Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  Once they reached her, Julia excused herself from her conversation with Lord Horace, and the trio departed for the refreshment table.

  Charlotte and Julia chattered between themselves, but Violet soon lost track of their conversation when she spotted a familiar face, towering above the other guests.

  Orsino, who stood a good head above the crowd, was wearing his customary scowl as he scanned the crowd. Violet was momentarily distracted by the beauty of his face in profile, and though she was supposed to be trying to hide from him, found that she could not help but stare.

  She gave a little start as Orsino--perhaps sensing her eyes upon him--turned his head to catch her longing gaze. His green eyes widened, before he frowned with intent, and began to excuse himself from the group he was attached to.

  Dash it, Violet thought, as panic and desire caused her stomach to flip-flop. Her attempts at remaining invisible to the duke had lacked somewhat in the enthusiasm department.

  Ogling a man with one's mouth hanging open is hardly discreet, Violet chastised herself, as she pondered her next move.

  Beside her, Charlotte and Julia had noted that another duke--Penrith--was making his approach. As Charlotte flustered, she ran a hand through her hair, catching the buttons of her glove in some of her curly tresses. Panic thusly ensued, and as Julia struggled in vain to free her friend from her predicament, Violet quietly absented herself.

  Coward, she thought, as she slipped through the crowds, in search of somewhere to hide. There was nowhere suitable for her purpose in the ballroom, whose every nook and cranny was now filled with people, so Violet made for a set of double doors. These opened onto a darkened hallway, lined with portraits and suitably deserted of people.

  As she traipsed down the hallway, Violet bit her lip, afraid of intruding into one of Lord and Lady Jacob's private parlours. But as she hesitated, the doors which she had just come through opened, and she realised that Orsino had followed her.

  In a mild panic, Violet quickly rushed to the nearest doorway, opened it, and threw herself into the room. She closed the door quietly behind her, resting her head against the solid wood as she willed her heart to still.

  In a moment, her panic had subsided, replaced now with an overwhelming feeling of shame. She was two and twenty years of age--a grown woman. Yet, here she was, playing hide and seek with a gentleman who did not deserve to be treated so shabbily.

  "Gemini," Violet whispered aloud, as she steeled her resolve, "Be brave, Violet. Meet your fears face on."

  Squaring her shoulders, in the hope that it might give her courage, Violet placed her hand on the handle and threw the door open, prepared to face her duke.

  Unfortunately, her duke had been standing on the other side of the doorway, and as the door swung open, it met with a very solid mass.

  Lud, Violet thought, as she emerged from her hiding place to find that she had not just faced her duke head-on, she seemed to have knocked him unconscious.

  Chapter Ten

  It was a point of pride for Jack Pennelegion that, in all his thirty years, no man had ever managed to knock him down. In Eton, he had never been the brightest student. At home, he had never been the favoured son. But, since his birth, Jack had been the sturdiest of men, well able to weather any blow.

  Until today, that is.

  The force with which the door had swung open had taken Jack somewhat by surprise, and though it had hit him, it was his own feet which had tripped him up and caused his fall.

  Thus, when Miss Havisham's worried face appeared over him, like a vision of heaven, and she profusely apologised for her actions, Jack brusquely brushed her off.

  "No need to apologise," he blustered, as he scrambled to his feet, in a vain attempt to regain some dignity, "You did not knock me down, 'twas my own two feet which did that."

  Although it was something of a Pyrrhic victory to claim that it was his own actions which had landed him on the floor, Jack took some comfort from knowing that he was still the sturdiest of men. And he sensed that he might be required to grasp for whatever comforts he could, for now, more than ever, he was certain that Miss Havisham had won in her battle against her attraction toward him.

  Why else would the chit have run when she spotted him making his way over to her?

  Jack opened his mouth as he prepared to offer to escort Miss Havisham back to the ballroom, but she spoke before he had the chance.

  "Oh, you're bleeding," she cried, with a startled glance to his forehead.

  Jack touched a gloved hand to his brow, and it came away stained with blood. It was, he deduced, just a nick; he had certainly endured worse over his lifetime.

  Miss Havisham, however, appeared to think him at death's door.

  "We must staunch the bleeding," she said firmly, as she placed a hand on his arm and steered him toward the room she had just--so dramatically--exited.

  "It is just a cut," Jack argued, unused to being the object of female fussing.

  "A cut that is bleeding profusely," Violet countered, her voice firm, "You might not be hurt, but imagine the scandal if you were to re-emerge in the ballroom with a bloodied cravat. People might think you had engaged in a bout of fisticuffs."

  "The ton does enjoy making babbling gossip of the air," Jack agreed, surprised to find that Violet had somehow managed to--gently--frogmarch him toward a chair, in what appeared to be one of Lady Jacob's private parlours.

  "Do sit down," she ordered, in a voice which brokered no argument.

  As a military man, Jack was as adept at following orders as he was at doling them out, and his posterior--almost of its own volition--hastily found a seat.

  "You were right--it's just a graze," Miss Havisham observed, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the cut upon Jack's brow, "Though there's an awful lot of blood, for something so small."

  Jack, with one eye closed against the aforementioned blood, which was dripping from his temple, watched as Miss Havisham reached into her reticule to retrieve a handkerchief.

  "Hold still," she said cheerfully, as she stepped forward and placed her handkerchief against his brow.

  "I can do that myself," Jack protested, rather feebly, for he was enjoying having Miss Havisham attend to his wound. And he was enjoying, even more, her close proximity.

  Her scent surrounded him, floral and light and utterly delicious, leaving Jack feeling slightly light-headed. Though this dizziness could also be attributed to the blow to his head, he reminded himself sternly.

  Jack was not accustomed to feeling vulnerable--or rather, allowing anyone else to witness his vulnerability. He was a man. A military man, no less. As such, he demonstrated a stiff upper lip and courage in times of adversity, never allowing anyone to guess at the turmoil that might rage inside him.

  He had faced worse than a tiny graze on the fields of Waterloo and Friedland; he had bandaged his own wounds and the wounds of his comrades without blinking an eye.

  But today, in a warm and well-appointed room in London, Jack found that, for once, he did not want to look after himself. He wanted Miss Havisham to tend to him. No, he needed her to.

  "Poor lamb," Miss Havisham soothed, idly stroking away a strand of his hair with a soft touch. It seemed that she had acted unconsciously, for a fetching blush stained her cheeks as she realised the intimacy of her action.

  Jack shivered a little, with a longing that was not base--not anywhere near it. He yearned, deep in his belly, for her to continue stroking his hair, to continue comforting him.

  Very few people ever offered Jack comfort; it had, he guessed, something to do with his size. And his manner. The world viewed Jack as a rock, a sturdy man on whom they could lean for support. A man who would protect them at all costs.

  And while Jack was happy to play this role, he realised--as Miss Havisham continued to tend to him, humming under her breath--that, for once, he wanted someone to support him. He also wanted to curl up in Miss Havisham's lap and purr like a kitten, but that might be taking things too far,
he reasoned.

  Dash reason.

  "There we go," Miss Havisham said after a few minutes, gently removing the handkerchief from his brow, "It has stopped. We just needed to staunch the bleeding."

  "My thanks," Jack replied, feeling the loss of her touch quite keenly. It must have shown on his face for Miss Havisham peered at him in concern.

  "Are you certain you're alright?" she asked, her violet eyes holding his, "You did give yourself quite a knock."

  No, I am not all right, Jack longed to reply. I want you for my wife. I want you to touch me lovingly every day, caress my cheek as I fall asleep. I want you to birth my children and allow me to provide for you, so you might care for them as lovingly as you care for me. I want to hear you hum in the morning, and gasp with pleasure in the darkness of the night. And when I die, I want the last thing that I feel on earth to be your touch. The last sound I hear to be your voice...

  Of course, Jack had never been very adept at giving voice to his feelings. So instead of a romantic outpouring of love and longing, he simply delivered a curt, "Perfectly fine, thank you."

  "Oh," Miss Havisham jumped a little at his brusque response, "All right."

  Dash it; Jack cursed inwardly. He was making a mess of things. Why could he not be like Montague? Why could he not deliver flowery prose when it was required of him? Jack nearly groaned aloud with dismay, as he realised what his next thought was.

  What would Montague do in this situation?

  Thankful that his friend would never know his thoughts--for Jack would never hear the end of it--he paused to consider what the charming marquess might do next.

  "Women appreciate being appreciated."

  Montague had spouted this nugget of wisdom once and for some reason it was now all Jack could think of. Miss Havisham had tended to him, had ruined her handkerchief for him, and all he could say to convey the depth of what it had meant to him was a short "thank you"?

  "Sincerely," Jack continued, his voice sounding more like a growl than anything else, "I cannot express how grateful I am for your help."

  "It was nothing, your Grace."

  It was Miss Havisham who now looked nervous, her porcelain skin staining pink at his words. She lowered her eyes, perhaps to escape the intensity of Jack's gaze, and he near howled with displeasure. He did not want her to detach from him. He wanted her closer.

  "It was everything," he replied, reaching out his hand to take hers and pulling her gently toward him.

  Miss Havisham's eyes opened wide, her breath slightly laboured, as she watched Jack turn her hand palm up and deliver a kiss to her wrist.

  It was possibly the most romantic gesture that Jack had ever made in his life, but as he lifted his lips from Miss Havisham's arm, Jack realised that he wanted more.

  He was not content to settle for a chaste kiss upon a satin glove. It was not enough; he wanted more. And from the desire which flared in Miss Havisham's eyes, he could see that she did too.

  With a low growl, Jack tugged Violet down toward him, so that she had no choice but to fall into his lap. Her arms wrapped themselves around his neck, and this was all the encouragement that Jack needed to draw her into a kiss.

  Cannon fire in Borodino. Gunshots across the fields of Leipzig. Neither of these things had startled Jack as much as kissing Violet Havisham. Joy exploded in his chest, desire coursed through his belly, and his very soul sang with pleasure as he claimed her lips as his own.

  For a moment, he worried that perhaps he had acted in haste, that Miss Havisham did not wish to be ravished in a parlour room by a boor masquerading as a duke. But then she ran her fingers through his hair and whispered his name longingly, and Jack realised that she was enjoying the experience just as much as he.

  Reciprocated desire was perhaps the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world. All of Jack's reason left his body, as he pulled Violet closer, savouring the feel of her warm body against his.

  It was heaven. It was bliss. It was...dangerous.

  Jack pulled away, breathless, as he realised that his desire was beginning to outweigh his conscience. He wanted Violet--but not like this. Not in a stranger's parlour room. And most certainly not when she was not legally his wife.

  You could arrange for a special license, a wicked voice whispered in his ear, but Jack hushed it. Tempting as it was to continue with their passionate embrace, Jack knew that he could not live with himself if he forced Miss Havisham's hand.

  He wanted her to come to him freely.

  "Wait," he gasped as he pulled away from her, "We must wait."

  For a second, the only sound that filled the room was that of their ragged breathing. Violet, still perched on his lap, was watching him with eyes dark with desire, and something else.

  Confusion.

  It seemed that it was not only Jack who had been taken by surprise by the ferocity of their desire.

  Violet's lips were plump and raw, and though they were always lovely, Jack decided that they looked best when they had been thoroughly kissed--by him, of course.

  "I think," Jack said, his voice sounding rather pained, "That we had best return to the ballroom, Miss Havisham."

  "Oh."

  Jack instantly wished that he could take back his words, for Miss Havisham sprang to her feet, hastily rearranging her skirts. Her face was flushed, her countenance nervous, and she was--Jack realised--terribly embarrassed.

  "It's not that I would not like to stay," he assured her, quickly standing up and catching her arm, "Believe me, I would like for nothing more than to continue this. But we must wait."

  "Wait for what, your Grace?"

  "Until we are wed," Jack said firmly, awed at the strength of his determination to make Miss Havisham his wife. Before, it had been but a wish, but now that he had tasted her lips, and had experienced the passion which lurked beneath her sweet facade, Jack knew that he would walk across hot-coals to have her as his bride.

  "W-wed?" Violet stuttered, taking a nervous step back from him.

  "Yes," Jack, recognising her fear, kept his tone even and calm, but did not detour from his intended destination, "Wed, Violet. I want you for my wife. Given what just happened, I think that you might also be amenable to the idea."

  "You cannot wish to marry me," Violet protested, taking another step toward the door, "I am not suited to be a duchess, your Grace. I am not fashionable enough or poised enough for such a role."

  Jack, who had been thinking the very same thing about himself since he had assumed his own title, shrugged his shoulders against her opposition.

  "I am not looking for a duchess, Violet," he said, quickly crossing the distance she had made between them and taking her hand, "I am looking for a wife."

  Jack held Violet's blue-eyed gaze, hoping to convey to her just how deeply he felt. Her lips parted, and Jack longed to kiss them again, but he held steady and allowed her to speak.

  "I wish to paint," she protested feebly, "I have never wanted to marry. I want to see Venice and Florence, and learn from the masters..."

  "I will gladly accompany you there," Jack rushed to respond, instantly warming to the idea of seeing Europe as a traveller, rather than a soldier. His imagination took flight, as he pictured them dining together on a sunny palazzo, ambling along the Tiber, and watching the sunset over Venice's canals. "I would never prevent you from pursuing your passion, Violet. If that is your only objection to my proposal, then--"

  "--Your Grace," Violet interrupted, dashing Jack's growing hope, "Please. I cannot marry you."

  Her voice cracked slightly on the word "cannot", and Jack wondered if perhaps Miss Havisham was harbouring a hidden reason for her refusal. Her hand was still in his, and he squeezed it reassuringly before he made one last attempt at persuading her.

  "Nothing that you say could ever dissuade me from my belief that you are the woman for me," he said, hopeful that she would understand his sincerity.

  "I don't know about that."

  It was a whispered aside, but neve
rtheless, Jack heard it. He frowned, hoping to press her further, but Miss Havisham spoke before he had the chance.

  "Thank you for...And apologies again for..." Violet waved a nervous hand in the direction of Jack's wound, as she stammered out her goodbye. "Good evening, your Grace."

  On that note, Miss Havisham turned on the heel of her slipper and fled the room.

  Jack remained where he was for a moment, staring at the closed door, his heart aching more than he had thought possible.

  He had just proposed marriage to the woman he loved, and she had rebuffed him. Had he been misguided in his belief that Miss Havisham harboured similar feelings to him? Jack thought on their kiss and her passionate response and wondered if it had all meant nothing to her.

  If so, that left him in something of a quandary, for Jack might now have to relinquish his title as the sturdiest man in England, as Miss Havisham had completely floored him.

  Chapter Eleven

  It had been more than a week since Violet had received her first--and most likely last--marriage proposal. In that time, Orsino had called twice, but Violet had instructed Henry to inform the handsome duke that she was "not at home".

  It tore at her heartstrings to refuse to see Orsino, but it was, she reasoned, for the best. A quick, sharp cut was easier to endure than a slow, malingering wound. It would heal faster, she thought, though as the days passed by and her heart still ached, she morbidly wondered if perhaps her wound had turned gangrenous.

  Amputation might solve my woes, Violet thought wryly, as she faced into yet another day of mooning over Orsino. Even her hands were consumed by memories of the duke, and when she sat down to sketch out ideas for her next painting, she instead found herself drawing the duke.

  Soon, the drawing-room was littered with half-finished portraits of the man, though many had been crunched into balls in frustration. For, try as she might, Violet could not properly capture the beauty of her duke. She could not find a way to commit to paper the line of his jaw, nor the light in his eyes. It was completely and utterly vexing.