Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Page 11

  “But I know nothing of Sir Colin.”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Think of something scandalous . . . wicked . . . and then, imagine him loving every minute.”

  Though blushing profusely, Miss Wakefield took his first challenge seriously. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. By the time she exhaled, her color returned to normal. Steadily, she turned her gaze to Sir Colin, her brow puckered in deep concentration as if he’d set a puzzle before her.

  “I have it,” she announced, her voice ecstatic with triumph.

  Her face was bright. Her eyes captivating. Her mouth curved in a full smile that radiated something straight to him—only this time, not in the vicinity of his groin. No, this sensation was decidedly north, in the center of his chest, like bullet burning a deadly path through him.

  Struck by the force of it, he nearly staggered back and looked down, expecting to see a smoking flintlock in her grasp.

  “All right, let’s hear it,” he rasped, feeling strangely out of breath. He had to get hold of himself.

  Her smile faltered and the rosy glow in her cheeks paled by degree. “You never said I’d have to tell you.”

  Damn, but he wanted to kiss her. Right here, in front of everyone. How she could make him want her in his bed one moment, want to run away the next, and now want to laugh, he didn’t know. He refused to think about it. All he knew was that in a fortnight, he would finally have relief.

  Curiosity piqued, he slowed his steps so they wouldn’t return to the rest of the party too soon. “I have to know whether or not you’ve gained an understanding, especially since your first response was ‘filching the silver.’”

  She reached out her hand and brushed her fingers through the tall grass by the bank, but he knew it was only a pretense. She wanted an excuse not to look at him when she told him. “I imagined his secret was that he enjoys it when feathers brush against him, only he pretends not to.”

  “Ah.” She was more observant than he’d given her credit for, and he’d given her a great deal already. “You are a quick study, Miss Wakefield.” Of course, she couldn’t know how feathers could sometimes play a part in bed sport, so her guess only proved her inventive mind and offered another image to keep him awake tonight.

  She pulled off the top portion of one frond and resumed her pace beside him. Brushing the tip against the palm of her hand, she made his mouth water. “Then do I pass the first lesson?”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t know, try it on me now.” He let out a breath and wondered why he was tormenting himself. “Only this time, you must look at me while the secret is in your mind.”

  Without hesitation, she glanced sideways at him. A slow smile curved her lips. Her sharp brow arched in challenge. “Far too simple. I already know one of your secrets.”

  The way she looked at him made his blood heat to a painful degree. He situated her shawl in front of him. “Rumors do not count. You must use your imagination.”

  “Oh, but I don’t have to, do I?” she said coyly. Her gaze shifted to his hair, all the while stroking the blade of grass between her fingers.

  His scalp tingled and his tumid erection throbbed. “The point of the exercise is to imagine something you don’t know.”

  She licked her lips and pressed them together. “There are so many things I don’t know. How could I possibly choose a single one? Besides, I rather like remembering, as opposed to imagining.” Her gaze traveled down the length of him.

  He stumbled a half step. The toe of his boot must have caught on small hill. Either that, or he couldn’t lift his leg anymore. How was it that this woman—this innocent miss—managed to keep him off balance?

  Her smile widened. Then, as if she sensed they were too near to the others, she lifted her fingers to hide it, even as her eyes danced with amusement. “High marks for the day?”

  This day’s lessons aren’t over yet, an urgent voice in the back of his mind said. “You must prove your high marks at dinner this evening. Since Sir Colin is shy and easily unnerved, we’ll consider him the elementary level of your schooling.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Eve making her way to them. “Did I hear mention of dinner this evening? I’m glad, because I have a special surprise for Merribeth.”

  An uneasy suspicion cooled his blood.

  “Of course you know one of my guests was detained. Some urgent matter.” She flitted her fingers and directed her next comment to Merribeth. “I believe Lord Lucan Montwood will be perfect for our little project. He is the second son of the Marquess of Camdonbury. He recently sold his commission and is now a man about town, in a manner of speaking.”

  Venus’s smile fell and the brightness vanished from her eyes. “I don’t see how that makes him perfect.”

  “He’s quite destitute and needs to marry an heiress. Rumor has it that his father refuses to pay any more of his debts. Therefore, you’ll have the freedom to flirt openly with him without anyone getting an idea that he’s genuinely pursuing you. It’s wonderful practice.” She took a step closer and pointedly looked from one to the other. “Far more suitable than my nephew’s company.”

  “Please do not mince words, Aunt.”

  She gave another flippant gesture, but her gaze was oddly serious. “A jealous woman holds poison on her tongue, Nephew.” Then, she looked over to Daniela and Cordelia, who both happened to be staring in their direction. “Have a care for our ingénue.”

  It bothered him that he hadn’t realized how his actions had drawn speculation. Apparently, he’d managed to fool himself into believing no one would pay mind to an insignificant walk beside a pond, in full view of the entire party.

  He should have known better.

  It wasn’t his typical behavior to spend time with an innocent. Or to forget himself, for that matter, to the point where Eve—of all people—felt the need to remind him of his place.

  He should’ve been relieved to have his eyes opened once again. Instead, he felt irked. He didn’t like the sense that he was a puppet, and Eve pulled the strings.

  “Not to worry, Auntie,” he growled, his mood darkening. “Miss Wakefield would no more forget her ultimate pursuit than I would mine.” He would never risk losing the one thing that meant the world to him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lord Lucan Montwood was attentive and attractive—two qualities one should always have in a dinner partner, if at all possible—with dark hair, and eyes the color of brandy by firelight. His manners were impeccable. He was clever and quick with compliments.

  In fact, Merribeth felt no pressure to say much of anything. Because he was skilled at wording his questions and comments, she could be an active member of the conversation with a simple grin or a nod of her head.

  Although he was a master of charm, everything about him seemed calculated to her. There was something that spoke of rawness beneath it all that made her keep her guard up. A second son with no profession, limited funds, and little chance of inheriting much of anything must do what he can, she supposed.

  The thought made her uneasy.

  Not because she imagined for any moment that he was interested in a wallflower with a questionable reputation. More so, because she felt as if she were doing the same—pleasing those around her in an effort to secure her future.

  She glanced toward Bane, several times in fact, but each time he was too distracted in conversation with Lady Archer and Aunt Sophie. Though Montwood and Sir Colin were attentive, she found herself feeling adrift, without a mooring line to shore.

  Then something sparked her memory. “I believe we have an acquaintance in common,” she said to Montwood. “You might recall dancing with her at the Dorset Ball. Miss McFarland?”

  He flashed a smile that gave the impression of being genuine. It even revealed a dimple. “Ah, yes. Now that you mention it, I do recall spying the two of you together in the gallery at one point. What a happy coincidence.” He touched the rim of his wine goblet to hers and leaned closer,
lowering his voice. “I must say, I hold your friend in very high esteem, though I wish she and I had met under different circumstances.”

  Merribeth thought of Delaney and the burden she’d kept with her since the incident at her debut. She frowned.

  “Please do not misunderstand me,” Montwood said quickly. “I was referring to my own circumstances. Surely you are aware—as is the whole of humanity—that I am without a farthing to my name.”

  She felt her cheeks color. “I do not let circumstance direct me to one’s character.”

  “Then I hope we can be friends as well.” His grin widened at her nod. “Lately, I’ve come to believe that the only thing worse than being penniless and without option is having riches thrust upon you to the point where you cannot trust anyone. Your friend is very brave.”

  Merribeth hadn’t thought of Delaney’s circumstances in that regard before and appreciated this new acquaintance with Montwood for that very reason.

  After dinner, they gathered in the parlor. Again, her gaze automatically sought Bane. She found him leaning against the mantle, with his legs crossed at the ankle and his hand curled around a white porcelain cup. The widow Pearce stood beside him, her fingers flitting over his sleeve.

  Merribeth’s mood turned decidedly darker. It was silly, she knew. After all, Bane was not hers—nor could he be, even if she wanted him. Which of course she didn’t. He belonged to no one but himself. And as such, he could do whatever he pleased with whomever he pleased. So then, why did seeing it bother her so much?

  Looking for her aunt in the hope of retiring early, she spotted her conversing with Lady Archer and Sir Colin—Sir Colin! Her task. She was supposed to flirt with him at dinner. Oh, how could she have forgotten? It was her sole reason for being here. Not to mention, Bane’s sole reason for helping her.

  She felt a painful twinge in the vicinity of her heart, as if someone had reached inside and pinched her. A wake-up pinch, saying, You foolish girl! You’re wasting your time daydreaming about a rake who has no interest in you, other than to see you married to another man!

  Lively piano music brought her back to reality, clearing her head. It didn’t surprise her to see Montwood at the piano. Charm was his profession, after all. With a waggle of his eyebrows, he invited her to sit beside him.

  Although she’d never received a request like this before, her natural impulse was to decline and retreat into a corner. She disliked being the center of attention. However, since she needed to change in order for Mr. Clairmore to see her in a new and intriguing light, she put on a brave face and acquiesced.

  Montwood’s agile movements caused his arm to brush against hers more than once. At first, she thought it was an accident, but when she saw him grin, she realized he was flirting. Flirting! With her? Before the notion went to her head, it occurred to her that Eve likely had told him of her plight, more or less explaining how pathetic she was. Just as she had done with the widow Pearce. This time, however, Merribeth refused get angry. She had a purpose here, after all.

  Since her task was to flirt and convince everyone she was a confident woman instead of a kicked puppy, she was determined to make a convincing go of it. She needed all the practice she could get before William arrived.

  Merribeth took her first lesson from Daniela and reached up to brush a speck of lint from Montwood’s shoulder. Then she took a lesson from Bane and held Montwood’s gaze, imagining she possessed an intimate secret about him.

  Unfortunately, the only thought she could muster was the memory of what it was like to run her fingers through Bane’s coal black hair.

  Montwood’s notes went sharp. “My apologies, Miss Wakefield,” he said and then cleared his throat and resumed playing. “I was distracted by the . . . er . . . color of your eyes.”

  Pleased, she smiled but then hastily covered the gap with her fingertips. “Blue eyes are hardly remarkable. More than half the guests in attendance have blue eyes.”

  His grin altered from a generic friendliness she’d seen him use with everyone to something more playful. This time when he met her gaze, he looked as if . . . as if he knew an intimate secret about her. “None like yours.”

  Feeling decidedly restricted, she let out a breath. This was how the game was played, she told herself. Yet she was unprepared to be successful, even if it was all for show.

  She tried to figure out her next course of action. A compliment might offer a distraction until she could study Daniela again or even Lady Cordelia. “Your skill with the piano is quite adept. I imagine that having long fingers assists you.”

  Montwood gave her a wink and added an extra trill of the keys. “In many ways, Miss Wakefield.”

  Of course she hadn’t intended her compliment to be flirtatious, but apparently, from the knowing look Montwood gave her, he’d taken it that way.

  She felt her cheeks color. “That is to say . . . I know nothing of . . . I wouldn’t want you to think . . .” Drat. She didn’t know what she could possibly say, and her momentary bravery had all but abandoned her. “I believe my aunt is calling me,” she said quickly and rose from the bench. However, instead of crossing the room to sit beside her aunt, she left the parlor entirely.

  In the hall, her sudden appearance surprised three maids and a footman, who were all lingering near the staircase, no doubt listening to the music. Everyone jerked to attention, including her. She tried to think of a request that would explain her exit from the parlor, but she was too afraid of what she might say by accident.

  Feeling out of her depth, she merely nodded and proceeded to walk briskly down the hall, as if she’d been sent on a mission of the highest priority.

  Bane wondered if murdering Montwood would alter his agreement with Eve.

  It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t be participating in the various activities at the party. He’d commit the murder on his own time. Perhaps invite Montwood on an outing where the lad would have a riding mishap near the edge of the cliffs. Of course, there was always the possibility of a hunting accident. Or drowning . . .

  “I hope that wicked grin has to do with our plans for later,” Daniela said, gripping his sleeve and rubbing her breasts against his arm. “Daphne Broadmore claims you’ve learned quite a few tricks from a French countess.”

  The vision of Montwood’s lifeless body floating in the murky depths of the pond faded when he looked up from his cup of coffee. His grin faded as well when Montwood began another ribald tune.

  Merribeth had not returned. While he was glad he didn’t have to endure watching her adhere so . . . thoroughly to the task he put upon her so, he also didn’t like wondering where she was. He’d assumed she’d merely stepped out into the hall for a breath of fresh air because she’d been unprepared for her flirtations to be so successful.

  He could tell she had no idea what a temptation she created.

  A quarter hour had passed since then. He made sure to keep an eye on Archer and Montwood. Both were still in the parlor. Only now, he needed to extricate himself without inciting curiosity.

  He knew that any random excuse would draw suspicion. However, if he could force Daniela into causing a scene . . . He was ashamed at the idea that came to mind. Or at least, he should have been ashamed. And that was enough for him. “I was imagining something much more diverting.”

  Her breath escaped her in a laugh, her gaze drifting down to his mouth, where he purposely flicked his tongue over the tip of his canine. “More diverting, even than what you did to . . . Daphne?” Her breasts heaved against him, her eyes glittering as if she’d stumbled upon buried treasure.

  He nodded. “Though, I must warn you, years of being jaded have twisted my interests. I’ve abandoned the French method. The way I see it, the Corsairs had the right of it—whips, bondage, and a certain amount of force to gain total submission.”

  He waited for her to gasp and withdraw. Instead, Daniela wet her lips. Apparently, he had her on the hook.

  He tried another tactic. “Of course, I haven’t
mastered the art of not leaving marks . . . but I’m sure they’ll heal in time. My previous lover—not, the widow Broadmore, though it would be ungentlemanly of me to divulge her identity—is recovering well. At least, that was the last accounting I heard since she removed herself from society. I’m sure she’ll be able to stop wearing veils . . . someday.”

  Absorbing this, Daniela swallowed, her face going pale. “She was left with . . . scars?”

  “Not too many.” He shrugged. “I’m certain she’ll find another lover who won’t mind them . . . eventually.”

  Eyes wide, she took a step back.

  He advanced, keeping his voice low. “I’d assumed that by your obvious displays, you were equally jaded. I’d convinced myself that with such a reputation preceding you that your methods of seduction, which offer no real distinction between you and, say, a common chambermaid, were all to hide your true perversions. I thought we were of like mind.”

  She swallowed. “We are not.”

  “Pity.” He pursed his lips. “At the present time, I’ve no interest in a mild diversion. However, once we’ve returned to town . . . perhaps.” After all, he didn’t want to burn a bridge entirely when he didn’t have to. All he needed was an excuse to leave the parlor.

  He saw the war within her, one part insulted, the other mortified. The former won the moment, and she narrowed her eyes. The outer edges of her rouged lips turned white. Yet even in her fury, she still didn’t hold a candle to a single arched brow from Miss Wakefield.

  “How is this for a mild diversion?” She shoved his arm, effectively spilling coffee over his sleeve and waistcoat.

  He gave her a smile and a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Pearce,” he said, meaning it thoroughly.