "It's clear as day that Lady Olivia is infatuated by Sebastian Havisham."

  "Really?" Jack blinked; how on earth had she ascertained that?

  "Yes," Iris nodded, "Which lets you off the hook on that front. And as for Miss Havisham."

  "Yes?" Jack sat up straight, rapt with attention.

  "I think it would be best if I bought a new hat."

  Well, Jack thought, once he had deciphered her code, this did bode well.

  Chapter Nine

  Violet was not often given over to bouts of sorrow, or maudlin thoughts, but the following morning she found that she could not shake the grey cloud of despair which hung over her.

  It had everything to do with the Duke of Orsino, she thought, as she dabbed her paintbrush against the canvas, and then, it had nothing to do with him at all.

  She could not blame the duke for the hopeless mess that she had landed herself in; any criticism lay at her own foolish door. Nor could she blame him for her attraction toward him--though it was almost rude how handsome he was.

  Rude, Violet decided, as she stabbed her paintbrush with more vigour than was necessary; it was rude to be so large and strong and masculine and think that it would go unnoticed in a confined space.

  He should have--he should have--

  Violet sighed as her efforts to find irritation with Orsino fell flat. Did she truly expect that he should have curled up into a ball and pretended not to be a strapping, six-foot-four duke simply to appease her? It might be painful, but she had to accept that any irritation she felt should be directed at herself and her own silly actions.

  For a moment, Violet allowed herself to imagine a parallel world; a world where she had not thought that imitating her brother was a sane course of action. In that world, she imagined herself floating on air, having spent the previous evening having her hand held by a duke.

  Sebastian had once entertained her with the tale of how Zeus, the first God and king of Mount Olympus, had split humans in two. This was, according to Sebastian, because humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces, and Zeus feared their power. While her brother had been boyishly entranced by the idea of such a monstrous four-legged creature, Violet had been struck dumb by his flippant finishing remark, that by splitting them in two, Zeus had thusly condemned humans to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

  Last night, in the theatre, with the sting of Lady Cardigan's comment still burning Violet's heart, Orsino had reached out and taken her hand. He had, she knew, also felt the burning shame of being rejected by one's own father in favour of another. And he had recognised it within her and sought to make it better.

  It was far-fetched and even fanciful, but at that moment, Violet had felt as though she had found her missing half.

  Well, even if you have found him, you'll have to quickly lose him, a stern voice in her head cautioned, drawing an end to Violet's fantasy.

  There was no way that Violet could ever find happiness with Orsino, not when she had deceived him so. She briefly flirted with the idea of revealing to the duke what she had done, but when she imagined his reaction--hurt, humiliation, anger--her bravery faltered. The thought that Orsino might be disappointed in her caused her anguish akin to a physical blow.

  Though those that are betrayed do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe.

  Thanks to Sebastian, Violet could quote reams of Shakespeare, and the line from Cymbeline felt particularly apt for her particular quandary.

  There was nothing for it, she thought sadly, but to embrace her cursed fate and spend the rest of her life ruing her impulsiveness.

  For the rest of the morning, Violet attempted to concentrate on her current work; a portrait of Aunt Phoebe, in the style of Marguerite Gérard. The French artist was famed for depicting intimate, domestic scenes, and Violet's own painting showed Phoebe, snoozing in her chair, with Fifi by her feet.

  Though Violet thought wryly, Phoebe was asleep in the painting because that was the only way Violet could get her to sit long enough to be painted. Thank heavens Fifi was inanimate, or Violet might never finish her work.

  At eleven o'clock, Violet removed her apron and began to clean down her brushes and pallet, in preparation for the arrival of her friends.

  Charlotte was the first to arrive, a whirligig of energy and excitement, as she loudly proclaimed that she would broker discussion of nought but Evelina.

  "It's an exploration of the complex layers of society," Charlotte stated primly, "It's wonderfully satirical, and it is said that it was a significant precursor to the works of Miss Austen and Miss Edgeworth--one of whom's books we shall be reading next week. What did you think of it, Violet?"

  "Eh," Violet floundered for something to say, but thankfully Julia's arrival saved her.

  "What did you think of Evelina, Julia?" Charlotte called to their friend by way of greeting.

  "La! You shan't distract me with talk of books, Cat," Julia answered, treading her way carefully across the room to the chaise, "I want to know exactly what happened with you and Penrith at the theatre. The papers were full of speculation about you both--it seems your plan is working."

  "Pfft," Charlotte exhaled impatiently, "I have no desire to discuss Penrith. None whatsoever."

  "Well, if you'd rather discuss Evelina, I'm all ears," Julia replied, flashing Violet a wink.

  There was a pause, as Charlotte visibly battled against her desire to finally discuss literature at one of their meetings, and her need to dissect her duke.

  Dissection won out.

  "Well," Charlotte gave a frustrated sigh, before launching into a long tale of her excursion with Penrith the night before. There was much
grumbling, heaps of expressed irritation, some self-righteousness, and an awful lot of emotion; but the sub-text was quite clear to both Violet and Julia, who watched their friend in amusement.

  "He really is most infuriating," Charlotte finished with a sigh, as she placed her cup of tea down upon the table.

  "Yes, you've said that three times already," Julia replied, attempting to hide a smile behind her own cup.

  "Actually, it's four times by my count," Violet offered, unable to disguise her own amusement at Charlotte's outrage.

  It was obvious to even a casual observer, that the Duke of Penrith had wiggled his way under Charlotte's skin, and was causing her all kinds of bother. As Violet knew Charlotte so well, she could tell that her friend was struggling with her feelings for the duke--who was the antithesis of the type of man that Charlotte, a rebellious libertarian, would fall for.

  Charlotte would happily have fallen head over heels for an artist, a writer, or any other egalitarian sort, but here she was, clearly smitten with a Tory.

  No wonder her head was stubbornly fighting against her heart; though Violet rather thought that her heart would win out.

  Charlotte flustered and blustered for a moment, but perhaps fearing that she was unable to disguise her true feelings, turned the conversation toward Violet's painting.

  "Why, Violet, it's genius," Charlotte pronounced, as she took in her friend's depiction of a domestic scene, "You're well on your way to becoming the next Marguerite Gérard."

  Violet, who was not certain if Charlotte truly meant what she said, or only said it because she knew that Marguerite Gérard was her favourite artist, gave a helpless shrug.

  "Marguerite Gérard had residence in the Louvre, and was surrounded by artists and great masterpieces," Violet grumbled in response, "I can never hope to emulate her when all I am surrounded by are piles of books and stuffed dogs."

  Violet poked poor Fifi despondently with the end of her paintbrush. The rigid terrier toppled over onto her side, her glass eyes staring up sadly at the trio of young ladies.