Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series (7 page)

Merribeth knew she’d never have survived Mr. Clairmore’s betrayal without them.

With a laugh at the clerk’s discomfort, Delaney said, “Oh, go ahead and give me that horrid chartreuse as well. I’ll give it to Miss Pursglove as a peace offering the next time I incur her wrath by acting like myself instead of a soldier of decorum.”

Merribeth exchanged looks with Emma and Penelope. Delaney was impulsive to a fault, and there was no reining her in—not that they’d ever want to. To them, she was quite perfect just the way she was. However, to her decorum instructor, the dour Miss Pursglove . . . well, there was no hope to gain her good opinion. Not that Delaney wanted it. No, in fact, she was guaranteed permanent placement on Miss Pursglove’s vexation list. New battle lines were drawn between the two of them daily.

“What length would you like in the silver, Merribeth?” Delaney asked, as the clerk set about wrapping the ribbon in brown paper and string.

“I am not interested in the silver,” she lied.

Delaney made a passable attempt at intimidation with the lift of her brow. “I beg to differ. You were practically ogling the entire spool.”

“Ogling,”
Merribeth scoffed—which might have been convincing if not for a wave of heat rising to her cheeks. “If you’ll recall, I’m going out of town and will have no need of it.”

With Merribeth’s meager allowance, she couldn’t afford it anyway. Even though Delaney could, as a matter of personal pride, she didn’t want her friend to buy it for her. Besides, her friend would want to see what she chose to create with it, and all Merribeth wanted to do was hold it in her hands and stare at it for hours, remembering the heated shimmer in a certain gentleman’s gaze.

“Don’t remind me,” Delaney huffed, dropping her new purchase into her periwinkle reticule before cinching the silver cords. “I hope you know, you are leaving me to face the wolves alone.”

“Oh dear,” Merribeth said, with Emma and Penelope mirroring her concern. “I thought the backlash from last year’s . . .
incident
. . . had died down.”

The members of their needlework circle vowed never to speak of it. However, if her friend was suffering any of the societal injustice that had recently befallen her, then Merribeth was determined to speak of it and help in any way she could.

Delaney laughed. “I’m afraid
that
will never be forgotten. No doubt, they’ll have it inscribed on my gravestone.
Here lies Delaney McFarland, the woman who
—Oh bother, what is
he
doing here?”

Merribeth looked up to see none other than Mr. Croft, the famed second party to
the incident
. Thankfully, he merely inclined his head in greeting but made no attempt to cross the store in order to speak with them. Besides that, he seemed quite busy acting as chaperone to three of his sisters. Merribeth knew of a fourth as well, but she was perhaps too young for an afternoon outing.

Since he’s done them a service not long ago, she returned the greeting, keeping her society-approved smile in place.

However, Delaney did not. “That man seems to have no other purpose than to vex me. No matter where I go, he’s there, in far too close proximity. And you know what happens when we are seen together, don’t you?”

Merribeth knew. Seeing them together only reminded the entire
ton
of the infamous incident.

“I will never live it down so long as he frequents the same establishments.” Delaney cinched the silver cords on her reticule tighter. “Though why he should step into
Haversham’s
of all places when
Forester’s
is far closer to his part of town, I shall never—” Her words stopped abruptly when Elena Mallory, gossip monger extraordinaire, sidled in and batted her sparse lashes up at him. “Of course. How lovely that my cousin should be here as well. No doubt she’s behind this, hoping to create another scandal by luring him to a shop we’re known to frequent.”

“Surprisingly enough, she was not in attendance at Lady Amherst’s last night. A fact for which I am ever grateful,” Merribeth murmured. They’d ceased their acquaintance with Miss Mallory earlier in the Season when she’d tried to embroil Emma and Lord Rathburn in a scandal by spreading vicious gossip.

Her statement earned Delaney’s interest. “Why, exactly, are you grateful Elena wasn’t there? Strike that—the list is too endless. It’s obvious why you wouldn’t want her there. Both she and Lady Amherst are founding members of the
Scandalmonger Society
, I’m sure. Unless . . .” She drew in an excited breath. “You’re telling me there was a
reason
she wasn’t there. Or perhaps that something newsworthy happened, and you’ve yet to tell me? If it’s the latter, I will forgive you only if you tell
all
this instant.”

“Tell
all
of . . . what?” Emma asked as she rejoined them, holding the strings of her purchase.

Penelope flanked her other side and leaned in to whisper. “Did something happen at Lady Amherst’s?”

Emma tsked. “That woman is notoriously cruel. I knew you shouldn’t have gone. If she said anything to you, I’ll . . .” She stopped and pulled on the corner of her mouth as if she were thinking. “I’ll have the dowager give her the cut direct.”

“If it was something truly dreadful, you don’t have to speak of it,” Penelope added, already acting like the perfect mother hen, even though the birth of her first child was still four months away. “You have our full support.”

Delaney gasped. “Dreadful or not, she still has to tell us. After all, how can we support her fully without having the details?”

In unison, they turned their gazes on Delaney, who lowered her lashes in a pretense of shame. No one was fooled.

Merribeth lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose the way Aunt Sophie did.
Drat!
How did she get herself into these conundrums? Her vow of not thinking, let alone speaking, of last night was pointless now. “Not here.”

At least that was something upon which they could all agree. In the next few moments, they made their way through the door and to Penelope’s carriage, which waited beside the pavement.

As the carriage drove them back to Danbury Lane, Merribeth took a deep breath, and focused on the bright side. The truth was, she didn’t have to tell her friends, or anyone for that matter,
everything
that had happened last night. That stolen moment would forever be hers and hers alone. After all, she highly doubted someone like the infamous Lord Knightswold would remember her from amongst the hordes of other women he’d kissed.

As if summoned by her thoughts, a coal-black top hat caught the corner of her eye as they passed a gentleman on the pavement. The rumble of horses’ hooves, plodding on the dusty streets, nearly sent her heart over the edge.

Unbidden, a memory swept over her.
You have brandy-sipping lips. Supple, with the slightest pout where their color changes from dusky pink to a deeper shade.

Her cheeks grew warm.

At her very core, Merribeth was a romantic. However, losing Mr. Clairmore and her expectations of a future forced her to see things in a different light.

Merribeth decided that perhaps a different viewpoint was just the thing she needed to get through this crisis. From this point forward, she would adopt a bit of practicality and cynicism in order to keep her romantic notions in check.

“Now, tell us of Lady Amherst’s.”

Instantly, her mind returned to the darkened study, the sound of his voice, the feel of his fingers nudging hers apart.
No doubt, you even prefer coffee over tea.

“You see . . .” Merribeth cleared her throat, wishing her mind would clear as well. “The thing is . . . I didn’t exactly see the play.” She was about to say that she wished she’d stayed home entirely but found the words blocked by her protesting lips. Indeed, her lips were very glad she’d gone.

She felt another rush of heat to her cheeks.

Delaney studied her. “We’ve already clarified you were present at Lady Amherst’s, which leads me to believe this little tidbit you’re sharing has nothing to do with Elena Mallory.”

Merribeth swallowed, her gaze passing from Delaney to Emma.

“By the way you’ve been distracted today, I’d venture to guess that
something
happened last night.” Emma blinked at her. “Though you don’t have to talk about it . . . if you don’t want to.”

Something
, indeed.

“Not really,” Merribeth lied. “I made an appearance, bore the scrutiny, adjourned to the retiring room”—she left out the shameful bit about molesting Lord Knightswold—“and then returned home early to finish packing for the house party.”

Penelope reached over to squeeze her fingers. “Then it was truly horrible. I worried for you.”

“I know. You all warned me how it would be. Especially after Delaney went last year. However, I had to make an appearance in order to work my way back into the fold.”

The trio scoffed at that.

“It isn’t fair for you to be punished because Mr. Clairmore is an idiot.”

“True,” Merribeth agreed. Who was she to argue? “Lady Eve says that I should get him back and that it could be the only way to restore my reputation. Sophie agrees with her.”

Delaney scowled and lifted a finger as if ready to rally the troops for battle. Then she shook her head and went still. Her hand lowered to her lap, her fingers drumming automatically, as if unable to hold still for too long. “It could work . . .
if
you could somehow lure him back.”

“Eve claims that men are drawn to confident women and that I’ve been acting like a stable puppy, afraid of being kicked.”

Their gazes fell away. “Well, lately . . .”

Ouch
. She’d hoped they hadn’t noticed how lost she felt. Yet they were her friends for a reason. Merribeth nodded. She hesitated but then said, “There was
another
part of her plan.”

“Oh?”

“She claims that flirting instills confidence.”

“Flirting? I suppose,” Emma interjected, “with the right man, that is. As long as he’s receptive. You wouldn’t want to flirt with an overly shy gentleman and end up scaring him off. You both could end up scarred for life. Then again, you wouldn’t want it to be the other way around either.”

“Certainly not,” Penelope agreed. “There are scores of men to avoid. Rakes, in particular. A sensible man would be the best for your task. While a sensible gentleman is occasionally a challenge to flirt with, he is worth the effort.” No doubt she was referring to her own Mr. Weatherstone.

“I don’t know, Penelope,” Emma said, that glowing smile returning to her face. “A rake—at least a reformed rake—might be the perfect man for the task.” No doubt she was thinking of her own husband.

“A rake?” Delaney asked, incredulous. “Even a reformed rake would bring her only more scandal. And I know better than each of you how easy it is to have your name on everyone’s lips. I don’t want that to happen to our Merribeth.”

They were all trying to protect her, yet she was the one who’d already kissed a rake. And
not
the reformed type either. If anyone needed to worry about taking flirting too far, it was she. “I’m certain Eve will employ the assistance of one of her friends to guarantee the latter doesn’t happen.”

The three of them exchanged a look of doubt, Eve’s reputation having preceded her. However, no one said it aloud.

“Then, only one question remains,” Penelope said. “Is the return of Mr. Clairmore’s affections truly what you want?”

The question gave Merribeth pause. He’d hurt her when he confessed to such passionate feelings about Miss Codington. After last night, however, she could see how easily a simple kiss could addle one’s brain.

Perhaps that’s all it was for him—a temporary madness. If that were true, then Eve’s plan was bound to work. Yet more distressingly, she couldn’t help wondering why the idea didn’t make her feel any better. After having her own indiscretion, could she forgive him his?

“What I want is . . .”
not to have my greatest fear come to fruition, not to face my future alone, not to live each day in uncertainty
. The words clogged her throat, and she had to clear them away. “Mr. Clairmore, of course.”

“There is one way to know for sure,” Emma said and reached over to place a small parcel on Merribeth’s lap.

“What’s this?”

“It’s from all of us,” Penelope said, and the others nodded. “We’ve noticed how you’ve lost interest in needlework.”

Merribeth untied the string and unfolded the paper. Inside were a gentleman’s handkerchief, a length of silver embroidery thread, and a shiny new needle. “Thank you, but I don’t understand.”

“Do you remember the handkerchiefs Penelope embroiders for Mr. Weatherstone each year?” Emma asked. “I did the same for Oliver for a wedding gift.”

Merribeth looked to her friends, not quite understanding. “You think I should put Mr. Clairmore’s initials on this?”

“No . . . well, only if Mr. Clairmore is the man you truly love. This is a way to be certain.
If
you love him, that is.” Which, apparently, Delaney didn’t believe for an instant.

Merribeth had to wonder—did she?

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

L
ady Eve Sterling’s country manor was located in Suffolk, not far from the harbor. As Merribeth exited the carriage, a cool breeze rushed over the peony blossoms, and a sweetly scented caress stirred the raven locks escaping her bonnet. She stared in awe at the sprawling stone manor that would be her home for the next two weeks.

According to Sophie, the land and property had been in Eve’s family since the sixteenth century, a gift once bestowed on a knight of the realm. The manor came complete with gatehouse, stables, chapel, and a pond that had been a moat centuries ago.

Ahead of her stood a wide oaken doorway. Recessed into the stone façade, narrow mullioned windows lined the first and second floors, catching the early afternoon light. The third story hosted dormers that resembled eyebrows arched in speculation.

Merribeth knew a thing or two about that. “How many guests did you say were attending?”

Sophie directed the footmen with their luggage and then turned to answer her. “I believe there will be twelve in total.”