Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Read online

  This was it.

  A rush of excitement tore through him as he read the letter, confirming it was, indeed, the proof that Eve had promised. A rapid skimming of the words revealed the name of the village. The county of Berkshire wasn’t too great a distance from his grandfather’s estate.

  However, she hadn’t kept all the information secret, as she’d told him. At the bottom of the page, in the corner, was a single word that stood out from everything else. It was written in a different hand, with a decidedly feminine flourish.

  Bane went still.

  Now, the reason behind Eve’s bargain and her peculiar behavior became clear. He only wished it hadn’t. This was no mere game or lark.

  The name said it all: Clairmore.

  Bane stared down at the page in disbelief. At last, the key to his revenge was within his grasp. He could finally punish the man responsible for burning his parents’ marriage records, for their murders, for blackmailing anyone who stood up for his legitimacy, and for ruining his uncle at the cost of his life.

  In the back of his mind, he recalled Merribeth mentioning that her Mr. Clairmore’s father was a solicitor. Apparently, Clairmore had been the type of man who was willing to do anything for the right price. Or perhaps he shared in Bane’s grandfather’s obsession with pure bloodlines. Now, it was only a matter of discovering the driving force in order to make the blackguard pay.

  He imagined the worst thing that could happen to man like Clairmore. If the man is just like my grandfather, then having his son marry a woman with gypsy blood would work.

  Unless . . .

  He went cold everywhere. A mixture of triumph and dread battled within him. The solution was almost too easy, as if a banquet of revenge had been laid before him. All he had to do was feast. Then he would have everything he desired.

  Everything.

  And Merribeth was the key.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “William is here!” The door to the bedchamber flew open, and Sophie hurried in, out of breath.

  Merribeth bolted upright in bed, heart pounding. “Already?”

  She’d been resting in preparation for the long night ahead of her. Her last night here. Her last night with Bane. Now, she felt anything but rested.

  Leaving the blank linen handkerchief and silver-threaded needle on the divan, she rose and moved to the window, staring out at the expanse of balconies along the side of the house. For a man who’d offered to make her his mistress, Bane was doing a terrible job of seducing her. In fact, he’d been avoiding her for days.

  There were no more clandestine meetings in the library. No encounters in the hall outside her bedchamber door. No more tender embraces in the stable. And certainly no more intimate conversations in the closet.

  He was polite enough at dinner, especially when it seemed Eve was determined to seat them together every evening. On the off chance they should find themselves in close proximity in the parlor afterwards, they each inclined their heads by way of greeting but said nothing of consequence.

  Bane was no longer warm and flirtatious. In fact, he was cold, and his determination to keep her at a distance was quite evident. He’d made himself perfectly clear: He would take her as his mistress, but she was deluding herself if she thought for a moment that he’d fallen in love with her. Or ever would. She guessed that the recent alteration in his behavior was his way of helping her come to a decision.

  Yet she was ashamed to admit that the idea of becoming his mistress ran in a constant stream through her mind. But knowing that she would be giving up any possible future with a husband and perhaps children of her own kept her from actually considering it. Well . . . almost.

  These days apart were taking their toll. She didn’t know how much longer she could stop herself from approaching him.

  “William looks very ill,” her aunt said after catching her breath. “My dear, he asked to speak with you directly. I’m sure this can only mean one thing.”

  Merribeth glanced over her shoulder and met Sophie’s gaze. Perhaps William’s affection for her had only needed time and space. “Do you think he means to propose?” The idea churned inside her stomach like seawater.

  “Why else?”

  She felt her legs tremble a bit when she stood and walked to the door. “Perhaps he only means to apologize for ruining my reputation.” There. That made her feel marginally better.

  Sophie shook her head and adjusted her spectacles. “I think not, for he wouldn’t be in such a state. It stands to reason that he has suddenly realized he wanted to marry you all along.”

  Merribeth’s legs nearly gave out. It felt as if the room were rocking beneath her like a ship at sea. This was it, then. The moment she’d hoped would come. The moment she now dreaded.

  Without another word, she steeled herself and made her way downstairs.

  Everything her aunt had said was true. William looked quite changed—his cheeks ruddy, his eyes solemn but clear, his pale hair swept back from his forehead as if he’d ridden against the wind for miles. Aside from that day in the garden, he’d always been perfectly composed. She could see he was struggling with it now and realized he would never let down his guard completely with her. And she would never want him to.

  He bowed to her in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Merr.”

  “And you,” she said in all sincerity. His face was nearly as familiar as her own. There was a sense of comfort in that. But the parlor was not the place to hold their conversation, especially with Daniela Pearce, Sir Colin, and Lady Cordelia eagerly watching their exchange. “Would you care to walk the grounds?”

  He gave her a smile that was more relief than happiness and inclined his head. “I’d love nothing more.”

  Outside, the air was pleasantly warm, with a slight breeze that brought the scent of fresh straw to her. Her gaze naturally drifted to the stables, where she saw groomsmen using pitchforks to toss tangles of golden stalks through an open door. A movement from within drew her attention as well. Bane.

  The moment she saw him, her pulse quickened. However, the beats felt hollow against her wrists and throat.

  She missed him. A lonely ache resided in her breast, and she knew instinctively that he was the only one to ease the pain of it. She’d enjoyed their unlikely friendship from the beginning. Now, the certainty of living without it for the rest of her life made her feel empty.

  These days apart from him had seemed to drag on and on. Yet each night in her dreams they went by too quickly. Because each night in her dreams, she imagined herself with him.

  Of course, she tried to stop dreaming of him, of how it would be if she gave herself to him, agreeing to become his mistress for whatever duration.

  She wanted to dream of her life with William, instead—the small house in the village, the children they could have, the certainty of having him back in her life the way it had been since her parents had died.

  Yet no matter how hard she tried, the image wouldn’t form in her mind. William’s was not the face she saw when she closed her eyes.

  Pathetic, she knew. Apparently, her romantic sensibilities had completely taken over. She was a new spectacle on display of Wallflower Specimens and Doomed Romantic Notions.

  William released a heavy sigh, drawing her attention back to him. For a moment, she’d forgotten he was walking beside her. He had his face tipped up to the sky, but his features were drawn as if in agony, as if a great weight were pressing down upon him.

  “William, are you unwell?” she asked, her hand automatically reaching out to rest against his forearm.

  He stopped and scrubbed his eyes. “I don’t know how to go about this, so I’ll just come right out and say it.” He blew out another agonized breath before he met her gaze. “I’ve abused our friendship abominably, Merr. It took some time before I realized it, but when I did, I knew there was only one thing that would set matters aright and that’s . . . marriage.”

  The air left her body in a sudden whoosh. “Our marriage?�
� she asked, just to be sure. She didn’t want another misunderstanding.

  He breathed out again, his brow furrowed. “Yes. You and I will marry. We’ll have a house in the village. Or perhaps, we’ll find a new place, and I, a new parish, where I can finish my instruction and leave . . . all else behind me.” His voice shook with those last few words, leaving her to wonder at its cause.

  A strong suspicion crept into her mind. “What about Miss Codington? I thought you’d planned to marry her and continue to be cleric beneath her father at the parish in Fernbough.”

  He closed his eyes and turned from her so that she couldn’t see his expression. “She has changed her mind.”

  Ah. So that’s what this was. William was hers again, but only by default. “Why?”

  “Her reason made no sense to me.” His shoulders sagged as he lowered his head. “She said that her father had decided against it shortly after he’d received a letter. Within it, she said, were things that brought my father’s character into question. My father is highly respected and revered. I knew that whatever slander she’d learned could not be true. When I told my father, he suggested that Miss Codington was most likely casting off blame for her own fickle mind and that she was no longer worthy of the Clairmore name.”

  Once again, Merribeth’s gaze wandered toward the stables to see the man who stood inside the shadows. Bane wore buff-colored riding breeches with only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow. He didn’t stand around waiting for the groomsmen to finish their task but grabbed a pitchfork of his own. Even though he didn’t acknowledge her presence, she knew he’d seen her. Against her will, she was drawn to him.

  “My father has many high-ranking friends, one of whom knows the Archbishop of Canterbury,” William said, turning to face her. He drew in a breath that seemed to fortify him, an instant before he dropped to one knee. “We can be married directly.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth, whether to hide her gasp or a sudden sob, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that a sense of certainty returned to her. It was swift as a storm at sea. As devastating as a wave crashing over the bow.

  Without a doubt, she knew she couldn’t marry him.

  They had been friends too long. Although he’d hurt her by making a declaration of love for another woman, deep down she wanted him to be happy. She wanted him to be with the woman who made him insane with love.

  At that thought, her gaze drifted toward the stables. Bane turned his back and disappeared into the shadows.

  It suddenly occurred to her that a life filled with certainty, whether it was spending her years with Mr. Clairmore or with Aunt Sophie, was no life at all without love.

  “Oh, William,” she said with a sigh born of self-loathing for having wanted this exact outcome—well, perhaps she would have preferred to be his first choice, solely for the sake of her ego. “We have been friends for a very long time. And as your friend, I cannot deceive you. You see . . . I do not love you.”

  From deep within the stable, Bane saw Miss Wakefield striding toward him. However, the last thing he wanted at this moment was to speak to her. He felt wounded, betrayed, and confused—the last because he had no business feeling the first two. She wasn’t his. She would never be his.

  Never. He’d made his decision. No matter what Clairmore’s father had done, he could not use her in any way to exact his revenge.

  “There is something I want to tell you,” she said, ignoring the fact that he was making every attempt to appear too busy for conversation.

  With his grip on the pitchfork handle, he searched for a pile of straw to stab. He didn’t want to hear about the return of Clairmore’s affections. “Ah, yes. Many felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.”

  “You were watching, then.” She set her hands on her hips as if something he’d said had angered her. Or perhaps it was his own anger spilling over and infecting her. Neither mattered. Not anymore.

  “I saw enough to know that soon you will have your singular desire—the certainty of your future. Isn’t that the secret for a happy marriage?”

  Now, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and arched that wicked brow at him. She looked utterly magnificent and he wanted—oh, how he wanted.

  “It is more than you’ve offered.”

  Torturing himself, he let his gaze roam over her face, absorbing every detail, memorizing the exact shade of blue in her eyes, every striation. “You forget; I am a man solely driven by revenge,” he declared, mocking himself as well. “That is my singular desire. Nothing else matters.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  He scoffed and pressed the tines deep into the dirt at his feet. “Do you know what I did to my grandfather’s estate when he died?” Not waiting for her response, he continued. “For the price of one horse, I allowed my mother’s people to loot and set fire to it.”

  She didn’t gasp, or start, or even stare at him in horror, as she was supposed to. Damn it all, her gaze softened.

  “Gypsy is that horse, isn’t she? That’s why she means so much to you.” Merribeth lowered her voice and took a step toward him. “I understand. But I need you to understand something too, before we part ways and never see each other again.”

  “The moment cannot come soon enough.” His statement lacked the necessary vehemence for conviction. He sounded more like a petulant child who’d had his most precious object stolen from him.

  Nonetheless, she ignored him and continued. “By not marrying, you’re not only ending the Fennecourt line but your mother’s as well. Don’t you see how you’re letting him win after all?”

  No. She was wrong. She simply didn’t understand the whole truth the way he did.

  “Because of him, my mother is not alive to care whether or not she has grandchildren. Both of my parents were robbed of a future of any kind—certain or not,” he mocked, and this time with enough spite to see her flinch. “I owe it to them to see their murderer pay the ultimate price.”

  Venus still didn’t give up. She took yet another step closer, her arms uncrossing as her hands lifted in a beseeching gesture. “Though I didn’t know your parents, I’m certain they loved you. They would have wanted you to spend your life surrounded by the people who bring you joy, not cut off out of misguided justice for a man who’s no longer alive to feel the punishment you’re inflicting.”

  Rage rose within him. How dare she tell him what his parents would have thought?

  Yet even as heated waves scoured his veins and tightened around his throat like a noose, he hated even more that she was getting to him. Her words blistered his skin like hot shards from a blacksmith’s hammer. More than anything, he wanted to silence her. He wanted to forget everything she’d ever said. Wipe her memory from the threads of his soul.

  But she was inside him now, tangled up in the jumble of knots that formed his entire being. It had all started with that damned kiss she’d borrowed. He wished he could give it back. Take her in his arms, crush her mouth to his, and kiss her until every fiber of her was dragged from him.

  “Tell me this,” she continued, daring to step closer. “If he is still able to feel your wrath, then what makes you think your parents aren’t able to feel sorrow for how empty your life has become?”

  He clenched his fists and dug the toes of his boots into the ground at his feet. He didn’t trust himself to keep the distance between them. What made it worse was knowing how readily she’d once welcomed his embrace.

  “Go, Miss Wakefield. Leave before you become my next victim.” He had to make her understand somehow. She didn’t realize how the idea of taking her, here and now, tempted him. If he did, he could finally have the one woman he craved with more passion than he ever remembered feeling. If he gave into Eve’s way of thinking and sullied Merribeth with his gypsy blood before she returned to Clairmore, he could have his ultimate revenge.

  The last thought sickened him but kept him apart from her. For the first time since his quest for revenge began, he was startin
g to have a conscience. He was starting to feel something more powerful than loathing. And that scared him most of all.

  “There is a way to have everything—revenge and happiness,” she whispered, her gaze locked on his as if she’d never been surer of anything else in her life. “You could marry.”

  The breath he drew was so harsh and bittersweet that it nearly choked him. “You don’t know what you’re saying. That would defeat the purpose.”

  “No. You said so yourself. Your revenge is about not letting your grandfather’s blood live on. You could marry a woman who loved you enough to understand.” Her cheeks flushed with the most exquisite color, like the barest blush inside the petal of a flower. “I’m sure you know ways to guard against having children, or else you’d already have failed in your quest.”

  “It wouldn’t work, and we both know it. After a year or even two, you—she,” he corrected, “would want a babe in her arms. I would be the vilest scum ever to walk the earth if I withheld anything from . . . her.”

  Her eyes filled suddenly, wrenching a new pain from his chest. He reached out to touch the tear on her cheek until he saw his hands were covered in filth. With a sigh that he felt to the very core of his soul, he dropped them.

  Down a few stalls, a groomsman appeared and cleared his throat. “It’s time, my lord.”

  Bane nodded before he turned back to Merribeth. “I must go. I’ll offer my farewells to you now, Miss Wakefield.” He studied her once more, committing every lash to memory. “I’ve a feeling Gypsy’s time won’t be easy, so I will not see you at the ball this evening. In fact, I’ll likely be gone at first light tomorrow as well. Just know that my only wish is for you to have a long and happy life.”

  Another tear spilled down her cheek, this one nearly bringing him to his knees. “If this is our last good-bye, then your wish is more of a curse.” She swiped at it and drew in a staggered breath before she turned away. “However, I shall wish the same for you, Lord Knightswold. And that every happiness life can afford is yours only to request.”