Daring Miss Danvers Read online

  DARING MISS DANVERS

  The Wallflower Wedding Series

  VIVIENNE LORRET

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Tempting Mr. Weatherstone

  An Excerpt from Winning Miss Wakefield

  About the Author

  By Vivienne Lorret

  An Excerpt from Falling for Owen by Jennifer Ryan

  An Excerpt from Good Girls Don’t Date Rock Stars by Codi Gary

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  DEDICATION

  For

  Logan and Garret

  my boys, my heroes,

  my heart

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  Emma Danvers prided herself on her cool head. She frequently held fast to propriety, even when the world around her turned to complete chaos. This time, however, she was being tested to her limits.

  Opening the parlor doors, she expected, as anyone would, a parlor. Instead, she found a disaster. Paint-speckled tarps lined the floor. The furniture was piled in the corner. A wine table was perched precariously atop a pair of walnut chairs, stacked with backs angled together on the upholstered sofa. The chaise longue stood, upended and resting against the monstrous heap. Then, as if someone had thought the mound untidy, grayish sheets were strewn over the mess. Now, it resembled a granite monolith in the corner of the room.

  Yet, in the center, the real horror stood. Every beam of sunlight streaming in through the windows centered on the unmolded block of clay sitting atop a fat wooden pedestal.

  Celestine Danvers, with her untidy calico hair and bright copper eyes, grinned madly at Emma. “What do you think? It’s simply divine! The light is so much better in here, with the bank of windows along the south wall.”

  Emma responded the only way she could. Her expression, she was sure, spoke the words she wouldn’t dare say aloud for fear of them coming out with far too great a volume. Mother, what have you done to the parlor?

  However, as usual, she kept her mouth closed. Then, for sanity’s sake, she took a step backward, out of the room, closing the door as if it had never been opened in the first place. If only.

  “Oh, Emma,” her mother said with a sigh from the other side. Doubtless, her birth certificate now read “O. Emma Danvers,” given the frequency of the “Oh, Emma’s” expelled and exhausted throughout the house.

  Closing her eyes for a moment to gather her composure, Emma pressed her forehead against the door and began to count. “Unus . . . duo . . . tres . . .”

  She wasn’t worried about what Parker would think, should he return to his post, guarding the door—although, whether he was keeping them safe inside or sparing the rest of the world from the madness of the Danvers clan remained an Oracle’s mystery. He’d seen her counting thusly on too many occasions to be surprised. At least twice daily for the past three years, ever since her mother had followed her father’s example and taken up the arts.

  Those last two words were always said with dramatic flips of the wrist and an effervescent joy that, if Emma were honest with herself, made her a tad jealous. She’d often wished to have her three-syllable name said with the same excitement. “Oh, Emma! You’ve made us so proud.”

  Instead, she was a perpetual disappointment to them both. Which was completely unfair, since she was the only sensible person living in the entire house. Well, her brother, Rafael, had his moments of sound mind, but lately they were few and far between.

  “Are you praying?” The all-too-familiar voice came out of nowhere. Oliver Goswick, Viscount Rathburn, had a way of appearing out of thin air, like a carnival magician behind a puff of smoke. This, of course, brought her directly back to her brother’s sanity—or lack thereof—due to his choice of friends.

  “I’m counting,” she said without turning from the door. She still felt too unsteady to face the rest of the world without screaming: “The parlor! Why did it have to be the parlor?”

  Where exactly did her mother expect Emma to entertain friends? Or even a gentleman caller, unlikely though he may be?

  “In Latin?”

  Giving up, she lifted her head and glanced to the stairs to see if her maid was on the way. “Counting in Latin is like praying, but without the risk of eternal damnation for my actual thoughts.”

  Rathburn let out a sound that wasn’t quite a chuckle, but signaled his amusement all the same. He didn’t chuckle like other men, a fact that had always annoyed her. Instead, he gave a low hum, deep in his throat, as if his amusement were a delicacy he didn’t want to share with anyone else.

  Most of all, it annoyed her that the sound made her want some for herself.

  Tucking that disturbing thought away, into the pile of similar thoughts that resembled the monolith in the parlor, she faced Rathburn. He was, indeed, grinning at her. Not like other men, of course. This, too, was kept under close guard—a grin that was not a grin or even a smirk, for that matter, but something dark and delicious that he kept to himself. The intensity of it resonated in his gaze. His irises were the color of moss-covered stones, with a few fireflies lounging on that lush, mossy bed near the center.

  More disturbing thoughts. Soon, she’d fill a room with them.

  “Rafe told me you were on your way to Number 3 for your needlework circle,” he said, amusement lingering in his gaze as if he were privy to her thoughts. “Since I need to speak with Ethan Weatherstone, I thought I might accompany you.”

  “I’m just waiting for Maudette.” Her voice came out as a rasp, making her realize she hadn’t taken a breath or swallowed since she’d turned to face him. She swallowed now and, needing a distraction, reached to the marble console for her gloves.

  That low, decadent hum vibrated in his throat again. “Surely, you can walk down six doors without the risk of impropriety.”

  He was laughing at her, and therefore didn’t deserve an answer. She pulled on the first glove and began to push the pearl buttons through the eyelets in the soft leather.

  “Would you like me to retrieve your needlework from the parlor?”

  The parlor. Ugh. “Trust me, Rathburn, you don’t want to go into the parlor.” She glanced at the door and held back a shudder. “No. I have a spare needle and brown thread in my reticule. I’ll simply begin something new. I could embroider these gloves, for instance. It’s a good thing that nearly everything I own is in shades of brown.”

  “I’ve often wondered why that is.”

  She sincerely doubted he spent any time wondering such things, but this time she humored him. “I like brown. It matches my hair and my eyes, and when I wear it I feel . . .” Normal. The only sane person living in an asylum.

  “Monochromatic?”

  “Yes, of course.” She fought the urge to laugh. “Color coordination is my highest priority.”

  “Then you must do better at choosing your thread in the future. Your hair isn’t
brown, but more of a mahogany, with the same luster of a newly polished handrail,” he said, surprising her enough that she lifted her gaze to his. He shook his head. “And brown isn’t the correct color for your eyes either. They’re more like . . .” He tucked his finger beneath her chin and tilted it upward. “Like cups of chocolate on a rainy morning.”

  Emma did not blush. The heat in her cheeks came from a sudden rise of annoyance, she was sure. It certainly did not come from any wayward romantic notions she may have once had about him. “A rainy morning implies a lack of light. Not enough to discern a brown liquid amongst the shadows. Essentially, you’re saying my eyes are rather dim.”

  There it was, that almost grin. “Quite the contrary, they’re warm and lovely. The perfect complement to a rainy morning. Have Maudette bring you a pot of chocolate before she opens your curtains tomorrow morning. You’ll see that I’m right.”

  This time she did blush.

  “I am an unmarried woman. It would be unsuitable for me to demand chocolate in bed. I’ll have mine, as I always do, in the well-lit breakfast room.”

  “Ah, Emmaline.” He clucked his tongue at her in mock disapproval while his lips curved, flashing his teeth in a grin that was irredeemably rakish. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  For an instant, the fireflies in his eyes looked alive, taking flight. They seemed to find their way directly beneath her breast, where they buzzed around for a few turns, creating havoc with the beat of her heart. She ignored his words, or at least tried to, and focused on buttoning her other glove. “Kindly stop calling me Emmaline. It is not my name, as you well know.”

  Seeing her fingers fumble with the eyelets, he moved a step closer and took her hand. A shock of warmth radiated from the center of her palm to the tips of each finger, tingling and pulsing. She fought the urge to jerk out of his grasp, or worse . . . to curl around it.

  Instead, she kept perfectly still.

  “Yes, but ‘Emmaline’ sounds so buttoned up, as you obviously are.”

  She watched his dexterous fingers fasten each tiny button at her wrist, marveling at his efficiency. It was as if he did this all the time . . . for other women. The thought disturbed her, even though she knew he was not shy when it came to other women or his involvement with them. That was how she knew his flirtations were never serious. She’d be a fool to lose her head over him.

  When he finished, she tried to pull her hand away, but he kept it.

  She glared at him, ignoring the swarm of fireflies, ignoring the fall of ash blond hair over his forehead, and especially ignoring the deep cleft at the base of his aquiline nose that drew her focus to his perfect and unrepentant mouth. “If you persist, I will call you Oliver. I know how much you hate it.”

  “I do detest that old-sounding name, as if I’d been born a septuagenarian. Yet, somehow, from your lips it rather makes me think of rainy mornings and a pot of steaming chocolate on my bedside table.” He lifted her gloved fingers to his lips. A fresh surge of heat penetrated the soft leather. Her fingers tingled, curling automatically into his palm. “Some of the best things happen on such mornings, when the rain is pattering on the balcony and the barest light fills the space.”

  He was only trying to shock her, she knew. However, this time he’d succeeded.

  She tugged her hand free as she heard the unmistakable shuffle of Maudette on the stairs. Thankful for the interruption, she took a step back from Rathburn and waited for her maid.

  The woman in question paused on the third stair to press a hand to the pile of gray hair atop her head. Possessing the most eccentricities of all the servants, she fashioned it into a large bun, crested with a smaller bun, and topped off with a tiny white kerchief, which Emma had always suspected had come from a doll in the attic.

  Maudette’s paper white cheeks lifted in a smile of small, worn teeth. “Good morning, dear. I see you’re up and ready. In a hurry, as usual,” she scolded with the familiarity of a grandmother rather than a servant. Her parents weren’t the only unconventional people beneath this roof. It was as if the nonconforming manner of her parents had spread like a plague to everyone . . . Everyone, except for her.

  The thought unsettled her, making her feel like an outcast, like she didn’t fit in any longer. That could be the reason she felt so edgy lately, uncomfortable in her own skin. It was as if there was something inside the darkest recesses of her being churning with impatience to be set free. If she weren’t careful, soon she wouldn’t know who she was anymore.

  She shook away the disturbing musings and smiled fondly at Maudette without responding. Her maid could hear only from close distances and even then only when it suited her.

  For the most part, Emma was her own lady’s maid. She didn’t mind it. In fact, she preferred styling her own hair and choosing her own clothes. If she needed something pressed, it was easy enough to ask her mother’s maid. Besides, while she was immensely fond of Maudette, the woman was a terrible chaperone.

  As if to prove it, Rathburn stepped forward and took her hand again, this time tucking it neatly beneath his arm before he proceeded to walk toward the door. “It’s like I have you to myself all the same.”

  She tugged to retrieve her hand, but he refused to let her go. Parker had not returned to his door-guarding duty, which kept her from the luxury of reminding Rathburn about propriety in front of an audience. “I’ll not leave without her, or walk too far ahead of her. So, don’t get any ideas.”

  “Ideas, my dear Emmaline, are what separate man from beast.” He shifted his hold of her captive hand to open the door.

  “Not in your case,” she said, and then added with an all-too-sweet smile, “my dear Oliver.”

  He chuckled in his way and led her down the stairs to the sidewalk.

  The early spring sky was less gray than usual. She’d even go so far as to say it was a grayish shade of blue. A grand day, indeed. The clouds overhead were thin and wispy, like a veil that had been caught on the breeze. To top it all off, it hadn’t rained today . . . yet.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see if Maudette was on her way. Sure enough, she shuffled along a mere six steps behind them. Rathburn kept them at a slow, meandering stroll, which gave her far too much time to think about her hand on his sleeve and the way the muscles of his forearm bunched and flexed beneath her palm.

  “Speaking of propriety,” he said, out of the blue. “We were, weren’t we?” Which, apparently, was a rhetorical question, because he continued immediately. “My grandmother will arrive the day after tomorrow. She’ll remain at the townhouse for the next two months.”

  Emma fought the urge to cringe. Never was there a more severe woman in matters of propriety. While Emma prided herself on her decorum, the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat had made her feel like an ill-mannered street urchin the last time she’d had the fortune of being invited to tea. “How nice for your mother to spend time with her for a lengthy stay.”

  “Yes. Of course, my mother is one of the only people my grandmother is truly fond of. That being said, I suppose a woman ought to be fond of her own offspring.” He cleared his throat, an uncommon enough occurrence to gain her attention. “She’s also fond of you.”

  “Of me?” Taken aback, she blinked owlishly at him and then suddenly reasoned that he was pulling another one of his jokes to make her feel gullible and foolish afterward. “You’re teasing me again. Clever. You managed to catch me off my guard this time.”

  He drew in a breath, severe as an undertaker. “Not this time, I fear. She genuinely approves of you.”

  “Approves of me?” She felt a sudden rise of anxiety at the prospect. Her temples started to throb. No good could come of the dowager’s approval, she was sure, and she quickly sent up a prayer not to be invited to tea.

  Rathburn made no effort to elaborate or put her at ease. Instead, he stared ahead as if the lamppost had stolen his undivided attention. “Ah, look. Here we are. Number 3. Please do give my regards to the new Mrs. Weatherston
e, as I’m certain I’ll be gone before your needlework circle is finished. You’ll have to rely on Maudette to see you home safely.”

  She glanced at his profile as they ascended the stairs to the door. The hard angles of his countenance gave nothing away. “Somehow, I shall manage.”

  “Yes,” he offered, observing her, his gaze serious enough to make her wish he’d say something rakish and outrageous so she could shake the uneasiness that had settled over her. “You are adept at managing seemingly difficult situations with aplomb, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The edge of mystery in his voice made her uncertain whether to agree or not. Yet, she found herself nodding all the same.

  “Good, I’m glad to know it,” he said with a peculiar expression of relief. On the tail end of his compliment from his grandmother, Emma had the disturbing suspicion that she didn’t want to fully understand it.

  Could there be something worse than an invitation to tea with the Dowager Duchess of Heathcoat?

  No. Certainly not.

  “Why . . . are you glad to know it?”

  Rathburn frowned, his brow furrowing as if he were about to reveal some horrible calamity. In all honesty, his serious expression was starting to alarm her.

  Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door to Number 3 opened.

  Rathburn appeared far too relieved for her liking. “Hinkley, how good of you to come to Miss Danvers’s rescue,” he said with a quick wink and squeeze of her fingers as he escorted her over the threshold. “And just in time, too.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  Merribeth Wakefield stepped into the Weatherstones’ cheery yellow parlor shortly after Emma. She untied the periwinkle ribbon of her bonnet and removed it from her raven tresses. “What a gorgeous day! I’m tempted to suggest we hold our first official needlework circle of the Season in your lovely garden, Penelope,” she said with a smile brightening her cerulean eyes. “But I would hate to freckle before the wedding.”