The lad he recalled from various gentlemen’s clubs. His name was… Harold? No. Heathcliff? Michael’s jaw tightened in embarrassment at his inability to recall the right name. It would come to him. Maybe. As to the others… He remembered each of them quite distinctly.
Of the three chestnut-haired beauties, the green-eyed eldest was definitely the one he’d run into in the park. The dark-eyed middle chit was the one who had offered to whinny at his soirée. And the blue-eyed youngest was the one who had been kicked in the ankle for referencing the latest caricature. He tilted his head. Perhaps the middle girl was his favorite. He quite approved of that kick to the ankle. That caricature had been repellant.
“Wainwright?” came a disbelieving voice. “What are you doing here? Fishing in a new pond? The Grenville chits aren’t your cuppa. The eldest is a mouse, the middle one a harpy, and the youngest… that diabolical creature possesses bigger bollocks than a Clydesdale.”
Michael’s mood dipped from bad to worse. His temples pounded at the effort to still his temper. He ground his jaw as he turned to see who would have made such appallingly disrespectful statements under the family’s own roof.
None other than self-important prig Phineas Mapleton.
Splendid. The evening only wanted this.
“I am not here to romance the entire family,” Michael bit out through clenched teeth. “I am simply returning a call. It’s polite behavior. You might try it.”
“When have you ever cared about being proper?” Phineas laughed until his eyes watered.
Michael’s humor darkened to a dangerous level. He tried not to clench his fists. Phineas was far overdue for a letdown.
The insufferable buffoon slapped him on the shoulder. “A bit less propriety, eh? If you’re not careful, you’ll put the caricaturists out of business. A tryst with all three would make for a fine cartoon, even if it means sharing one’s bed with a mouse and a harpy.”
Michael was of a mood to shake the man silly. And torch the caricaturists’ entire shops. He turned away before saying something he would regret… and came face-to-face with the dark-eyed middle sister Phineas had just called a harpy.
No woman deserved to hear such garbage. He was going to have to box Phineas’s ears after all.
“Please ignore that imbecile.” Michael tamped down his nasty mood and did his best to summon a jest to lighten the terrible situation. “Aren’t you a Grenville? Shouldn’t you be on stage?”
To his surprise, she glared at him, not Phineas, as if Michael’s mere presence wounded her more deeply than the repugnant gossip’s ignorant slurs. “Tonight is a dinner party, not a musicale. Or can’t you read your invitation?” Her cupid’s bow lips curved into a sneer. “Shouldn’t a soulless cretin like you be fleeing a viscountess’s balcony or out seducing debutantes three at a time?”
He stepped backward, his jaw dropping in shock. No wonder the chit was known as a harpy. “A soulless cretin like me? I suppose a termagant like you will never have to worry about being seduced by anyone.”
The moment the words left his lips, he regretted having allowed her to prick his foul temper—but it was too late to take them back.
The elder sister had walked around the corner just in time to miss the harpy’s needling comments, but overhear every single syllable of Michael’s incredibly tasteless reply.
“Out.” Green eyes flashing with anger, her stiff arm pointed straight toward the door.
“Miss Grenville, I… I don’t know what came over me.” Horror flooded him as his cheeks flamed in embarrassment. He turned to the middle sister. “I do apolo—”
“Out!” The elder sister’s finger shook with anger but did not waver from pointing to the door. “Must we toss you out by the scruff of your neck, like a common mongrel?”
“That will not be necessary.” He drew himself up stiffly.
Given the fiery, pious chit had quoted the Old Testament at him just last week, he would not be surprised if she’d rather smite an earl than toss him out on his ear.
He sketched the slowest, most elegant bow of his life, then walked out the door with his head held high.
Until he reached the street.
He could not believe how badly he’d bollocksed the situation. Or that he had been ejected, but Phineas Mapleton had somehow managed to avoid the ladies’ wrath—despite instigating the entire debacle.
Michael clenched his fingers in frustration. Bugger paying calls on respectable folk. When he climbed into his carriage, he sent the driver straight to the Cloven Hoof. At this point in his wretched day, he could definitely use a drink. Possibly several.
With luck, he would never run into any Grenville girls ever again.
Chapter 10
So furious she could barely speak, Camellia turned from the despicable Lord Wainwright before his arrogant head was even out of the door and guided Dahlia out of the antechamber and up toward the sisters’ private sitting room, rather than toward the soirée.
Fortunately, the only individuals to have overheard Wainwright’s outrageous insult to her sister had been the butler, Camellia herself, and Phineas Mapleton. The latter was so notorious for unfounded gossip that even if he dared to publicly repeat private slander toward a Grenville, he was highly unlikely to be believed.
Even Camellia couldn’t believe it!
Opine as one pleased about the evils of associating with a libertine, she had never overheard the slightest accusation of Lord Wainwright ever treating a woman poorly. His flirtatious reputation was exactly the opposite.
The earl was famous for making every woman believe she was the center of his regard. The caricatures, the scandal columns, the endless swooning—all that came about because of the handsome devil’s captivating propensity to being unerringly, exceedingly… nice.
The ill-kept secret to all his many conquests was that he didn’t even have to try. Ladies positively vied for the opportunity to be despoiled by a charming, unapologetic rake with a flirtatious compliment at the ready.
So why on earth would he insult her sister?
Camellia sat Dahlia down in her favorite window seat, rang for a restorative spot of tea, and then planted herself on the floor at her sister’s feet. A wrinkled derrière was the least of Camellia’s concerns. Something was very not right.
“What happened?” she asked.
Dahlia closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the bay window. “He called me a termagant.”
“You are a termagant,” Camellia said gently. “But why would he say so? Lord Wainwright supposedly captures the heart of every woman in sight by simply existing in her vicinity. I’ve never heard of him insulting someone in their own home, least of all a lady.”
“I might not have… acted like a lady,” Dahlia muttered. She opened one eye. “I might have called him a soulless cretin, accused him of fornicating with virgins and married women at the same time, and implied he had never learned to read.”
Camellia stared back at her sister, speechless. The idea was so preposterous, the behavior so outlandish, she could barely believe her ears.
“The earl was a guest in our home,” she reminded her sister in disbelief. “He does fornicate with virgins and married women, and he might be a soulless cretin, but he had an invitation and you know he can read. He attended Eton and Cambridge before becoming society’s favorite rake.”
“I was angry,” Dahlia muttered. “He destroyed my school and the hope it brought to the lives of dozens of desperate young women, and he does not even realize it.”
“Precisely.” Camellia held up her palms. “Think about it. How do you expect someone to respond when you explode at them out of nowhere?”
Dahlia’s chin jutted upward in anger. “Are you defending that blackguard?”
“I am not defending him. I do not even like him. I’m defending reason.” Camellia rose from the floor to join her sister in the bay window. “Be more circumspect. You cannot let your anger with him, no matter how justified, put you
r own reputation at risk.”
“Or what? I won’t attract any suitors?” Dahlia scoffed. “I’m not certain that’s a loss. How well has your good reputation worked out for you?”
Camellia’s lips flattened. “You’re right. Mine is not a love match. I don’t know a blessed thing about Mr. Bost. But he has never once been in the scandal columns. He is the ‘mature, respectable’ gentleman Mother promises him to be.”
Dahlia wrapped her arms about her knees. “Which makes him bland. And boring.”
“The advantage to such bland boringness is that I am confident Mr. Bost will never embarrass me,” Camellia pointed out. “After six-and-twenty years of being relentlessly unnoteworthy, to have a man carelessly ruin my reputation would make the sacrifice all for nothing. Father says Mr. Bost is a good man. You deserve a good man, too. I pray it is a love match. But to achieve that, you cannot make a public spectacle of yourself.”
“Very well. I shall cease making a public spectacle of myself.” Dahlia narrowed her eyes. “But I won’t promise not to do as I wish privately.”
A vision of Lord X flashed into Camellia’s mind and the back of her neck flushed with heat. She coughed into her gloved hand to hide a tinge of guilt. She might not be the best role model at present, but she would not be hypocritical.
“Privately, one may do as one pleases,” Camellia managed to croak.
After all, she could scarcely reprimand her sister for behavior she herself had no intention of curtailing until the last possible moment.
Once the marriage contracts were signed, Camellia would be the dutiful bride Mr. Bost expected. The one he had selected, sight unseen. But until then… there were two more masquerades. She intended to spend them in the arms of a man who cared just as passionately about getting to know her as he did about kissing her. They might not have a future… but they still had a fortnight.
The sitting room door swung open with a bang.
“Thank heavens.” Camellia leapt up from the window seat. “Our tea has arrived.”
She grinned. It was not just the tea.
It was Bryony.
“Why am I making idle conversation with Mother’s well-heeled friends instead of up here in a secret soirée with you two?” Bryony took the towering silver tray from the footman and set it on the small mahogany tea table. “Are we celebrating or conspiring?”
“We are definitely not celebrating,” Dahlia replied before Camellia could answer. “And Cam won’t let me conspire. At least not publicly. So I suppose that leaves… just having tea?”
“Perfect.” Bryony poured the first cup. “I brought more cakes than we could possibly eat, but I have faith that we will somehow persevere.”
“We always do,” Camellia agreed as she filled her plate with scones and clotted cream.
“I have an idea for the next musicale.” Bryony leaned forward. “As servants of the establishment, we are required to play the same twelve songs. Wouldn’t it be great fun to play them out of order?”
Camellia laughed. “We mustn’t. Mother’s ringlets would spring out of balance. You cannot possibly mean to put her through the humiliation of uneven ringlets.”
“You are both mad.” Dahlia reached for a lemon cake. “Why do you even do the musicales? You could say no if you wanted to stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” Camellia said with feeling. The opposite. She dreamed of being a professional soprano as famous as Angelica Catelini or Elizabeth Billington. Impossible, of course. She was destined for Northumberland, not the London opera. “I love to sing. I wish the occasions were not limited to family musicales, but since that’s the only choice… I’ll take it.”
Bryony grinned at Dahlia. “You’re just sour grapes because you have no musical ability in a family that’s otherwise brimming with it.”
“Not at all.” Dahlia dropped a cube of sugar into her tea. “Cam and Heath may have incomparable voices, and your skill with a violin is incredible, but even if I did possess a talent someone would be willing to hear, I certainly wouldn’t wish to do so up on a stage.” She pulled a face. “No, thank you. I much prefer to pull strings behind the scenes.”
“Which is why you make a lovely headmistress.” Bryony’s expression was fond.
Over the rim of her teacup, Dahlia returned the indulgent smile. “You would too, you know. I’ve never known anyone with a finer head for business. The offer is still open, if you would just consider—”
“I have considered,” Bryony interrupted softly. “I thank you very much for your kind and oft-extended offer, but I’m afraid my future does not lie in managing a boarding school. How can you handle wrangling so many young girls?”
“They’re more interesting than playing the same set of songs, month after month.” Dahlia shuddered. “How can you bear so many people looking at you, watching your every move, listening to your every note?”
Bryony shrugged with a mischievous smile. “I’ve never minded people looking.”
“I might have known.” Dahlia turned to Camellia. “But what about you?”
“I actually feel anonymous on stage,” she admitted. It was what Camellia loved most about the musicales. She could forget everything else, and lose herself in the melodies. Singing was a transcendental kind of freedom.
“Anonymous?” Dahlia repeated in disbelief. “You find performing onstage anonymous?”
“Every time.” They were the best moments of Camellia’s life. She never wished for the performances to end. “When I sing, nothing exists but me and the music. I love it. Am I tired of Mother’s arrangement? Certainly. I would much rather be lead soprano at the opera, with soaring new arias for every season.” She smiled wistfully at the thought. “If I could make my living with my voice, I would.”
Bryony sighed. “If only Mother and Father would permit their genteel daughters to ‘make a living.’”
Camellia knew it would never happen. “The only reason they haven’t disowned Dahlia over her boarding school is because ladies are encouraged to pursue charitable endeavors.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Musicales are ‘respectable,’ but professional actresses and opera singers are too often equated with whores.” She affected a virtuous tone. “I’m afraid such ‘common behavior’ would reflect badly on the entire family, Cam, darling.”
“As does everything fun,” Bryony agreed. “I recommend Cam do it at once.”
“Splendid idea.” Camellia didn’t hide her sarcasm. “The first thing I’ll do when we get to Northumberland is request my husband’s permission to be mistaken for a whore at the local theater.”
Dahlia jerked upright. “You are not in Northumberland yet. And while we’re on the topic…”
Camellia set down her teacup in surprise as her middle sister leapt up and dashed from the room without another word. She arched a questioning brow at her youngest sister.
Bryony shrugged. “She’s been mysterious lately. I hoped it was a torrid affair with an ostler or a pirate, but I now suspect she’s been dipping into Father’s opium drawer. Perhaps she’s decided to share.”
Before Camellia could respond, Dahlia swept back into the room bearing an exquisite silver gown. Layers of intricate ruched lace, transparent puffed sleeves, and hundreds of strategic glass rhinestones intertwined to make the entire ensemble glitter as if by diamonds.
Camellia’s mouth fell open. “Where did you—”
“It’s the gown I commissioned for your wedding.” Dahlia beamed at her. “Except I won’t be wearing it. You are. And definitely not at your wedding. It’s for your next masquerade.”
Bryony clapped her hands in glee. “I daresay that shall catch her mystery suitor’s attention.”
“He’s not my suitor,” Camellia stammered. Her cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and excitement. “But I daresay you’re right. Lord X won’t let me out of his sight.”
Bryony grinned. “No one will.”
“I’ve got the perfect earrings to match.” Dahlia bounce
d on her toes. “And a stunning faux-diamond tiara. Everything but glass slippers!”
Camellia laughed. “Who could dance in glass slippers? My satin ones will have to do.”
“Try it on,” Bryony begged, her hands clutched to her chest in supplication. “You’ll look like royalty.”
Camellia held the gown to her chest and twirled about the room in anticipation of the next masquerade.
Between now and when she wed, she would strive to live each day to enjoy the fullest extent of her freedom. She was no longer content to stay on her shelf. Not at the masquerade. Not at home. Not at all.
“Look out, London,” she announced, straightening her shoulders with determination. “Camellia Grenville is a wallflower no more.”
Chapter 11
Michael cursed his abominable luck.
After being kicked out of the “mouse’s” house three days prior, he crossed paths with her everywhere he went.
Yesterday, she and her mother had entered Gunter’s confectioner just as he was walking out, and now she was crossing St. James street not fifty feet ahead with one of her sisters.
The one that didn’t hate him. As far as he knew.
He stepped beneath the awning of Hoby’s Boot and Shoe to watch from the safety of shadows.
To his eye, the elder Miss Grenville didn’t seem mousy at all. Not when she’d quoted scripture to him at the park. Not when she’d threatened to toss him out on his ear. And certainly not as she laughed behind a slender gloved hand, her green eyes sparkling above wind-blushed cheeks. There was nothing forgettable about her.
She was alternately playful and serious, in accordance with whatever conversation she was having with her sister, her animated expressions captivating even from a distance.
Good Lord, he had seriously misjudged her. Or else society had. He frowned as he tried to recall whether he had heard rumors of her mousiness prior to his ill-fated clash with Phineas Mapleton… or if he’d reached his conclusions simply because there had never been any gossip about Miss Grenville at all.
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