Wicked and the Wallflower by Sarah MacLean
She considered the words and what she knew of this strange, wicked man’s life—the kind where betrayal might live behind every corner. She nodded. “It does not matter, does it? None of the men I’ve danced with care for me; there’s no reason to believe the duke shall.”
“They seemed to care for you when they swarmed you to hold your fan for whatever reason.”
She reached for the item in question, spreading it out to show the names written on each of the pine sticks there. “Dance card. And they only care for me because they think I’m to be a—”
“You have an unclaimed dance.” He had the fan in hand, and she was tethered to him.
Her breath caught as he tugged on it, pulling her a step closer. “I—I thought I should save one for my fictional fiancé.” She paused. “Not so fictional if you read my father’s correspondence. How did you do it?”
“Magic,” he replied, the scar down the side of his face white in the shadows. “As I promised.” She started to press him for a better answer, but he continued, refusing to let her speak. “He shall claim that dance soon enough.”
Her attention lingered on the empty slat in the fan, the way it seemed to shout her falsehood to the world. For a single, wild moment, she wondered what it might be like if Devil claimed it. She wondered what might happen if he wrote his blasphemous name across it in black pencil.
What might happen if he stepped into the ballroom with her, took her into his arms, and danced her across the room. Of course, a man like Devil did not know how to dance like the aristocracy. He could only watch from the shadows.
The thought inspired her. “Wait. Have you been watching me all evening?”
“No.”
It was her turn to say, “Liar.”
He hesitated, and she would have given anything to see his face. “I had to be certain you wore the dress.”
“Of course I wore the dress,” she said. “It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. I wish I could wear it every day. Though I still do not understand how you were able to get it. Madame Hebert takes weeks to produce a design. Longer.”
“Hebert, like most businesswomen, is willing to work quickly for a premium.” He paused. “That, and she seems to like you.”
Felicity warmed at the words. “She made my wedding trousseau. Or, rather, all the clothes I brought with me to win myself a husband last summer.” She paused. “To lose myself one, I suppose.”
A beat, and then, “Well, without those, you would not have this gown. And that would be a proper crime.”
She blushed at the words—the most perfect thing anyone could have said. “Thank you.”
“The duke could not keep his eyes from you,” he replied.
Her jaw dropped and she looked over her shoulder. “He saw me?”
“He did.”
“And what now?”
“Now,” he said, “he comes for you.”
She swallowed at the promise in the words. At the vision they invoked, of a different man coming for her. No kind of duke. “How do you know?”
“Because he shan’t be able to resist with the way you look in that gown.”
Her heart pounded. “And how do I look?”
The question surprised her with its impropriety, and she nearly took it back. Might have, if he hadn’t replied. “Are you searching for compliments, my lady?”
She dipped her head at the soft question. “Perhaps.”
“You look just as you should, Felicity Faircloth—the fairest of them all.”
Her cheeks blazed. “Thank you.” For saying so. “For the gown.” She hesitated. “And . . . the other things.” He shifted in the darkness, and she was keenly aware of this secret spot—so close to all the world and somehow private for them alone. She didn’t know what one was to say after thanking a virtual stranger for undergarments. “My apologies. I’m sure we should not be discussing . . . those.”
“Never apologize for discussing those.” Another pause, and then he said, wicked and soft, “Are they pink?”
Her mouth dropped open. “I don’t think I should tell you that.”
He did not seem to care. “You like pink.”
She’d never been so grateful for the shadows in her life. “I do.”
“And so? Are they?”
“Yes.” She could barely hear the whispered word.
“Good.” The word came on a ragged growl, and she wondered if it was possible that he was as moved by the conversation as she was.
She wondered if he had thought of her wearing the clothes he’d sent half as much as she had thought of wearing them for him. Of him kissing her in them.
“Men seem to like the line,” she said, her satin-covered fingers running along the edge of the gown even as she knew she shouldn’t draw attention to it. Even as she wanted him to notice it. What did this man do to her? Magic. “My mother thought it was . . . unsuccessful.”
Immodest was the word the Marchioness of Bumble had used before insisting Felicity fetch a cloak immediately.
“Your mother is far too old and far too female to be able to judge the success or failure of that frock. How did you explain its arrival?”
“I lied,” she confessed, feeling as though it were a thing she should whisper. “I said it was a gift from my acquaintance Sesily. She’s quite scandalous.”
“Sesily Talbot?”
“You know her?” Of course he did. He was a red-blooded human male and Sesily was every man’s dream. Felicity did not like the thread of jealousy that coursed through her with the thoughts.
“The Singing Sparrow is two streets from my offices. It’s owned by an acquaintance of hers.”
“Oh.” Relief flared. He didn’t know Sesily. At least, not in the biblical sense.
Not that it mattered whom he knew biblically.
Felicity didn’t care.
Obviously. It had nothing to do with her.
“At any rate,” she said, “the dress is beautiful. And I’ve never felt so close to beautiful in my life as I do wearing it.” The confession was soft and honest, and easy because she spoke it to his silhouette.
“Shall I tell you something, Felicity Faircloth?” he said softly, taking a step toward her. The words wrapped around them, making Felicity ache. “Shall I give you a piece of advice that will help you lure your moth?”
Will it lure you?
She bit back the question. She did not want to lure him. The darkness was addling her brain. And whatever his answer was . . . that way lay danger. “I think I should go,” she said, turning away. “My mother . . .”
“Wait,” he said sharply. And then he touched her. His hand came to hers, and she would have given anything to have her golden glove disappear. Just once, just to feel his touch.
She turned back to him and he moved into the light, taking care that they were not able to be seen. She could see his face now, the strength of it, the slash of scar down his cheek, his amber gaze gone black in the darkness, searching hers before he raised his hand to her face, running a thumb along her jaw, across her cheek, his silver ring a cool counter to the warmth of his skin.
More, she wanted to say. Don’t stop.
He was so close, his eyes raking across her face, taking in all her flaws, discovering all her secrets. “You are beautiful, Felicity Faircloth,” he whispered, and she could feel the breath of the words on her lips.
The memory of their kiss on the streets of Covent Garden rioted through her, along with the aching frustration he’d left her with that night. The way she’d dreamed of him repeating it. He was so close—if she went up onto her toes, he might.
Before she could, he let her go, leaving her wanting it. Wanting him. “No,” she said, hot embarrassment flaring in the wake of the exclamation. She shouldn’t have said it. But didn’t he want to kiss her again?
Apparently not. He took a step back, the irritating man. “Your duke shall find you tonight, my lady.”
Frustration flared. “He is not my duke,” she
He watched her for a long moment before saying, softly, “You can win every one of them. Any one of them. The aristocratic moth of your choosing. And you chose your duke the moment you pronounced him yours. When he is drawn to you tonight, you shall begin to win him.”
And if I do not want him?
If I do not want any aristocratic moth?
If I want a moth who belongs nowhere near Mayfair?
She didn’t say the words, instead saying, “How shall I win him?”
He did not hesitate. “Just as you are.” It was nonsense. But he did not seem to care. “Good night, my lady.”
And then he was moving, returning to the shadows, where he belonged. She followed him to the top of the stone steps leading down to the gardens beyond the house. “Wait!” she called, searching for something to return him to her. “You promised to help! You promised magic, Devil.”
He turned back at the bottom of the steps, white teeth flashing in the shadows. “You have it already, my lady.”
“I don’t have magic. I have a beautiful gown. The rest of me is entirely the same. You’ve sent a hog to the milliner. It’s a lovely hat, but the pig remains.”
He chuckled in the darkness, and she was irritated that she couldn’t see the smile that came with the sound. He didn’t smile enough. “You’re not a hog, Felicity Faircloth.”
With that, he disappeared, and she went to the railing, setting her hands to the cool stone to watch the gardens, angry and frustrated and wondering what would happen if she followed him. Wanting to follow him. Knowing she couldn’t. That she had made her bed, and if she or her family had any chance of surviving it, she must lie in it. Behatted swine or not.
“Dammit, Devil,” she whispered into the darkness, unable to see him and still somehow knowing he was there. “How?”
“When he asks about you, tell him the truth.”
“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”
He didn’t reply. He’d placed her in full view of London, promised her a match for the ages, and left her alone with terrible advice and without making good on the promise. As though she were the flame he’d assured her she’d be.
Except she wasn’t.
“This is the worst mistake ever made. In history,” she said to herself and the night. “This is up there with accepting the gift of a Trojan horse.”
“Are you giving a lecture on Greek mythology?”
She spun around at the words, and found the Duke of Marwick standing not three feet from her.
Chapter Twelve
Because she wasn’t entirely certain what one was to say to a man whom one had proclaimed her fiancé, Felicity settled on, “Hello.”
She winced at the decidedly unmagical word.
His gaze flickered to the dark gardens where Devil had disappeared, then back to her. “Hello.”
She blinked. “Hello.”
Oh, yes, this was all going quite well. She was all flame. Good God. It was only a matter of time before he ran back to the ballroom, stopped the orchestra, and denounced her publicly.
But the duke did not run. Instead, he took a step toward her, and she pressed back to the stone balustrade. He stopped. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No!” she said altogether too forcefully. “Not at all. I was just . . . here . . . breathing.” His brows rose at the words, and she shook her head. “Breathing air. Taking air. I mean. It’s quite warm in the ballroom, don’t you think?” She waved a hand at her neck. “Very warm.” She cleared her throat. “Hot.”
His gaze slid to her wrist. “It was good foresight for you to bring something to combat it.”
She looked down at the wooden fan dangling from her wrist. “Oh.” She snapped it open and fanned herself like a madwoman. “Yes. Of course. Well. I have excellent foresight.”
Stop talking, Felicity.
Those brows rose again. “Do you?”
Her brows narrowed. “I do.”
“I only ask because it seems to me that someone uninformed of that particular quality might find you to have the opposite of foresight.”
She caught herself before her jaw dropped open. “How is that?”
He did not immediately reply, instead coming to stand next to her at the balcony railing, turning his back to the gardens, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the revelers inside the beautifully lit ballroom. The light made his fair hair gleam gold as it harshened the angles of his face—high cheekbones and strong jaw; something about him whispered familiarity, though she couldn’t place it. After a long silence, he said, “One might argue that telling the world you are engaged to a duke when you’ve never met him lacks foresight.”
And, like that, the truth of her act was between them. Felicity was not riddled with the embarrassment or the shame she might have imagined. Instead, she was consumed with an immense relief. Something near to power—close to the way she felt when she picked a lock, as though the past was behind her and what was to come was all possibility.
Which was, of course, a kind of madness in itself, because this man held her fate and that of her family in his hands, and the future he might mete out was dangerous indeed. Madness seemed to reign, nonetheless. “Why did you confirm it?”
“Why did you say it?”
“I was angry,” she said quietly. She lifted a shoulder. “It’s not a good excuse, I know . . . but there it is.”
“It’s an honest excuse,” he said, returning his attention to the ballroom. “I, too, have been angry.”
“Did your anger result in tacit engagement to a person you’d never met?”
He looked to her, and it was as though he was seeing her for the first time. “You remind me of someone.”
The change of topic was jarring. “I . . . do?”
“She would have adored that dress; I promised to keep her in spools of gold thread, someday.”
“Did you deliver on that promise?”
His lips flattened into a cold, straight line. “I did not.”
“I am sorry for that.”
“As am I.” He shook his head, as though to rid himself of a memory. “She is gone now. And I find myself in need of an heir to . . .”
Felicity could not help her little huff of surprised laughter. “I say, you’ve come to the right place, Your Grace, as there’s nothing London likes more than a duke in your precise predicament.”
He met her gaze, and that eerie familiarity echoed. “If we are to be engaged, you ought to understand my purpose.”
“Are we? To be engaged?”
“Aren’t we? Did you not make that decision five nights ago at my home?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a decision,” she said softly.
“What would you call it?”
The question didn’t seem relevant, so instead, Felicity asked, “How did he convince you?”
He looked to her. “Who?”
“As I’ve said, you could have denied me and chosen another without hesitation. What did he threaten you with to make you choose me?” She didn’t think Devil the kind of man who would threaten bodily harm, but she supposed she didn’t really know him, and he had climbed her trellis and entered her bedchamber uninvited, so perhaps he had less of a conscience than she thought.
“What makes you think I had to be threatened?”
The duke was an excellent actor, clearly. Felicity almost believed that Devil hadn’t convinced him to marry her. Almost.
And then said, “I accepted your proposal, did I not?”
“But why? We’ve never met.”
“We met several minutes ago.”
She blinked. “Are you mad?” It was an honest question.
“Are you?” he countered.
Felicity supposed that was fair. “No.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Then perhaps I’m not, either.”
“You don’t know me.”
He looked to her. “You would be surpr
A thread of unease passed through her at the way he said her name, an echo of another man. The fairest of them all. “I’m sure I would, Your Grace, as I am surprised you were even aware of my existence.”
“I wasn’t honestly, until late in the evening on the night of my ball, when a half-dozen doyennes of the ton—none of whom I knew existed, either, by the way—waylaid me on the way to the water closet to confirm my engagement to—what was it they called you?—poor Felicity Faircloth. It seemed they wanted to be certain I knew precisely what sort of cow I was purchasing.”
“Hog,” she corrected, immediately regretting the words.
He looked to her. “I’m not certain that’s more flattering, but if you prefer it.” Before she could tell him she was not enthralled by either descriptor, he pressed on. “The point is, I narrowly escaped the gaggle of women and then the ball—I should thank you for that.”
She blinked. “You should?”
“Indeed. You see, I no longer had need of it, as my work had been done for me.”
“And which work is that?”
“The work of finding a wife.”
“And an heir,” she said.
He lifted a shoulder. Dropped it. “Precisely.”
“And you thought a madwoman who pronounced you her fiancé was a sound choice for the mother of your future children?”
He did not smile. “Many would say a madwoman is my best match.”
She nodded. “Are you a madman, then?”
He watched her for a long moment, until she thought he was not going to speak again. And then, “Here is what I know of you, Finished Felicity. I know you were once a perfectly viable option for marriage—daughter to a marquess, sister to an earl. I know something happened that landed you in the bedchamber of a man to whom you were not married, and who refused to marry you—”
“It wasn’t what you—” she felt she had to explain.
“I don’t care,” he said, and she believed him. “The point is, after that, you became more and more curious, an oddity on the edges of ballrooms. And then your father and brother lost a fortune and you became their only hope. Unbeknownst to you, they took your freedom from you, and shipped you off to—do I have this right?—vie in a competition for a married duke’s hand?”