Once Upon a Wallflower (2 page)

Thankfully, the lovely Miss Fitzhenry was unlikely to wed him. He would stare at her intently, stand just a little too close to her so she would be reminded of his far-superior size, rest his large dark hand on her delicate wrist, and she would become overset. She would cry off before the night ended.

Blackwell scanned the room with his supercilious gaze. “Ah. There they are,” he said, a note of smug satisfaction in his voice. He tutted softly. “I have no love for George Fitzhenry. No character, that one. But when I see him trailing behind that behemoth of a wife he has, it’s hard not to feel a pang of masculine sympathy.”

Nicholas followed his father’s gaze and spotted a stately woman, bosom like the prow of a fine sailing vessel, a man in a pea green waistcoat scurrying behind. He searched around the pair for a virginal, yellow-haired debutante, but saw no likely suspects.

Blackwell must have reached the same conclusion. “Where is the chit? If Fitzhenry fails to deliver, I’ll see the whole family in the poorhouse by morning.”

Nicholas winced at the thought of a girl being delivered to him like a new horse or a pair of Hessian boots. He reminded himself that, with his menacing appearance and more menacing reputation, this farce would soon be over.

At long last, the Fitzhenrys made their way across the crowded ballroom. George and Kitty greeted Blackwell politely, the formidable Kitty actually blushing a bit as she traded niceties with one of the most dashing rakes of her youth.

Without further ado, Blackwell pinned George with his stare. “Well?” he queried.

“Oh. Yes, of c-course,” George stammered. He grabbed the hand of a voluptuous redhead with a lopsided coif and a muslin dress stretched taut across her full breasts and thrust her inelegantly in Blackwell’s direction, where she dropped into a neat curtsy. “My Lord, may I introduce Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry.”

Blackwell narrowed his eyes in suspicion, barely glancing at the girl. “I was given to believe your daughter had yellow hair.”

George shot a nervous glance at his wife, who glared back at him. “Um, yes,” he said. “My, uh, daughter is indeed blond. Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry,” he added, gesturing to the redhead at his side, “is my niece.”

Blackwell closed his eyes. “Your niece.”

Nicholas chuckled darkly at his father’s annoyance. “It would appear the world is graced with two Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenrys,” he murmured for his father’s ears alone.

Blackwell sighed. While he was clearly disappointed with the particular Mirabelle Fitzhenry with which he was presented, the entire ballroom watched the exchange with eager eyes. With his scandalous son at his side, he would not make a scene.

Not now.

Nicholas allowed himself a moment to study his would-be bride. Her solemn blue eyes were fixed on his face, but he could not read her expression. She was not conventionally pretty, her nose a bit too short, her brows a bit too straight, her hair an unfashionably brazen color. Still her features held a certain appeal: skin as pale and luscious as Devon cream, a mouth as succulent and voluptuous as her curvy body, and hair the vibrant red of Chinese silk. A far cry from a picture-perfect blonde, but infinitely more intriguing.

Shaking off her lingering befuddlement, Miss Fitzhenry dropped into another curtsy. In a thready voice she choked out a greeting. “Lord Ashfield. I am delighted—”

“Nicholas.”

She looked up in surprise. He coughed slightly and continued, “Please, Miss Fitzhenry. I reside primarily in the country, where people do not stand so much on formality. I much prefer my Christian name.”

She straightened and offered him a shy smile. “Nicholas. And my friends and family call me Mira. It avoids a great deal of confusion,” she added, her smile turning wry.

He frowned. Young girls had been known to faint at the sight of him. They did not smile at him. Ever.

Before he could weigh the true gravity of that small smile, the Fitzhenrys tumbled forward to greet him, clearly eager to bask for a moment in his infamous light, and he lost Mira to his father’s company.

Their small party was the subject of curious stares and whispered speculation, yet they all carried on as though the situation were perfectly normal, perfectly natural. Blackwell engaged Mira in a lively conversation about Lord Byron’s recently published invective,
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers—
a conversation in which Mira appeared to be holding her own against Blackwell’s overbearing opinions about the upstart Byron. Meanwhile, George and Kitty assaulted the reticent Nicholas with questions about hunting hounds and haberdashers.

The banality of the conversation pained Nicholas, yet every time he glanced toward Mira, he caught her smiling at him…and that smile was driving him mad.

Kitty was in the midst of asking him about his tailor when he abruptly broke away from her with a muttered apology and took Mira by the arm.

…

Nicholas’s grip was firm, yet surprisingly gentle for a man of his size. Without a word, he led her toward the dance floor.

This, she thought, would be her chance to employ the desperate plan she’d concocted on the carriage ride to the ball: allow Nicholas to end the engagement at the expense of Mira’s honor. He would be spared from marrying a woman not to his liking, and she would be spared the possibility of being wed to a murderer. Her reputation seemed a small price to pay for the bargain. The icing atop the cake? She would win her wager with Bella.

She was working up her courage to broach the subject with Nicholas when she noticed that the musicians had begun to play a waltz. The ballroom was alive with excitement over the still-scandalous dance, and she panicked.

“Oh, my lord…Nicholas, I really do not dance well at all, and I have never waltzed before. Not ever.” She balked, trying to slow him on his course to the dance floor, but Nicholas was much larger and more determined than she was, and the crowd of guests parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

“I must insist. I am in desperate need of a reprieve from your aunt’s interrogation. I assure you that my injury”—he indicated his left leg, which he clearly favored—“only prevents me from dancing the liveliest of the country dances. But I can maintain some grace through a waltz. Just follow my lead.”

He reached the edge of the sea of whirling dancers, pulled her into his arms, and looked deep into her eyes.

“Trust me.”

And with that, they began to dance.

She took the opportunity to study his face. Ashfield’s presence was fiercely compelling. It was not just his size, which was considerable—he easily stood several inches taller than any other man in the room and, despite the leanness of his frame, his shoulders were massive in his dark evening coat. Rather, it was the brutal intensity of his pale gray eyes, the unmistakable spark of intelligence that shone there. He was not exactly handsome. A thin white scar cut down his left cheek following the curve of his jaw, his nose was entirely too sharp, and he wore his hair unfashionably long, in an out-dated queue. Yet there was something magnetic about him. Mira could easily believe the rumors about him dabbling in the dark arts were true. If the devil materialized as a man, he would look exactly like Nicholas, Lord Ashfield.

Still, with the warmth of his hand at her waist and the lilting strains of the beautiful music, she felt no fear. With Nicholas guiding her firmly about the dance floor, she felt…graceful. Almost delicate. It was divine.

As they moved, her every sense was heightened. The hot smell of the blazing beeswax candles mingled with the spicy scent of Nicholas’s soap. The pulsing buzz of conversation and the rhythmic whisper of her skirts underscored the hypnotic strains of the music. Beneath her fingers, the fine fabric of Nicholas’s evening coat rode the hard contours of his shoulder and chest as he carefully guided her between the other dancers, who were nothing more than softly colored wraiths fluttering on the edges of her perception. Her mouth was filled with the taste of excitement, anticipation for some unknown wonder, and her field of vision was occupied entirely by the sight of Nicholas. The combination of sensations was heady, intoxicating, breathtaking.

As they completed a turn, the music faded to silence, and Nicholas spoke, his low voice—meant for her ears alone—sending echoing vibrations through Mira’s body. “I must say, Mira, that you are not at all what I expected.”

She stiffened at his remark. She had been so caught up in her own enjoyment, she had forgotten about the horrible ruse she and her family were perpetrating. She had to act quickly, to give him a way out of the engagement, but the shifting sea of guests afforded inadequate privacy for the delicate proposition Mira intended to make.

“My lord, I confess I need to speak to you in private. Perhaps we could go riding tomorrow in Hyde Park? Could you call around five o’clock?”

As soon as the words were out, Mira realized what a
faux pas
she had committed, how fast she must seem. It was not her place to demand his presence, ordering him about like a servant.

Nicholas stared down at her, eyes wide with almost comical bemusement. “By all means, Mira,” he said wryly. “I am at your disposal. I shall call tomorrow at five.”

“Oh, my lord,” she said, the words tripping over themselves in a mortified rush, “I did not mean… I only thought… Oh, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” he asked, his stunned expression giving way to amusement. “I am flattered you crave my company.”

“But I did not mean to suggest that at all, my lord!”

“So you do
not
crave my company?”

Mira frowned in consternation. “No. I mean, yes. Oh heavens, I don’t know what I mean,” she concluded, throwing up her hands in surrender.

Nicholas’s expression softened. “Mira,” he said, “I shall be happy to call on you tomorrow at five o’clock. For now,” he continued, “I am afraid I cannot withstand further examination by your Aunt Kitty, and I must excuse myself. Until tomorrow.” He inclined his head in a small bow and, lips still lifted in a faint smile, he headed toward the door, leaving Mira quite abandoned in the crowd.

He had been teasing her, Mira realized. The Butcher of Bidwell had been teasing her. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She had taken only a few steps toward the corner in which she had last seen Kitty and George when a woman’s voice behind her called, “Miss Fitzhenry?”

Mira turned and found herself face to face with an exquisite, yet unfamiliar, young woman, not much more than a girl. Her rich chestnut hair presented a striking contrast to her alabaster skin, but it was her wide green eyes that captured and held the attention. Not only were they beautiful in color and shape, but there was a haunted look to them that made the young woman seem fragile and forlorn.

“I am Mirabelle Fitzhenry. I’m sorry, have we met?”

The young woman shook her head. “I am sorry if I startled you Miss Fitzhenry, but I felt I must speak with you. My name is Sarah Linworth.” She paused, as though the name should carry some import. Although it seemed vaguely familiar, Mira could only wait for Miss Linworth to explain.

“My sister was Olivia Linworth.” Mira’s heart sank when she made the connection: Olivia Linworth, who had been promised to Nicholas—and who had perished, allegedly at his hands.

Sarah moved closer so that she could speak in confidential tones. “Miss Fitzhenry, might I speak with you in private?”

Mira nodded slowly, wary. She followed Miss Linworth through the crowd to a quiet corner, a small space tucked behind a flourishing potted palm.

“Miss Fitzhenry, I do not mean to be presumptuous, but I feel it is my duty to warn you, one woman to another, that Viscount Ashfield is an evil man, a monster. Whatever you do, you must not marry him. Indeed, you must never allow yourself to be alone with him.”

Sarah spoke with such conviction, yet it was difficult for Mira to reconcile the gentle man who had led her in her first waltz with the man Sarah described, the man brutal enough to murder his own betrothed in cold blood.

Her skepticism must have shown in her face, because Sarah desperately grasped Mira’s arm, and her eyes burned with a feverish intensity.

“You must believe me, Miss Fitzhenry. I was at the house party that summer. I saw how oddly Ashfield behaved. He was forever up in his tower room, hardly mingling with his guests at all. He barely spoke to my poor sister. She confided in me that she felt she was being watched. One night, she looked out her bedroom window, and she actually saw a figure darting through the shrubberies. She heard footsteps following her down the corridors of that big, drafty house, but when she called out, no one answered.”

Miss Linworth paused, worrying her lower lip with her teeth and glancing nervously from side to side. “Miss Fitzhenry,” she said finally, her gaze boring into Mira’s, “Miss Fitzhenry, I hesitate to be blunt, given that we have not even been properly introduced, but the circumstances are dire and call for plain talk. Just the day before she died, my sister told me that someone had broken into her bedroom and searched through her belongings. Her unmentionables were in a tangled heap in their drawer, her jewelry was scattered across her dressing table, and her locket—a beautiful etched gold locket containing a miniature of our mother—her locket was missing. She told me about the intrusion after dinner that night, and she was beside herself with fear.

“The next day, they found her, dead at the foot of the curtain wall leading to Ashfield’s tower room.” Sarah’s lovely green eyes filled with tears, and she continued in an agonized whisper.

“The constable—a second cousin to Blackwell and dependent upon him for his income—said Olivia had probably been out walking and fallen. The mist had been thick that night, the allure, the walkway atop the curtain wall, was undoubtedly slippery. And Olivia was a bit short-sighted. Without any inquiry at all, the constable declared it an accident, and no one—not even my father—was brave enough to stand up to Blackwell and swear out an information that said differently. Besides, without a confession, Ashfield could not be convicted of murder, and he is hardly likely to suffer from an attack of conscience. But I know better, Miss Fitzhenry. Olivia was terrified, she was terrified of
him
. She would never have wandered out alone at night, certainly not in the direction of his room.”