The Wallflower Duchess

‘I hope you don’t overestimate me, Miss Hightower.’

He’d wanted to make his mark in life by the time he reached thirty. He’d thought he’d be able to use his influence in Parliament to produce more jobs for the people put out of work by the mechanised looms, but his progress was much slower than he’d expected. Marriage had seemed the logical next step after his work. And he’d just assumed Lily understood. The few times he’d spoken with her as an adult and told her how much progress he was making, and had said personal duties would come afterwards, she’d nodded her head in complete understanding.

He’d thought.

Now Lily stood in front of him and she must have seen something on his face. She put her hand out, not touching him, but hovering above his sleeve. She smiled. ‘So you will be at our soirée next week and consider courting my sister?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ She stepped back, eyes widening before the lids lowered, her hand falling to her side. ‘No?’

Neither spoke.

‘Are you certain?’ The words came out carefully, hesitant. ‘You’re not going to marry Abigail?’ She examined him closer than Gaunt had when he’d been checking Edge to see if he had a pulse.

‘I can’t believe you ask that.’

She took in a breath and somehow managed to hold it. ‘Do you have any plans for marriage?’ Her voice rose, her arm moved out and she patted as if touching the top of small heads. ‘A family of your own. Little heirs. A little group all snuggled together at bedtime.’

‘I do not think of it quite the same as going to a litter of kittens and picking out the one with the healthiest yowl.’ Then he thought of Lily falling from the tree and hid his smile. ‘Although I’m not opposed to a healthy yowl.’

‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But you have to admit my sister would make a good duchess.’

‘Your sister is a pleasant person. But I’ve never seen her as a duchess. Ever.’

Mouse-brown eyes stared up at him and a flutter in the area of his heart gave him pause. His mother was right. Lily had grown into her eyes, although he did not think her comment about his marrying her sister deserved explanation.

Because of his father’s words claiming it to be true, people had assumed Edge would marry the younger Hightower sister. It had suited Edge’s purpose to let people believe the tale. It deflected false hope in mothers angling their daughters to catch his eye and kept him from having to dodge flirtations. Besides, he’d always known he would some day marry Lily. He’d decided it and the idea had flickered through his thoughts on occasion, seeming more perfect each time, and he’d just known Lily felt the same way. How could she not? True, he always danced with her sister first, then Lily last so he could linger with her without Abigail fluttering around waiting for her dance.

And they’d not said much, but he’d not thought there was a need. They’d stood by each other, companionably, watching the others. If that did not signal a deep interest then he did not know what could have. He’d stayed late at a noisy soirée with music and chatter drowning out all words so he could spend a few moments at her side. Never had he done that with another woman.

‘Stop looking so grim.’ She mocked his face, a forced snarl to her lips. ‘It hasn’t hurt my sister to be considered as your potential bride. Quite the opposite. She received the best education and the envy of so many people.’

He shrugged internally, realising he didn’t quite understand women as well as he’d thought. ‘So, on the day you mentioned that your father would be so happy to have a duke in the family...’ Well, he’d misinterpreted that statement. Her sister had been the last person on his mind as he’d waltzed with Lily that night.

He knew without question she’d always been pleased to have a private word with him. And when she’d spoken about how well Abigail was growing up, he’d noted it as a statement of how well Lily had taken care of her sister and how Lily would be a good mother...to his children. He’d not imagined her as assuming he had any interest in Abigail. Abigail?

‘Edge.’ This time her lips pressed firmly before speaking and he knew she didn’t jest. ‘I know you’re an honourable man and, since you’ve said nothing, I started to worry we’d misunderstood. No one will court her because they think you have her planned for a bride. Father has frowned upon any other suitors. She’s going to end up a spinster if she waits almost for ever for you and then after she’s rejected everyone else you look in a different direction.’

‘I have never once indicated any intention to marry Abigail.’ He’d treated her with extra notice because he did plan for her to be family. His wife’s sister.

‘Well, Father has so much money I suppose we could purchase a husband for her later on.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I do feel you should have told me, though.’

‘I thought I indicated my intentions to you.’

‘That you intended to marry Abigail.’ Her words accused. ‘Yes. And she’s said she’s tired of waiting on you and she’s determined to wed before the year is out. It is on her list.’

‘Her list, or your list?’

‘It is on her list, above finishing the embroidery sampler. That sampler will never make it to the wall. However, Abigail will make it to the church... And it is on my list, too. Finding my sister a suitable match.’

‘I will attend the soirée, but—’ The same feeling of the ground crumbling beneath him he’d had when he’d fallen into the water overtook him. His breath shortened. What if Lily didn’t—wouldn’t marry him?

She walked closer, a form he could not decipher behind the dark clothing, and reached out, again stopping just before touching his arm. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said. Her voice quavered.

‘Lily—’

She smoothed the edge of the veil and the view of black covering her eyes shot into his body, the same as another brush with death. Darkness choked him at the thought of her not being in his life.

Lily moved away, walking towards the door. The air stirred and a light floral scent swirled around him.

The whiff of the perfume jarred him to his boots. He couldn’t have spoken even if he could have thought of something to say.

He kept from moving forward. He’d thought himself delirious after he’d been burned and when he recovered he’d shoved the memory aside, not wanting to accept that his mind had been so addled.

But it hadn’t been an angel sitting at his bedside. He knew the second the trace of flowers touched his nose that Lily had been in his sickroom, comforting his mother.

He slightly remembered his mother leaning over his form in bed and wishing him a happy birthday and dripping a tear on his face and then smudging it off and bursting into loud sobs and running from the room.

Foxworthy had spoken from somewhere in the chamber and said that there wasn’t anything to worry about because Edge’s brother had three sons to pass the title to.

Anger had blasted over his last embers of life, giving him strength to move his hand. He was going to do one last thing and then die.

He’d tried to curl the fingers down, except for the middle one, but he didn’t think he’d made it before an angel had taken his hand, pressing, covering his fist. A feminine touch held his fingers. The skin was cool—refreshing after the heat that smothered him. An angel to ease his pain and take him from life.

He’d squeezed the fingers twice.

The angel had grabbed him and jostled him, sending aches throughout his body. But then she’d hugged him, pressing closer. A wisp of her hair had tickled his nose and the flowery soap she used had masked the sickroom scent. Her touch worked better than laudanum and the pain had abated. He’d breathed in, trying to keep the scent of her locked inside him and the feel of her cheek imprinted on his.

‘Hurry and get better,’ she’d whispered, her lips at his ear.

The touch made his blood flow and his heart beat, but when her hands left him, he’d been unable to move to follow her.

He’d wanted her to stay. Ached for her to stay, but it was a different kind of pain than the jagged throbs that had sliced him.

She’d told him to get better and he’d done it. For her. For the angel. For Lily. And he’d be damned if he didn’t ask her to marry him.

Chapter Two

‘Gaunt.’ Edgeworth stepped from the window when his valet entered. ‘Are my things prepared?’

‘Your Grace?’ Gaunt tilted his head forward in question.

‘For my neighbour’s little...’ he waved his hand in a circular motion and sat at his dressing mirror, pleased that his face had regained the look of health ‘...soirée. Surely you have my clothes ready.’ Keeping his eyes on the mirror, Edge asked. ‘You do have my clothing ready. You have not forgotten?’

‘Um, yes, Your Grace. Of course.’ Gaunt stepped away, feet brisk.

Edgeworth didn’t move. In one brief moment, he’d seen Gaunt’s eyes reflected in the mirror. Even as he answered with the usual unruffled respect, the valet’s eyes had briefly looked heavenward. Exasperated.

Edgeworth stared at the looking glass. Gaunt had been Edgeworth’s only valet—ever. And the servant never forgot a—Edgeworth thought back. He’d not told Gaunt of the soirée. No. He had no memory of mentioning it. He’d been busy catching up with all the duties that had fallen by the wayside while he recovered and he’d been planning his proposal. But it didn’t matter. Gaunt was always prepared.

When Gaunt returned, he had the same stoic expression as always—except for the few moments before when he’d not known himself observed. Now Gaunt whipped things about just as if he’d been told earlier of their need. Warm water appeared. Clothes were readied. Shaving was quickly accomplished, with the little splash of the scent which Gaunt said was nasturtiums and Edgeworth suspected was merely an ordinary shaving soap put in an expensive container.

Edgeworth gave a final perusal of himself, though he knew the valet would have alerted him to any flaw.

‘I can’t believe you forgot the soirée,’ Edge said.

‘Nor can I.’

No flicker of irritation. Perhaps Gaunt did think he’d forgotten.

Edge took the comb and did another run through his hair, then set the comb on the edge of the tabletop, absently letting it fall to the floor. When he stood, he picked up the dry cloth on the table, brushed it at his cheek, wadded it into a ball and tossed it over the soap pot. On the way out, he glanced at Gaunt’s expression. Calmness rested in his eyes.

The Duke paused outside the door, shutting it, but then he stopped and opened it quietly. Gaunt retrieved the comb, putting it in the spot it belonged. Then retrieved the flannel and his cheeks puffed. He wrung the cloth once, and then again, and again, as if it were—perhaps, a neck. Then he precisely smoothed it before returning it to the exact spot Edge preferred.

Pulling the door softly shut behind him, Edgeworth paused. The towel had not been wet, but if it had been his neck, he wouldn’t be going to the soirée.

* * *

Lily walked to Abigail’s room and peered in. Her sister had the face of her mother, a perfect heart shape, and her father’s fair colouring and blonde hair.

Lily supposed her colouring came from her true father. At the one time she’d seen the blacksmith, she’d not been aware that men could pass their resemblance on to their children. She was thankful for that.

Her mother had jerked Lily’s hand forward, pulling her into the invisible wall of heat and charred odours which separated the shop from the alive world. A blacksmith had appeared, standing like a gruff ogre at a fire where his next meal could be roasted—or a fire where a little girl who’d stepped too near could be tossed.

His eyes couldn’t have been gleaming red-hot—he was human—but in her memory he’d had red eyes, blocks of huge teeth and his wet hair had spiked down the sides of his face into points.

When the stories in the newspaper were published about her birth and she fully considered what that really meant, she’d shuddered. Fortune had plucked her into a princess world where even her maid hummed. Being illegitimate wasn’t nearly so bad as the thought of how different life would have been with the man whose walls hung dark with long pinchers.

She’d only had the one nightmare where he’d grabbed her with the pinchers and tossed her into the flames, laughing and telling her she didn’t belong in the rich man’s world. She belonged in the coals.

Now, Lily appraised her sister, thankful for the brightness Abigail brought into the world.

‘You look like a princess.’ Lily leaned around the doorway.

‘I feel like one, too.’

Lily smiled and left, moving down the stairs to the ballroom. Tonight, instead of frowning at any man who stood too close to Abigail, she would smile and step into the shadows.

She took a breath before she walked into the ballroom, the scent of the specially ordered candles wafting through the air. She fluffed out the capped sleeves of her gown. The dress was three Seasons old, but the embroidery on the bodice and hem had taken a seamstress months and months to complete.

She paused when she took in the broad shoulders and firm stance of Edgeworth. The man to the left was taller. The one to the right had a merry face and narrow frame. Edgeworth was not above average in height and features, except for his shoulders and eyes.

Everyone noticed him, even if the ladies were cautious about it. No one wanted to anger Edgeworth. Even her. Usually.

But she had once borrowed his book when he’d left it outside on the bench. She’d known he was returning for it. She’d known—and she’d darted upstairs, nearly biting her tongue in half when she’d stumbled on the steps, then she’d rushed into Abigail’s room to watch the events next door unfold. The hedge around the bench hadn’t been so big then and she’d stood at the window, waiting.

He’d returned and stared at the empty spot.

Then he’d looked up. She’d held the book against the glass.

Edgeworth had pointed to the bench and she’d seen the set of his shoulders.

He’d moved one step in her direction. He’d waggled a finger. He wasn’t smiling as she’d thought he might. One hand was at his side and clenched.

She’d put the book down because she couldn’t manage a book the size of a chair seat and the window at the same time.

She’d pulled open the window, lifted the book and then held the volume in both hands and released it flat. Then she’d jumped back inside, shut the window and stepped from sight.

The rest of the day she’d expected to be summoned for punishment, but no one had mentioned it. Her father would never have forgiven her. A common girl did not irritate a duke’s son.

And then he’d left that second book out and she’d taken it, knowing he left it for her. She’d laughed when she’d seen the title. She’d never read it, but still, she’d placed it in her father’s library and it had made her smile when she walked by and thought of him leaving it for her to find.

She’d intended to tell him later that she’d burned it, but she’d forgotten about mentioning it the next time she saw him. She’d been too excited, telling him that her mother had decided to leave London. She’d not be pulled back and forth between her two parents’ homes any longer. She and Abigail would stay behind.

She wondered why she noticed so much of Edgeworth. She always had. But she supposed it was just because she’d known him her whole life.

Now, he glanced around the room at the soirée and his eyes didn’t stop on her. They didn’t even pause. Her stomach jolted. She knew, without any doubt, that even though he’d not looked at her, he’d seen her. He’d seen her just as clearly as he had on the day he’d glared up and into the window, staring because she’d taken his book.

His eyes reminded her of the story of the man who captured the sun’s rays and reflected them on to boats to light them afire—only Edgeworth’s flares were blue. It was mesmerising, the way he used them, almost like a knight might flash a sword tip in a certain direction, ready to slice someone in two.

Pretending not to be aware of him, she moved to the lemonade table. She kept her back to the men so she would not be tempted to watch Edgeworth. Music from the quartet drifted over her, and she smiled. The night would be perfect for Abigail.

‘Miss Hightower.’ She could not help herself from turning towards the words right behind her shoulder and the voice she instantly recognised. The voice sounded in direct opposition to his eyes. Perhaps, she thought, that was what made him fascinate her. Cool eyes. Warm voice, at least some of the time.

He reached around her, keeping his balance and not touching her, and lifted a glass to her hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, tone low and attention safely on the lemonade. She looked up for a brief second, taking care not to linger.

He reached out, touching her elbow. ‘Would you like to dance?’

‘No.’ She looked at her feet and admitted, ‘My slippers pinch.’ But something was different. Something about him, and she couldn’t figure out what. Dancing with him—it almost seemed too close. Not that it ever had before. And he’d not asked her sister to dance first, she was certain of that.

‘You shouldn’t wear something painful,’ he said, looking in the direction of her feet.

‘That’s part of why I detest these events.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘I don’t detest them, I didn’t mean that.’ She did. An interloper. One step above a governess—only she knew some of the governesses had a better lineage than she did. One had once told her that. A pang of guilt burned in Lily’s stomach. She’d not so innocently told her mother what the woman had said and the woman had been sent on her way.

Now Lily held her chin level. ‘You look like your old self—frowning from ear to ear.’

A grin did flash, but he quickly hid it. ‘I don’t think one can frown from ear to ear.’

‘Oh, goodness,’ she said, blinking awe into her eyes. ‘You manage it regularly.’

‘Thank you, Miss Hightower. Your presence makes me capable of things I didn’t know possible. Such as my earlier recovery. I wanted to tell you that I remembered your visit to me when I was ill. I suspect I had so much laudanum in me I hardly knew what was real or imagined.’

‘I had little choice but to visit you,’ she said, a smile added. ‘Your mother was pacing outside, weeping, certain you weren’t going to make it. The temperature had turned back to winter and rain had started. I begged your mother to let me see you so I could get her out of the weather.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I may have been worried about you a hair. Just a hair.’ She smiled again.

‘As you had me planned for Abigail’s husband.’ His eyes iced over.

‘Not just that—and you know it. I’ve known you and your family all my life.’

‘Would you have been so concerned if it were my brother Andrew, or Steven, ill?’

‘Of course—’ she insisted. His eyes narrowed. ‘Of course,’ she added, speaking straight into the ice. But she softened her words with an upturn to her voice. ‘But they never caused me to be scarred for life. Growled at me. Or tried to convince me that unicorns did not exist.’

‘Fine. You win. The drawing you showed me did prove that unicorns are real and I hope you have finally saved enough to purchase one.’

‘I bought a doll instead.’

‘I did ask to see the unicorn when you purchased it.’ His shoulders turned to her.

She lowered her chin. ‘Even then, I was not fooled by your sincerity.’

The silence in the air between them was filled with shared memories of childhood.

‘Well, I do thank you for visiting me while I was ill,’ he spoke softly. ‘It meant a lot.’

‘Someone needed to make you mind your manners,’ she said.

‘What?’ He raised his brows.

‘When you were ill and Fox said that dreadful thing and—you—really shouldn’t have done that, you know.’

He shook his head, not following her meaning.

She looked over his shoulder and stared into space. ‘That gesture. The bad one.’

‘Ah...’ He shrugged. ‘I apologise. I was out of my head from the pain and the medicine and I didn’t realise you were there. Fox and my brothers and I don’t always speak gently to each other.’

She shook her head and censured him with her stare. ‘Your mother had stopped in the doorway. I had to make sure she didn’t see it.’ She leaned closer. ‘And then you were whispering that very bad word.’

‘I didn’t whisper anything.’

‘You did.’ She locked on to his gaze. ‘I had to speak to cover your words and get you quiet.’

She examined his face when she spoke to him, because he certainly wouldn’t say what he thought, and if not for the little—well—spasms of emotion that she could imagine, she wouldn’t have any idea what he might be thinking. His words didn’t give much away.

But he had been quite the different person when he was ill. In those moments she’d sat at his bedside, he’d needed her. She’d known it. She’d known he wouldn’t have wanted her sister—or any other woman—to see him sweating and restless, but he didn’t mind her being there at all. ‘You squeezed my hand and called me an angel,’ she said. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’ She leaned in. ‘And you had to be out of your head to do it.’

He didn’t respond. Not even with his eyes.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘That honesty is refreshing.’

‘Isn’t everyone honest to you? Mostly?’

‘If their opinion is what they think I wish to hear.’

‘Don’t let it concern you. Most people are like that.’

‘It does concern me. Most people won’t say what they’re thinking to me and it seems your words are a reflection of what you truly believe. Not just what is the more correct thing to say to a duke.’

‘Are you wishing you were born a second son?’ She asked the question aloud the moment she thought it.

He examined her face. ‘No. Not at all. I was born to be who I am. As we all are.’

Lily heard laughter break out at the other side of the room. She turned, forcing her attention from Edgeworth, but not truly noticing the others.

Lily wasn’t meant to be who she was. It was just her good fortune not to be living in a home with a fiery pit. ‘One would say your mother was born to be a duchess, too.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘One could say the same of you.’

She gulped in air and moved so that she held her glass with both hands for a second. ‘No. One couldn’t.’ Her heart warmed at his politeness. Edgeworth knew his manners.

‘Don’t disagree when I’m right,’ he said. ‘It’s true.’

Music filled the air and Edgeworth watched her as if she should say something profound, but all she could manage was a pinched-sounding mumble of thanks.

‘Greetings, all.’ Fox appeared behind Edgeworth, popping into the conversation like a marionette might drop on to the stage to scatter the other puppets.

‘Edgeworth dragged me from the country so that I might attend this evening, but when I realised that I would be seeing the two Hightower sisters, I thanked him most utterly and profusely—even though one of them...’ he tilted his chin to the ceiling, batted his eyes and looked as if he might whistle ‘...may once have compared me to a piece of very important pottery.’ He smiled. ‘I tried to steal a kiss and you told me you’d prefer to kiss a chamber pot.’

‘I meant it as a gentle reprimand,’ Lily said.

‘It was.’ He chuckled and put a hand to his ear. ‘Is that music I hear?’ He held out his arm for her to clasp. ‘Dance with me, please, I beg you, so that I might apologise for being so ungallant in the past.’

‘You are not here to impress Miss Lily,’ Edgeworth said.

Foxworthy’s jaw dropped, but his eyes sparkled. ‘I thought for certain I was here to impress every woman in attendance. I’m crushed.’ He winked at Lily. ‘So even if I cannot sway you to swoon with admiration, will you please do me the honour of dancing with me?’

Edgeworth’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed.