Wicked and the Wallflower

Chapter Eleven

Felicity had spent much of her twenty-seven years at the center of the ton. She’d been born with immense privilege, the daughter of a rich marquess, sister of an even richer earl, cousin to dukes and viscounts.

She’d been smiled upon by society, and, when she came out, it was to be immediately welcomed by the most powerful children of the aristocracy. Women invited her to the gossip of ladies’ salons, men scraped and bowed and battled their way to refreshment tables to fetch glasses of champagne.

She’d never been belle of the ball, but she’d been belle of the ball adjacent, which meant dancing every dance and flirting with gentlemen and summoning the vaguest of pity for those who stood at the edge of the ballroom.

And she’d never quite noticed what it was to be at the center of the ballroom, because she’d always been there.

That is, until she was banished from it. Then, like an opium eater, all she’d wanted was to return.

Devil had promised her that return and, somehow, he’d delivered it. As though he were magic, after all. As though he really could make the impossible, possible.

She’d arrived that evening in the gown he’d sent, which looked as though it were made of spun gold, and she’d been instantly surrounded by smiling, welcoming faces, each more complimentary than the last, each wishing to speak a kindness to her. To make her laugh. And all because her lie had somehow not been revealed. In their minds, she was the next Duchess of Marwick, infinitely more valuable that night than she had been a week earlier—and they welcomed her with open arms.

But it was not as sweet a homecoming as Felicity had imagined.

Because she was no different than she had been a week earlier.

And now, halfway through the ball, having danced a half-dozen dances and flirted not at all effortlessly, having had trouble knowing when to laugh and when a laugh might be taken as a great insult, and having been terrified that she might say or do something wrong and ruin her one chance at saving her family, Felicity Faircloth knew the truth.

Being a darling of the ton was a fireplace filled with wood left out in the rain—hopeful and worthless. All of London minced and simpered after her because the duke had not denied their engagement and did not seem interested in doing so tonight. London seemed to have rediscovered Felicity Faircloth, plain, spinster, wallflower, and renamed her fascinating, affianced, bon vivant.

Which she wasn’t, of course. She was no different today than she had been a month ago, except today she was to marry a duke. Supposedly.

And her reentry into society because of that—it wasn’t nearly as rewarding as she would have expected.

Escaping the crush, Felicity tucked herself behind a potted fern beyond a blessedly open door. All she wished to do was to step over the threshold and flee into the darkness, to hide until it was time to leave.

But she couldn’t do that, as she still had three dances left on her dance card.

Three dances, and none with the Duke of Marwick, who was supposedly her fiancé. At least, he hadn’t denied the engagement, and he’d sent notice to her father that he would soon come to discuss the details of an impending marriage, which had sent her mother into fits of pleasure and set Arthur to smiling once more. Even Felicity’s father had grunted his pleasure at the turn of events, and the Marquess of Bumble rarely had time for domestic matters, let alone time for articulating his pleasure with them.

No one seemed concerned that the duke had not thought it necessary to darken Felicity’s doorstep at any point.

“Surely, he’ll turn up eventually,” her mother had replied when Felicity had pointed out the odd progression of events and her alleged fiancé’s invisibility. “Perhaps he’s simply busy.”

Felicity rather thought that a man who had time to send correspondence relating to an engagement would find the time to set the thing in motion, but that seemed beside the point.

All that, and Devil had promised her that the dress she wore would lure the duke, would put him in her path and help to win him, but so far, there had been no inkling of such a triumph. She wasn’t even certain the duke was in attendance. Was it possible he’d left London altogether? And if so, what was Felicity to do—continue to brazen it through and lie to all the world?

At some point, the Duke of Marwick would have to realize that they were not, in fact, engaged. And no frock—sent by the Devil or otherwise—was magic enough to protect her from the truth once she had to stare down the Duke of Marwick himself.

Not even this frock, which seemed more magical than any she’d ever imagined.

It was perfect.

How he’d done it was a mystery—but he’d promised her a perfectly fitted dress, and one had arrived that morning, as though crafted by magical beings. It had been crafted, in fact, by Madame Hebert, London’s most renowned modiste, despite Felicity not having been to the dressmaker in months—the product, she now realized, of her family’s penny pinching as much as her own disinterest in frocks now that she wasn’t welcome at the center of this world.

It seemed, however, that Hebert knew what kind of gown would be of interest. And it was a most definitely interesting one, Felicity had to admit. Even if Arthur’s brows hadn’t shot up when she’d appeared in it, Felicity had known the moment she’d opened the great white box embossed with a gold H that it was going to be the most beautiful gown she’d ever worn.

It hadn’t been a dress alone, however. There had been shoes and stockings and gloves and undergarments—she blushed at the memory of them, each piece edged with ribbons in a pink so vibrant it seemed scandalous.

I like pink, she’d told him earlier in the week.

It felt sinful to wear those underthings, silk and satin and stunning, knowing they came from him. Nearly as sinful as wearing the dress itself, because she hadn’t been able to stop herself from thinking of wearing it for the man who had sent it, rather than for all the men who had seen it tonight.

She’d even left the door to her balcony open all day, thinking perhaps he would sneak in once more. That he might wish to see her in it. That he might wish to see that she looked something like pretty in it.

But he hadn’t come.

He’d kissed her in the darkness, giving her a taste of wickedness and sin, tempting her with its power, promised to see her in three nights’ time, and then . . . deserted her.

It wasn’t as though a man who lived in Covent Garden and carried a weapon in his walking stick had been invited to a ball hosted by one of the longest standing titles in Britain. Even if Felicity wished it so.

“He didn’t come, the bastard,” she whispered to herself and the inky blackness beyond.

“Such language, Felicity Faircloth.”

Her heart began to pound as she spun around to face him. “Are you an actual devil? Have I summoned you with my thoughts?”

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Have you been thinking of me?”

Her mouth dropped open. She’d had too much champagne if she was admitting that. “No.”

The smile became a wolfish grin and he backed away into the shadows. “Liar. I heard you, my talkative wallflower. I heard you curse my not coming. Was I expected in your rooms?”

She blushed, grateful for the darkness. “Of course not. I keep my doors locked, now.”

“It’s a shame I don’t know a lockpick, then.” She coughed, and he laughed, low and dark and delicious. “Come into the darkness, Felicity, lest you be caught cavorting with the enemy.”

Her brows knit together but she followed him nonetheless. “Are you the enemy?”

He rounded the corner, where the light from the ballroom gave way to dark. “Only to everyone in Mayfair.”

She drew closer to the shadow of him, wishing she could see his face. “Why is that?”

“I am all they fear,” he said, low and dark. “Everyone has a sin, and my trick is knowing it. I can read them on people.”

“What is mine?” she whispered, her heart pounding, at once eager to hear his answer and terrified of it.

He shook his head. “Tonight, you are too aflame for sin, Felicity Faircloth. You’ve burned it all away.” She smiled, the words making her breathless. “And so, tell me. Have you reentered the aristocratic fold?”

She spread her hands wide. “Wallflower no more.”

“Pity,” he said.

“No one wants to be a wallflower,” she said.

“I’ve always thought the wallflowers the best in the hothouse,” he replied. “But tell me, my potted orchid, which moths have you lured?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You are mixing metaphors.”

“Careful, your wallflower past is showing. No darling of the ton would ever dream of criticizing a man’s grammar.”

“No darling of the ton would ever dream of clandestinely meeting a man like you.”

His lips pressed together in a firm line, and for a moment, she felt a pang of guilt at the words before he leaned back against the side of the house. “Tell me about the incident in the bedchamber.”

She went still. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he knew about it—everyone knew about it. But he didn’t know about the other scandals in her life, so why would he know about this one?

Why did he have to know about this one? She swallowed. “Which incident?”

“The one that made you a woman of questionable eligibility.”

She winced at the description. “How did you know about that?”

“You will find, my lady, that there are few things about which I do not know.”

She sighed. “There’s nothing to be said. There was a ball. And I found myself in a man’s bedchamber by accident.”

“By accident.”

“Mostly,” she hedged.

He watched her for a long moment, and then asked, “Did he touch you?”

The question surprised her. “No—he—in fact, he was quite outraged to discover me there, which I suppose I should be grateful for, as if he hadn’t been I might have—” She stopped and tried again, “I’m not the world’s greatest beauty to begin with, and to add to it—” She stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

She sighed again. “I was crying.”

A beat. “In a stranger’s bedchamber.”

“Might we be finished with this conversation?”

“No. Tell me why you were crying.” There was an edge to his voice that she hadn’t noticed before.

“I’d rather not.”

“Need I remind you that you owe me for that pretty frock, Felicity Faircloth?”

“I was under the impression that the frock was part and parcel with our original arrangement.”

“Not if you’re not going to tell me why you were crying, it isn’t.”

He was an irritating man. “I’d rather not tell you, because it’s silly.”

“I don’t mind silly.”

She couldn’t help the laughter that came at the words. “Excuse me, but you seem to be the kind of person who minds silly exceedingly.”

“Tell me.”

“I was—part of a group. I had friends.”

“The vipers from the other night?”

She shrugged. “I thought they were my friends.”

“They weren’t.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t there to tell me that, so . . .” She paused. “At any rate, that was why I was . . . in a state. We’d been inseparable. And then . . .” She paused, resisting the knot of emotion that came whenever she thought of that time, when she’d been a society darling, and the world had seemed to bend to her will. “Like that . . . we were not. They still sparkled and glittered and loved each other. But they did not love me. And I did not know why.”

He watched her for a long time. “Friendship is not always what we think. If we are not careful, it often becomes what others desire.”

She looked to him. “You don’t seem the kind of man who—loses friends.”

He raised a brow. “I think you mean that I don’t seem the kind of man who has them to begin with.”

“Do you?”

“I have a brother. And a sister.”

“I should like to be your friend.” The confession shocked them both, and she wished she could take it back.

Even more so when he replied, “Felicity Faircloth, I’m no kind of friend for you.” He wasn’t wrong, but it smarted nonetheless. “Shall I tell you why your so-called friends left you?”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’m a man of the world and I know how it turns.”

She believed him. “Why?”

“They deserted you because you were no longer useful. You stopped laughing at their idiot jests. Or stopped simpering after their faded frocks. Or stopped encouraging the cruelty they directed at everyone else. Whatever it was, you did something to make them realize you were no longer interested in licking their boots. And there is nothing like the loss of a sycophant to anger gasbags like those four.” She hated the reasoning, even as she knew it was correct. Even as he added, “Every man and woman inside that room is a parasite, Faulk, Natasha Corkwood, and Lord and Lady Hagin included. And you are best rid of them, my pretty flame.”

At the words, she looked back into the ballroom, watching scores of revelers chatter and gossip and dance and laugh. They were her people, were they not? That was her world, wasn’t it? And even if she’d had the same thought earlier, though not in so many words, she should defend her world to this man—this outsider, she supposed. “Not all aristocrats are parasitic.”

“No?”

“I am not.”

He came off the wall then, rising to his full height, and she tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “No. You’re just so very desperate to be part of it again that you’re willing to make a deal with the Devil to do it.”

What if I changed my mind?

She resisted the whisper of a thought. “I need to save my family,” she whispered, her cheeks blazing. I don’t have a choice.

“Ah, yes. Familial loyalty. That is admirable, but it seems to me that they could have told you their situation before throwing you to the marriage-seeking wolves.”

She hated him a little then. Hated him for speaking the words that she barely dared think. “I shan’t be a bad wife.”

“I never said you would be.”

“I will keep his house and provide him heirs.”

His gaze found hers instantly, hot and focused in the darkness. “Is that the dream, then? Mothering the next Duke of Marwick?”

Felicity considered the question for a long moment. “I’ve never had aspirations to ducal motherhood, but I should like children, yes. I think I would make a fine mother.”

“You would.” He looked away. Cleared his throat. “But that’s not the only dream, is it?”

She hesitated, the soft question swirling around them. The secrets it seemed to understand. The desire to be accepted by these people. To take a place among them again. “I don’t wish to be alone any longer.”

He nodded. “What else.”

“I wish to be wanted.” The truth hurt as it emerged, leaving an ache in her throat.

He nodded. “That’s why you lied at the start.”

“And why I agreed to our deal,” she said, softly. “I want it all. I told you. So much more than I can have.”

“You are worth all of them combined,” he said. “But hearing it from me is not enough, is it?”

It was more than he knew, it seemed, from the warmth that spread through her at the words. And yet, it wasn’t enough. “You don’t know what it was like. What it is like.”

He watched her for a long moment. “As a matter of fact, my lady, I know precisely what it is like to lose people you think you can rely upon. To be betrayed by them.”

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 snapped. “In fact, I think he might be closer to yours.”

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.