The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 5) Read online

  But the kissing bit?

  Well, that Shona would have to maneuver on her own. With the only man present she had any desire to kiss.

  She stalwartly refrained from so much as peeking in Captain Le Draco’s direction.

  Hopefully, he’d oblige and wouldn’t be too put off at her using him to win the wager. But how was she to prove he’d kissed her? She wasn’t about to procure witnesses, for pity’s sake.

  Well, she’d worry about that particular later. She had a whole week to work that detail out.

  Miss Rossington, her expression pinched and most enjoyably nonplussed, opened her mouth.

  “I think you’ve said quite enough. I’ll tolerate no more,” Captain Le Draco said, his tone and formidable countenance brooking no argument.

  The Dragon had decided to put in an appearance.

  With an irritated huff, Miss Rossington spun around, and after seizing the elder Dundercroft sister’s arm, propelled the befuddled chit to the entrance.

  Shona slid him a contemplative glance.

  Mouth slightly hitched, his arms folded across his impossibly broad chest, he regarded her with a bemused expression.

  He couldn’t possibly have heard her whispered words, yet from the amusement in his glittering, heavy-lidded gaze, she’d be bound he had a very good notion of what she’d just vowed.

  He didn’t appear the least averse either.

  “Shona?”

  Shona whirled around.

  Alexa and Katrina, along with Lady Wimpleton, stood behind her.

  Oh, splendid.

  A perfectly timed arrival.

  Still attired in their traveling costumes, Alexa’s a brilliant violet and Katrina’s a deep rose, both were inarguably exquisite, the epitome of haut ton elegance.

  And she adored them.

  Shona’s confidence soared at the deferential glances now sidling her way. A wonder what influential company accomplished. After exchanging exuberant embraces with her sister and friend, she motioned down her soggy front and offered a lop-sided grin. “I had a slight mishap.”

  “So we heard and can quite clearly see, dear one,” Alexa said, a glint of disquiet in her gaze. “You’re quite all right, though?”

  Shona nodded. “Yes.” She searched past them. “Where are their graces?”

  Katrina chuckled and flicked an errant strand of hair off her cheek. “Enjoying a dram with our host.”

  “You gave us quite a fright. We’d only just arrived and heard you’d fallen into the lake.” Alexa snagged Shona’s elbow, hugging it to her side. “Come, let’s get you upstairs.” She graciously left off the “and cleaned up” part.

  “Your bath is ready,” Lady Wimpleton said, smiling first at Shona then Captain Le Draco. “Yours too, Captain. But you’d better hurry before it grows cold.”

  “Many thanks, my lady.” Captain Le Draco angled his head differentially.

  Katrina wrapped an arm around Shona’s waist in what could only be considered a protective gesture. “Dinner’s in less than two hours, and I haven’t yet washed the travel dust off.”

  Before they could trot her inside, Shona stalled them. She waved at the captain silently observing the reunion. “Please, permit me to introduce you to the brave man who very well may have saved my life at no little peril to his own.”

  Kind-hearted and compassionate, Alexa and Katrina immediately faced the captain, pleasant, expectant smiles framing their mouths. Shona needn’t have worried they’d balk at his appearance. Expressions open and accepting, neither as much as blinked, nor did they stare at the glaring mark slashing his cheek.

  His mouth edged upward the tiniest bit, and joy billowed in Shona’s silly heart, like a sail on a windy day. Such a simple, wee thing, but it obviously meant much to him.

  Had he experienced a great deal of rejection because of his face?

  Probably.

  Such shallowness appalled and angered her. She could’ve hugged Alexa and Katrina until they squealed.

  “Captain Le Draco, my sister, Her Grace, Alexandra, the Duchess of Harcourt, and my dearest friend, Her Grace, Katrina, the Duchess of Pendergast. Alexa, Katrina, may I present Captain Morgan Le Draco?”

  Captain Le Draco made a neat leg, his bow graceful and gallant, despite his unkempt appearance and large frame. His mane of almost-dry chestnut hair spilled forward at the motion. “I am deeply honored, Your Graces.”

  “And we are forever in your debt, Captain. Shona is most precious to us,” Alexa said, her eyes tear-brightened. “Now, if you’ll please excuse us. I’m sure you understand she must set her appearance to right.” Her warm smile said much. “Thank you again.”

  “Indeed, Captain. Please, won’t you join us in the floral garden room before dinner so that we might become better acquainted? I should like to introduce you to my husband.” Katrina’s invitation rang with sincerity. “You remind me of him. He was a privateer before he inherited the dukedom.”

  Giving Captain Le Draco a mischievous look, Shona chuckled. “He was known as The Saint of the Sea.”

  An answering grin lit the captain’s face and eye. “I shall look forward to it, Your Grace.”

  Whether he wanted it or not, unfailingly loyal, the Harcourts and Pendergasts had taken the captain under their wings. He’d helped one of their own and was welcome in their circle henceforth. For certain, he didn’t seem a man who needed others’ approval. Still, Shona couldn’t help but believe he appreciated it, nonetheless.

  “There you are, Morgan.” An older, stern-faced man, greatly resembling the captain, marched across the terrace, his walking stick angrily rapping the flagstones with each pronounced step. He spared the women the briefest of glances—Shona the most fleeting. “You left before I had a chance to tell you. I’ve made arrangements for you to sail to Barbados in a fortnight.”

  A horse’s kick to Morgan’s gut would’ve hurt less than the shocked dismay darkening Shona’s velvety eyes. Her effervescent smile faded, and the slash of her lips as she averted her gaze screeched, “Duplicitous knave.”

  How could she feel betrayed or deceived?

  They’d only just met.

  A relationship couldn’t be forged or sentiments engaged in an hour, no matter how enjoyable the time spent or entrancing the company.

  Stupid fool. You don’t think she feels the same irresistible draw you do?

  Just as well his father had ruined things then.

  She couldn’t harbor any false notions about Morgan.

  A future together was impossible.

  After this house party ended, he didn’t even know where his next meal would come from. Or where he’d live, for that matter.

  His landlord had raised his rent, and Morgan hadn’t the blunt to pay it. He’d been borrowing from Viola, keeping immaculate records so that one day he could repay her.

  At present, his options were limited, and growing more so. Sign on as a deckhand. Or perhaps find a position as a miner or laborer. Maybe even a saloon strongman. The latter appealed in a perverse sort of way. It was a profession where people either weren’t subjected to his face or didn’t mind the contorted flesh.

  As Shona was bustled away, Morgan bit his tongue to restrain the foul oath hammering at the back of his teeth and that he ached to hurl at his father’s head. He’d not have her thinking him an uncivilized beast. His appearance was monstrous enough. She needn’t witness loutish, uncouth behavior as well.

  Look back. Just one glance.

  He gave a disgusted snort, raking his fingers through his tousled hair.

  Oh, for God’s sake, man. Make up your bloody mind.

  Father scowled, and, just to aggravate him further, Morgan shook his head, sending his hair billowing about his shoulders.

  Father’s inscrutable gaze tightened, but he remained silent.

  For a damned, blessed change.

  Just before she stepped across the threshold, Shona cast a sorrowful, confused gaze over her shoulder, her tiny smile fragile and bitter
sweet.

  Morgan wanted to let loose with a litany of curses at the pain shadowing her pansy-like eyes, and kick his heels up that she’d wanted one more glimpse.

  Once she’d disappeared indoors, he cut his gaze to his father and jerked his chin, indicating his sire should follow him. He didn’t trust himself to speak at present, and what he had to say wasn’t meant for delicate ears or polite company.

  Not that he gave a parson’s blessing what most of these people thought of him.

  If Allen Wimpleton hadn’t stooped to cajoling, Morgan wouldn’t have even been here. And if he’d known his father intended to trundle over from Milwick Park, the neighboring estate, he’d have stayed in London regardless.

  Besides, damn him for a fool, Morgan knew Wimpleton’s insistence he attend the party was motivated by pity as much as friendship. He’d offered, several times in fact, to extend Morgan funds, which he’d firmly refused.

  Accepting food and lodgings from friends chafed his arse raw. But money?

  No. He’d too much pride.

  He’d refused Viola too, until she’d burst into tears, accusing him of being a heartless beast. That she couldn’t sleep at night for worry about him. She’d looked at him with those great hazel-blue, tear-filled eyes, and he’d yielded. Mother had left her a modest sum, and it was those funds she sacrificed for Morgan.

  He rubbed his brow above his missing eye, still fuming at his father’s unmitigated and unrepentant gall. Morgan’s gaze lit on the conservatory. Perfect. He needed to fetch Shona’s things anyway.

  He crinkled his brow. When was the last time he’d been inside the greenhouse? At least a decade ago. Yes, that tryst with—

  Never mind.

  He stalked down the serpentine gravel pathway, not caring a whit if his father followed or kept up.

  Devil fly away with him. He’d gone too bloody far this time.

  Morgan meant to put him in his place, leave no doubt as to where he stood. Let his father disown him as he’d threatened for years. It would be a relief, truth to tell.

  Reaching the hothouse, Morgan swiftly scanned the interior. Empty and silent except for the fountain’s babbling. A mourning dove, head cocked and curiously peeking in the other doors, took flight as he stalked inside. Several feminine fallalls lay upon a quaint scrolled bench. Giving his ire a few moments to calm, he gathered the accoutrements before facing his father.

  “What has you in such a foul mood?” Father fished his perfectly starched and folded handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his ruddy face. “Or perhaps I should say, fouler than usual mood?”

  Only foul around you.

  “Father, I’ve made it abundantly clear that I shall never, and I do mean never, take any part of your enterprises. It sickens me to think of exploiting overworked and abused slaves for gain. You know I’m an abolitionist and abhor everything about slavery.”

  He draped Shona’s gloves over his forearm before hooking the parasol handle on his wrist. A whiff of her perfume wafted upward. He’d never met a woman who smelled so enticing. He wanted to bury his face in her neck, between her bountiful, marvelous breasts, and inhale her intoxicating scent.

  If wishes were horses…

  “I’ve given you a year to come to your senses,” his father retorted, wrath sparking in his azure eyes.

  Morgan’s eyes. Except his lacked the mercenary, cold-hearted, self-serving, calculating glint.

  “I would’ve stayed in the cavalry, but you stripped me of that choice.”

  Father had tried to force Morgan’s hand. Had thought by resigning his commission, he’d manipulate Morgan to do his bidding.

  “Lost that gamble, you miserable baggage,” Morgan muttered, the sting of betrayal still strong.

  “Wots that? Stop your mumbling and speak up.” His father cupped his ear. “You know my hearing’s not what it once was.”

  “I’m not going to Barbados. Put it out of your head.”

  “Pray tell me then, what other prospects have you?”

  Lovely to know one’s parent held one in such high regard.

  Father squinted at the items Morgan held, his mouth hardening into a grim line. “You’re grossly disfigured.”

  Thank you for reminding me in such a considerate manner.

  “You barely have two coins to rub together.”

  Actually, I have three.

  “And I know full well Viola’s buying your clothes and lending you funds to pay for your rooms.”

  Sad, but true.

  “Have you no pride?”

  No. Not a whole lot anymore.

  “Taking advantage of your sister’s benevolent nature?”

  She’s truly angelic. Almost as sweet as Shona.

  “I’ll find employment.” Morgan glimpsed the book’s gold-lettered, leather spine before tucking the volume under his arm. The Works of Robert Burns.

  The little romantic.

  “Just who do you think will employ a man with your—?” Father flapped his hand toward Morgan’s face? “Your visage will chase customers away.”

  “I said I’d find something.” Morgan had looked for a clerical or steward position for months. More than one friend had offered him a post, each of which, he’d vow, was hastily created so that Morgan might be presented the situation. He’d declined each, after expressing his gratitude for their thoughtfulness.

  Their pity would suffocate him, eventually turn him into a shadow who didn’t care whether he lived or died. Not too far from that already, if he were totally honest with himself.

  He swept his hair off one shoulder.

  Well, he’d just have to seek less refined employment. That was all.

  “You’re an even bigger fool than I supposed, Morgan,” Father jeered. He shook his head and jammed his thumb over his shoulder. “I saw the way you ogled that buxom chit. She has nice tits, I’ll give her that. But do you honestly think she’d have you?”

  Dragging in an exaggerated breath, Morgan closed his eyes and forced himself to count to ten very—very—slowly. Sons didn’t go around clobbering their offensive fathers. As much as he longed to wipe the smirk off his sire’s face, he wouldn’t, for Viola’s sake.

  But by thunder, if Father besmirched or disrespected Shona one more time, Morgan would endure his sister’s tears and censure.

  He slung his father a reproachful glance. “Since I just met Lady Atterberry and haven’t entertained any intention of asking her to be my wife, your point is moot, isn’t it?”

  Nevertheless, Morgan most definitely had entertained other, less momentous intentions.

  His father threw his hands up, his disgust tangible. His utter confusion equally so. “You’d really prefer that I disown you? You’ll not get a penny from me. Milwick will be lost to you. Viola will receive everything.”

  How often had Morgan heard these same threats?

  “She’s welcome to all of it. But even she wants no part of your dealings in the tropics. She told me so herself.” Morgan cocked his head, trying to understand this man whose seed had created him, but whose character and values were so vastly different. “You have more money than you can spend in a lifetime. Why must you continue with the plantations?”

  “Your ignorance is beyond bloody maddening.” Aversion warred with contempt in Father’s voice, his angular face contorting into one of his lofty sneers. “One can never have enough money. And why do you keep sniveling about the darkies? You can’t possibly believe they’re our equals. I cannot begin to comprehend your thinking. I truly cannot.”

  “I’m not the least surprised.” Utterly inconceivable that such a deplorable had spawned Morgan. They were as unalike as black was to white. Night was to day.

  He looped Shona’s bonnet’s ribbons around his fingertips.

  Would her skin feel as satiny?

  He’d never know.

  Hell’s bells. Why, even in the midst of a heated argument, did she intrude upon his thoughts?

  “So be it.” His father considered h
im for an extended moment, a hint of authentic regret shadowing his eyes. In a blink, the sentiment was gone, replaced by his usual wintery visage. “I’ll be for home then. I cannot stay here and remain civil to you.” He swiveled toward the door, then swung back, his expression contemplative.

  “That Atterberry gel. She’s an heiress, ain’t she?” Father squinted and nodded slowly, a wily smile pulling his mouth sideways. “Ah, I’m on to your game now, son. You’re after her money. Brilliant, I must concede. What do you intend? To seduce the wench?”

  Chapter Six

  Two mornings later, Shona tilted her parasol to block the sun as well as the curious glances of the other guests taking strolls about the lawn and gardens. She and Morgan—she’d taken to calling him by his given name when in private—had garnered more than a few whispers and speculative looks since her dunk in the lake.

  Let them chatter. She didn’t give a fig what any of them thought.

  He’d been most attentive since the ill-fated, yet fortunate incident. Not only did he claim her for a walk each morning, Morgan remained at her side during the indoor entertainment too. And as he’d promised, he practiced the waltz with her.

  To avoid gossip, they’d agreed to meet prior to breakfast, before the rest of the house roused.

  He hadn’t exaggerated when he said he was a fair partner. More than fair. So adept, in fact, she felt certain she could maneuver the steps at the masque ball now. It was quite thrilling to be held in such a man’s arms. Addictive even.

  She left her bed early each morning, to fuss over her attire and toilette in a manner previously alien to her. Thank goodness, she hadn’t had to share her chamber after all. She’d not want to have to explain her sudden frenzied interest in her appearance.

  She cut him a swift glance, admiring his chiseled profile. She’d miss him.

  They’d fallen into a comfortable camaraderie—that was all it could be, of course—and his presence had made the house party the most pleasant she’d ever attended.