Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (2 page)

“That would certainly have made for a more interesting party.” As it was, the only people invited to Lady Amherst’s play were the scandalous—
her
—and the scandalmongers—
everyone else.
Or so it seemed.

“I’m so glad I could add my own turmoil to your list of this evening’s entertainment.” She should have known Eve wouldn’t understand. The woman lived and breathed scandal and likely held a permanent place on Lady Amherst’s invitation list.

“Oh, me too, darling,” Eve responded with a wide grin, apparently not understanding sarcasm.

Sophie, however, did understand and cast Merribeth a disapproving glare. “Eve was kind enough to procure an invitation at a time when our other options have diminished.”

It was true. She was ruined. News of Mr. Clairmore’s betrayal, after five years of being
nearly
betrothed, had spread through every fiber of the
ton
like red wine on muslin. Now, for the past ten days, the only correspondences they’d received were apologies and rescinded invitations, as if Mr. Clairmore’s leaving was
her
fault. That somehow she was lacking.

Perhaps she was.

She released a sigh. “You’re right, Aunt Sophie. Forgive me, Eve. Apparently, my nerves have overrun my manners. I’m having trouble deciding which is worse: blending into the wallpaper as if every gown I wore were a damask print or these sideways glances of speculation.”

“At least people notice you’re not simply a wallpaper ornament,” Eve said as she smoothed her hands down the front of a daringly cut plum-silk gown. Only weeks into mourning the loss of her second husband, no one would ever accuse Eve of blending in. In fact, most men said she rivaled her biblical namesake for Queen Temptress.

“Yes, I’m the piece peeling away from the crown molding,” Merribeth muttered under her breath. Everyone noticed a flaw.

“Were we to live in a more primitive society, you could very well have been stoned for the rumors against you. Then again, I suppose this was the
ton
’s way of doing the same, just shy of the cut direct.” Sophie retrieved a handkerchief from inside her glove and began to rub the lenses of her spectacles, mulling over them in contemplation.

It wasn’t until her distinctive sense of logic was met with silence that she looked up. No doubt, she saw all the color drain from Merribeth’s face when she replaced her spectacles. She cleared her throat. “Perhaps coming here was a mistake after all.”

Merribeth cringed. Her aunt’s more bookish nature didn’t always provide her with the sense of comfort she craved. Not that she didn’t appreciate all that her aunt had sacrificed over the years, but right at this moment, she wished her mother and father were still alive.

Eve spun around and shook her head. “Not attending would have been tantamount to confirming that Mr. Clairmore found her reputation lacking in some way. After all, he’s declared his love for a vicar’s daughter. Anyone would look sullied by comparison and, mind you”—she pointed the tip of her fan at Merribeth—“that was precisely the argument that helped procure your invitation.”

The argument did nothing to bolster Merribeth’s confidence or resume the blood flow to her cheeks. With her aunt and Eve, she need never worry about being coddled. In fact, part of her had always wondered if Eve had insisted on sponsoring her for a Season solely out of charity. Yet anyone who was acquainted with her above a week’s time soon realized that Eve didn’t possess altruistic intentions, no matter what Aunt Sophie might want to believe.

“Yet this entire scheme won’t work if you continue to cower whenever your gaze is met. Stop looking like a stable puppy afraid of being kicked,” Eve continued. “You must be confident. Head raised. Shoulders back. You must show them all that you have done nothing to lose Mr. Clairmore’s good opinion and that he . . . merely had cold feet.”

“Cold feet,” Sophie mused, as if the two words were a cipher.

Merribeth looked from Eve to her aunt and felt like a puzzle missing several pieces. That day in the garden, when Mr. Clairmore had professed his overwhelming ardor for another woman, it hadn’t seemed like cold feet to her. It had seemed more maniacal than anything else. He’d been positively possessed.

“It wasn’t planned, you see. This violent feeling for Miss Codington has taken me by surprise,” he said with a laugh as he looked up to the sky. Closing his eyes, an incandescent smile broke over his face, as if he were reciting a prayer of thanks.

She remembered staring at him, all the while wondering if she’d heard him correctly. Miss Codington, the vicar’s daughter? Surely she’d been mistaken. The reason William had wanted to speak with her privately was because he was finally going to make their betrothal official, proposing in a grand romantic gesture. Any moment, he would have kneeled down. She’d been sure of it.

However, his words had disoriented her, forcing her to repeat them inside her mind. Even now, she tried to make sense of what he’d said. Why should feeling violent toward someone make him happy? And shouldn’t he feel violently—
whatever that meant
—toward her and not Miss Codington?

Then, when he’d looked at her and his smile hadn’t faltered for a single, solitary moment, she’d thought—
hoped
—he would tell her it was all a joke. A horribly cruel joke.

Instead, he’d laughed again and scratched the top of his head, mussing his golden locks in a way she’d never seen him do before. His eyes had been wild, his grin peculiarly lopsided. He’d looked a bit mad. Even more so when he’d reached out, snagged a cluster of lilacs from the overgrown shrub beside her, and buried his nose in the blossoms, inhaling the fragrance with obvious reverence.

“I never knew it could be like this . . .
should
be like this. Oh, Merr, I’m quite overcome with the rawness inside me. You would laugh to know how savage I feel when I’m near her, not at all the sedate, even stoic person I’ve always thought myself to be. Yet one simple kiss changed all that. Her lips . . . Great heavens! Her lips are like summer wine, and her skin is incredibly soft . . . soft like butter.”

“But,”
Eve said with enough volume to pull Merribeth out of the memory. The scent of dying lilacs drifted through the open window, mocking her. “There is only one way to end all this speculation. You must get Mr. Clairmore back.”

“I must . . .
what
?” Now, the remaining blood in her body turned as cold as seawater.

Eve held up a hand. “Even if you no longer want him, you must get him back. That is the
only
way to save your reputation.”

“The only thing a renewal of Mr. Clairmore’s affections could prove would be that he doesn’t know his own mind,” Sophie intervened. “Besides, you assured me that attending this ghastly event would be the start of restoring her reputation.”

Merribeth was inclined to agree with her aunt. After all, that
had been
the plan.

It was like having opposing angels on either side of her. While Sophie and Eve had shared something of a friendship since their debuts nearly eighteen years ago, they couldn’t be more different. One was patient and cerebral, while the other had a reputation for causing trouble solely for the sake of her own amusement. Merribeth hoped this new proposal would not fall under the latter’s category.

“Precisely. The
ton
will see the alteration in his affections was merely the whim of a young man who didn’t know better.”

A whim for Mr. Clairmore, perhaps, but for Merribeth, it had been five years of waiting. Five years since William had made the comment about how easy it would be to marry her. Five years since she’d begun to see the future they could have together.

Yet in all those years, absolute certainty had remained elusive. While he’d spoken of marriage and children and a house in the village square, he’d never officially proposed. At least, not to her.

Now, she was no longer certain of anything.

Merribeth doubted Eve’s latest plan could change that. “Mr. Clairmore was the one who decided he no longer wanted to marry me. What makes you think he’ll change his mind?”

“We all
want
what we cannot have. So let him see that you’ve moved on without him and
make
him want you.”

Ignoring the frisson of warning that slithered down her spine, Merribeth asked, “How?”

A triumphant smile lit Eve’s face, rivaling the light emitted from the wall sconces. “Nothing unpleasant, I assure you. Simply spend a few moments in the company of a rake.”

Merribeth went still. It certainly wasn’t what she’d expected Eve to say. Then again, since when did Lady Eve Sterling say anything expected?

Sophie gasped. “I hardly think a seducer of young women is the answer to my niece’s prayers.”

“Perhaps she isn’t saying the right ones, then.” Eve laughed and then quickly pursed her lips. “Oh Sophie, it isn’t as if I’m suggesting her ruination.”

Her aunt settled her hands on her hips, her mouth a tight line. “Then what?”

“Merely a moment. A flirting glance. A whispered conversation. Perhaps even . . . a kiss.” She held up her hand, as if she were giving a reprimand on decorum, not lecturing on the finer points of debauchery.

“Surely a few more parties and balls, dancing with handsome,
respectable
gentlemen would work just as well,” Sophie coolly suggested. The only problem was, they weren’t receiving new invitations to parties or balls. By the silence that followed, everyone in the room realized it too—which left only Eve’s option.

“Kissing a rake will make her feel desirable. Confident. Every woman knows that when she feels a certain way, it shows. Men are drawn to that,” Eve said simply, as if she held an apple in her hands and had asked them both to take a bite, whispering a promise that
it wouldn’t hurt anything
.

Against her better judgment, Merribeth found her interest sparked. Was there a way to get Mr. Clairmore back, along with her future and her sense of certainty? While Eve’s plan seemed far-fetched at best, her manner of delivery was persuasive. Eve exuded confidence in all aspects of her life. In turn, men were drawn to her like black threads to white cambric—

What was she thinking? She couldn’t possibly be considering this. “We’ll be attending your house party by the end of this week. Therefore, I won’t even see Mr. Clairmore in time to make him jealous.” Not to mention, she was more inclined to rail at him for the havoc he’d caused instead of attempting to lure him back.

“I’ll invite Mr. Clairmore to the ball on the last night of the party and suggest in the invitation that it will be his chance to make amends.” As if the matter were settled with Merribeth, Eve turned to Sophie and pressed her hands together in a gesture of supplication. “If that toad Mr. Clairmore had ever kissed our dear girl with any ounce of fervor, then she wouldn’t be one step away from shriveling up like a grape left unattended on the vine. Just look at her, Soph. Doesn’t she deserve a chance to experience what we both felt when we were younger, however fleeting it was?”

A shriveled grape, indeed!
Merribeth’s lips parted at the insult. She felt as if she were watching Lady Amherst’s play after all. Any moment, the crowd would start to applaud, and the curtain would fall.

But then, to her surprise, her aunt’s thoughtful gaze darted from Eve to her, as if the comment were a widely accepted fact, and the idea of kissing a rake held merit.

“It’s the surest way to save her reputation and mend her broken heart,” Eve said, pulling Sophie nearer to her way of thinking. Her aunt’s pale brow furrowed for an instant. Eve offered a small nod, as if an understanding passed between these friends.

That is enough!
It was one thing to refer to her as an aging fruit but quite another to presume to know the inner workings of her heart, broken or otherwise. Lately, she’d been too confused and angry to decide exactly how she felt. At the very least, she should be allowed to decide for herself.

Merribeth released a frustrated breath that blew the curls from her forehead. “Forgive me for mentioning this, but I’m still in the room.”

“Gracious!” Eve said with a laugh and snapped open her fan, half-hiding behind it. “With your Wakefield brow, you look positively mocking.”

A fact that could hardly be helped. She was, after all, a Wakefield.

While her late mother had been touted as a pure beauty, with flaxen hair and soft beatific features, Merribeth had inherited her father’s devilishly dark hair and sharp, angular eyebrows. During his life, he’d been famous for the severe arch. However, her feminine version of the same had only brought her censure. Those who did not take the time to know her assumed her mocking countenance meant she saw herself as superior.

As a gently bred woman with no dowry to speak of, that was hardly the case. Only her aunt and her closest friends in the needlework circle truly knew her. Oh, how she wished Penelope, Emma, and Delaney were here to help her through this evening.

Merribeth did her best to school her features and rearranged the fall of curls over her forehead for good measure, silently wishing that her Wakefield brow was the only flaw in her appearance.

Sophie didn’t seem to notice and instead walked toward the door. “We should return. I’m certain we’ve missed the first act by now. Surely we can discuss this new plan to greater depth before your party.”

“Of course,” Eve said, closing her fan with a snap, a slow grin curling the corners her mouth as they started down the hall. When they neared the stairs, she stopped abruptly. “Devil take it! I’ve forgotten my lorgnette.”

Sophie placed her hand on the polished rail. “I’m certain you’ll see the play clearly enough. It is a very small amphitheater.”

“The lorgnette isn’t for the play, darling,” Eve purred as she turned to Merribeth and glanced down the hallway. “How careless of me. I must have left my reticule in the study when I stole in there for a glass of port earlier. Merribeth, be a dear and fetch them for me. It’s just at the end of this hall and around the corner.”

Merribeth hesitated, suddenly suspicious of the
tragedy
of the missing reticule.