Courting the Countess of Cambridge (Secret Wallflower Society Book 2) Read online

  “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.” The deepness of his voice indicated he was speaking about far more than just a simple kiss. “I only ask for one thing in return.”

  “What’s that?” Desire filled her veins like opium, making her limbs heavy and drawing her gaze down to his mouth. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d shared how disappointing her past kisses had been. Not that she’d expected the stars. But surely a little spark had not been too much to ask for. Instead, all she’d received was a mouthful of spit that tasted vaguely of fish. Hardly the thing dreams were made of. With Stephen, however, she had a feeling it was going to be different. With Stephen, there wasn’t going to be a spark so much as a raging fire.

  And she was ready to burn.

  “Wait for me, Miss Helena Holton.” His hand glided across her cheek and then around the back of her skull, fingers sinking into her fiery red curls. “All I ask if that you wait for me until I return.” He searched her face. “My journey should only take eight months. Ten at the most. I understand if you cannot–”

  “I’ll wait for you. Be it eight months, or ten, or twenty.” Her mouth curved in a wry smile. “I’d rather wait an eternity for someone I want than settle for someone my mother thinks I need.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Then there’s only one thing left to do.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Give you a kiss worth waiting for.”

  Chapter Two

  Four Years Later

  Helena knew one truth to be universally acknowledged: a man, if given the chance, would always take advantage of a woman. Which was why she’d sworn off the lot of them.

  Indefinitely.

  Or, as long as it suited her purposes.

  Whichever came first.

  Because if there was a second truth to be universally acknowledged, it was that things changed. Constantly. And if you did not change with them, you were left behind, without a roof over your head or a shilling to your name.

  It was a lesson Helena had learned the hard way…and a dire mistake she never intended to make again.

  “You are looking remarkably tense this morning,” Ives, her lady’s footman (he preferred the term to maid), noted as he gathered her long auburn curls in a loose coil on top of her head and began to place them with pins.

  She met his gaze in the dressing mirror. “It’s Monday.”

  Ives blinked in acknowledgement. A tall, slender man with sharply defined cheekbones and hazel eyes beneath carefully plucked brows, he was as much Honora’s confidant as he was her employee. They both knew what it felt like to be shunned by the people who were supposed to love them most, and their collective pain had served to forge a bond that was closer than blood.

  “Here I thought you might have finally forgotten,” he said. “What would you like me to do with the roses when they arrive?”

  For the past two years and three months, a lush bouquet of yellow roses had been left on the doorstep on the first Monday of every new month. It didn’t matter if it was spring, or summer, or autumn. It didn’t matter if roses were in season or not. It didn’t matter if it was pouring rain or the middle of a blizzard or so hot that wax was running down the candlesticks. The roses always came. And for two years and three months, their sender had been shrouded in mystery.

  There was never a calling card, or a note, or anything to indicate who might be giving her such a lovely and extravagant gift. She’d tried having the person who delivered them followed on several occasions, but that had always inevitably led to a dead end. She’d visited dozens of flower shops, even traveling an hour outside of London, but her exhaustive searches had never yielded any results.

  Eventually, she had stopped looking. Helena was a woman who prided herself on success, and to fail so many times was nothing short of humiliating. What made it even worse was that she suspected whoever was giving her roses was the same man – or at least, she presumed it was a man – who was keeping the roof over her head, and the food on her table, and the dresses in her closet, and a small staff at her beck and call.

  A benefactor she’d never spoken to, never met, never even seen. All she knew was that he had, quite literally, saved her from starvation.

  And he had a proclivity for yellow roses.

  Beyond that, she knew absolutely nothing about him. A frustrating fact she could force herself to forget on most days, except for today. Because today was the first Monday of the month. And any minute, a loud knock would sound on the door, and a footman would open it, and there, sitting on the brick stoop, would be a bouquet wrapped in brown paper.

  “Have the roses brought up here and placed by my bed, as always.” Helena might have hated that she didn’t know who sent her the flowers, but she loved to wake to the sweet smell of them. “Do you know if the final alterations have been made on the dress I am wearing to the wedding?”

  Tomorrow morning, her dearest friend, Calliope Haversham, was marrying another one of her dear friends, Leopold Maven, the Earl of Winchester. Or Leo, as he was known to her. She’d had more than a hand in helping Calliope and Leo find love, and she was absolutely delighted they were finally going to be tying the knot.

  “It should be delivered this afternoon,” Ives informed her. “Have you decided which hat you want to wear?”

  She pursed her lips. “Nothing too outlandish. I would not want to detract from the bride. My bonnet with the pink silk ribbons, perhaps.”

  “But it doesn’t even have a single feather,” Ives said, aghast.

  “I know,” she sighed. “It’s horrifically boring.”

  If there were one thing Helena loved more than anything else, it was fashion. Bold fashion. Brave fashion. Fashion that made doddering dowagers gasp with outrage and randy young bucks sit up and take notice.

  She was vain enough to admit she enjoyed the attention (both good and bad), but that wasn’t the driving force behind her inspired attire. Ever since she’d been a little girl, Helena had wanted to do things the way she wanted to do them. Not as they were dictated to her. If she saw something she liked, she wore it. And if she couldn’t find something she liked (which as more often the case, given her eccentric style), she had it created. Regardless of whether it reflected the current trends or not.

  But for the sake of her friend’s wedding, she was happy to keep her attire demure.

  Even though it would mean looking dreadfully dull.

  “Well, when you are the one getting married, you can wear whatever you want,” Ives said philosophically as he slid the last pin into place. Taking a step back, her lady’s footman studied his work with narrowed eyes. Then he clucked his tongue and moved to fix a curl that didn’t quite meet his impeccably high standards. “I’m envisioning a gown in gold. High neckline. Long sleeves that taper to a point at the wrists. An emerald tiara–”

  “A tiara?” Helena interrupted, auburn brow arching.

  “I can only assume you’ll be marrying a duke; in which case, a tiara would only be expected.” Ives paused. “Unless you’d like to wear something flashier, and then we’ll need to find you a prince.”

  “I am not going to marry a prince.”

  “A duke, then.” Her servant nodded. “Much more practical and fewer dignitary responsibilities.”

  “I am not going to marry one of those, either.” Satisfied with her hair, Helena leaned towards the mirror and applied a light dusting of powdered rouge to her cheeks. Behind her, Ives pursed his lips.

  “You can’t intend to marry another earl.”

  Helena flicked him an icy stare over her shoulder as she rose from her chair and reached for the green jacket draped across the back of it. “I never intended to marry the first one.”

  Realizing his error, Ives grimaced. “I apologize, my lady.”

  “There’s no need. The only one who owes me an apology is already dead, God rot his soul. Although I would prefer it if you stopped trying to marry me off. Once was enough, thank you.”

&
nbsp; “I never meant–”

  Helena brushed away his contrition with a wave of her arm. “I know you didn’t. Let us forget this unpleasant little exchange, shall we? I don’t want to disagree before tea. It’s unseemly.”

  Ives bent at the waist in an elaborate bow. “As you wish, my lady. Here are your gloves.”

  She slipped them on, then swatted Ives lightly on the arm. “You know I hate it when you call me that. Especially when you smirk when you do it.”

  “I’m not smirking,” he protested.

  “I do enough smirking to know what a smirk looks like.”

  “Brat.”

  “Ass.”

  “Fussock.”

  “Gollumpus.” She paused. “What the devil is a fussock?”

  Ives shrugged. “Damned if I know. Heard it down at the pub one night. I’ve been keeping it in reserve.”

  “I like it.”

  “I thought you might.”

  They grinned at each other.

  “Please have my dress laid out as soon as it arrives,” Helena called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “I do not want any wrinkles.”

  “Of course…my lady.”

  “Fussock,” she muttered fondly under her breath. There were times Ives plucked at her last nerve, but then, that was what family did. And he was her family. In every way it counted except for blood.

  He’d been there for her when she was at her lowest. And whenever she came close to crumpling beneath the weight of her past, he was the one who reminded her to lift her chin and straighten her crown.

  She was halfway down the stairs when someone knocked on the door. A footman answered it, but she hastened down the steps and intercepted him before he could pick up the bouquet of roses that had been left on the front step.

  “I’ll take those,” she said, hugging them protectively against her chest. They were warm from the sun and slightly damp with morning dew.

  Going into the kitchen, she unwrapped the flowers from their packaging and snipped off the ends of the long green stems before filling a vase with water and arranging them inside. Then she sat back on her heels and stared hard at the roses, her forehead unconsciously creasing as she wondered (for what must have been the hundredth time) who her benefactor was…and why he insisted on sending her such a beautiful gift.

  She could think of no one in her life who would have the means or the motive. Even if her parents could have afforded such a luxury, they wouldn’t have wasted their money on a daughter they’d forsaken. Her sister Dahlia, happily married with adorable twin girls, would have given Helena the dress off her back if she requested it, but she’d never been able to keep a secret for longer than two minutes, let alone two years.

  She’d considered it was someone her late husband, the Earl of Cambridge, had known. A relative, perhaps. Except she was aware of only one living relative, and he’d sooner throw her to the wolves than give her a single crumb of food from his table.

  Helena’s lip curled in a sneer.

  She still remembered the last time she’d spoken to Stephen. It had been several weeks after her betrothal to his father had been announced in all the papers. Her parents and Cambridge were trying to decide on a wedding date, and she’d been dragged along to participate, even though she had made it clear she would rather die than marry a man four times her age. Not to mention it was his son she’d fallen in love with, not him.

  On the night she and Stephen had met, she hadn’t known his father was the Earl of Cambridge. She also hadn’t known Cambridge had an eye for young girls. And she’d certainly had no idea that while she and Stephen were flirting in the gardens, Cambridge’s eye had landed on sweet, innocent Dahlia inside the ballroom.

  Over the following days, all three of those things had become clear. What had also become clear was that if Helena did not offer herself up in Dahlia’s place, her little sister would be forced to marry a monster.

  Dahlia, who trapped ants in glass jars and carefully carried them outside to set them free unharmed when they found their way into the kitchens. Dahlia, who dreamed of being whisked away by a dashing knight and living in a castle in the clouds. Dahlia, who was so terrified at the prospect of becoming a child bride, she’d fainted when their parents told her of Cambridge’s proposal.

  Helena had been furious at both her parents and Cambridge, but after her fury got her nowhere but locked in her room, she’d realized what she needed to do. What she had to do. It had taken some tremendous acting – her stomach still turned whenever she thought of the lengths to which she’d gone – but she had managed to turn Cambridge’s attention from Dahlia to herself. Lord and Lady Holton truly didn’t care which daughter they married off to the obscenely wealthy earl, and they’d been more than willing to yank Dahlia off of the sacrificial pedestal and shove Helena on top of it. Which was how she came to find herself at Cambridge’s country estate on the day Stephen returned home from his travels abroad.

  Pinned between her mother and father while Cambridge feasted on her with watery brown eyes and licked his lips as if she were a particularly scrumptious rack of lamb, she hadn’t even looked up when Stephen first entered the drawing room. Her gaze pinned to her lap, she’d assumed he was a servant bringing in refreshments. Or an assassin come to put her out of her misery. But then he spoke, and the second that deep, husky voice reached her ears, her head snapped around with such suddenness she felt a pop in the back of her neck.

  It embarrassed Helena to this day that her first thought upon seeing Stephen was relief. In those precious moments when her gaze had frantically sought his, and she willed him to see inside of her head where the truth lay, she’d believed he was there to rescue her. That he had somehow heard of the engagement, cut his Grand Tour short, and come to save her from the pits of hell.

  But then, his eyes had frosted over, and his mouth had twisted in a smile sharp enough to slice flesh, and she’d realized just how wrong and naïve her assumptions had been.

  “Miss Holton,” he said, a brow arching up towards his carelessly tousled mane of dark chestnut hair. He looked exactly the same as she remembered. A little leaner, perhaps. Harder around the eyes. But beneath that shark’s smile, she still saw the charming scoundrel her heart had fallen for.

  “Lord Ware,” she replied cautiously. “You look…well.”

  “And you look like a tramp the cat dragged in.”

  Lady Holton gasped. Lord Holton stiffened in his chair. Helena, never taking her gaze off of the man who had kissed her in the moonlight, refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But on the inside she struggled not to weep.

  It had been difficult enough, to endure the betrayal of her parents. They’d raised her. Cared for her. Loved her – or so she’d been led to believe. Then they’d stabbed a knife in her back and held another to her sister’s throat if Helena didn’t comply with their wishes. That pain…it had almost broken her. But she’d stayed strong, for herself and for Dahlia. Because she knew if didn’t, no one else would.

  Now Stephen’s icy contempt felt like another abandonment, and she wondered how much more she could endure before she shattered.

  “See here–” her father began, only to immediately fall silent when he experienced the full weight of Stephen’s formidable glare.

  “Yes?” Stephen said coldly.

  Lord Holton glanced at his wife, then at Cambridge, then down at the floor. It was telling he didn’t feel the need to look at his daughter. “I, uh, that is…nothing of importance, Lord Ware. I meant no offense.”

  Helena let out a strangled laugh. She couldn’t help herself. Not even when Cambridge looked at her with eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  “Do you find something humorous, my love?” he asked.

  My love.

  As if his black heart was capable of such an emotion.

  “Yes.” Ignoring the sharp warning nudge of her mother’s elbow, she levelled her gaze at everyone in turn. They all looked away, even the earl.

 
Only Stephen held her stare and the sheer loathing she saw in his expression was enough to steal her breath.

  Let him think what he wants, she thought harshly. His opinion doesn’t mean a damn thing.

  Except it did. Of all the people in the room, his opinion mattered the most. And it hurt, more than she could put into words, that he was capable of casting her in such a poor light after what they’d said to each other. After what they’d done. After what they’d promised.

  “I’ll wait for you. Be it eight months, or ten, or twenty. I’d rather wait an eternity for someone I want than settle for someone my mother thinks I need.”

  “Then there’s only one thing left to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Give you a kiss worth waiting for.”

  Clearing her throat, she forced her gaze away from him. “Yes,” she repeated. “I find it humorous indeed that my father is afraid of offending Lord Ware, when he has made it clear he has no such fears when it comes it his own daughter.”

  “Helena,” her mother said sharply. “Do not start.”

  “Why not?” she demanded, shaking off Lady Holton’s hand as she rose from her chair. “Clearly you are not going to speak on my behalf, which means I must. Furthermore–”

  “Surely, we can discuss more pleasant things than petty family squabbles,” Cambridge interrupted. He dragged his tongue between his lips, reminding Helena of a lizard. One with a large, fleshy underbelly and empty, soulless eyes. “Do sit down, my dear. We have the wedding to discuss.”

  “Ah, yes, the wedding,” Stephen drawled. “It seems I’ve missed quite a lot over the past six months. Pray tell, when are the happy nuptials to take place? I wouldn’t want to miss anything else.”

  Helena bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. She sucked furiously on the tiny cut, angry with the earl for exerting his power in such a horrific way and even angrier with Stephen for choosing to believe the worst in her.

  How could anyone, least of all Stephen, honestly think she would willingly marry this…this lecher? He should have been defending her, not damning her! They’d only met once, it was true, but surely, he knew her better than this. She had told him things she’d never told anyone else. Silly things, like her favorite color. And deeper things, like her fear of never meeting her mother’s expectations. He’d kissed her lips and touched her heart, and there hadn’t been a day gone by that she hadn’t thought of him. Missed him. Yearned for him.