Kiss the Wallflower: Books 1-3 Read online

  Without knocking, he entered the designated room, and closing the door, stood at the threshold a moment, willing his eyes to focus in the dark space. He could faintly make out the shape on the bed, a dark presence in the room. No candle burned to light his way, nor was the fire stoked high enough to allow him to see clearly.

  Damn it, he’d break his neck walking to the bed.

  “Margaret,” he whispered, creeping closer with caution. “Margaret,” he said again, louder this time. Luke ran a hand through his hair. “Do not tell me she’s fallen asleep,” he mumbled. If that were the case his reputation for a libertine would be shot to hell and he’d never be able to face his friends at Whites ever again.

  To have a woman fall to sleep on him was scandalous!

  “Are you asleep? I thought we had other plans.” He dipped his voice, shuffling out of his superfine coat and throwing it aside. Quickly he rid himself of his waistcoat and reaching behind his head, pulled his shirt from his person.

  He reached out, grappling for the bed, and finally feeling the soft textures of the blankets, he climbed atop it. His lips quirked and his cock swelled at the slight form, lying in wait beneath him. He ran his hand along her leg, squeezing it a little and enjoying the long lines of her body.

  Margaret rolled onto her back, a delectable little sigh escaping from her lips.

  “I’m here, darling. Do wake up, we have games to play.” Luke crawled over her fully, feeling his way to kiss her.

  The moment his lips touched hers—the softest lips he’d ever felt in his life—his alcohol-confused mind recognized that something was wrong. Dreadfully not right.

  The woman beneath him stilled, her lips puckered tight without an ounce of give in them. He frowned, pulling back. “Do not tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

  A scream rent the air, piercing in its intensity. He stilled, shocked at the deafening sound and lifted himself back, trying to make out who the woman screaming bloody murder was underneath him.

  Luke scrambled backward, unable to get off her quickly enough. The door flew open, slamming against the wall with its force and he swore. The light from the hall beyond threw visibility into the room. The duke and duchess stared at him in abject horror and to Luke’s dismay, disappointment clouded his friend’s eyes.

  “There has been a mistake.” He held up his hand, halting Carlton’s step toward him. “Dale,” Luke said, bending to pick up his waistcoat and shirt. “I thought it was Margaret in the bed,” he whispered, cringing as more onlookers started to build in the doorway.

  He grimaced, looking back toward the bed, frowning as he tried to place the woman who glared at him, her fierce blue eyes brimming with fire. Luke slipped on his shirt, hastily throwing on his waistcoat and tying up the buttons.

  “Would you look at that,” a feminine voice purred from the doorway. “The Marquess Graham’s breeches are open. Why sir, you are most indecent for those who can see you.” Luke’s fingers flew to his pants and he tied up his front falls, the hole in which he found himself growing wider and deeper by the minute.

  Dear God, how would he get himself out of this mess?

  The duchess entered the room, walking over to the woman. “Are you well, Louise? We heard you scream.”

  The woman cast him a dismissing glance. “I’m well, Mary,” she said, shuffling out of bed. “I do not know what any of this is about. I was asleep and the next thing I know there is a terrible weight above me that reeked of sweat and spirits.”

  Luke scoffed. “I do not smell, madam.” A voice cleared and Luke met the raised brow of his friend.

  “I think that is not the point, Graham.”

  Shit. Luke glanced at the ceiling, anywhere but the many faces watching what was at play from the door. The duke walked over to everyone. “Do go back to the ball. We will join you all shortly.”

  Margaret, Lady Scarboro, stepped forward, blocking the duke from shutting them out. “I hope the marquess is going to do what’s right and offer for the girl. To ruin someone so callously, an innocent with siblings to consider.” Margaret shook her head and Luke fisted his hands at his sides. How dare she. It was her that he was supposed to meet, and now she was playing the honest and honorable card. That was rich coming from a woman renowned for cuckholding her husband during their marriage.

  Those about her ladyship mumbled their agreement, staring at him as if waiting for him to do just that, kneel down and propose. He would not! Luke glanced at the duchess who had placed a dressing robe over the woman beside her. The girl wasn’t a debutante, and although he’d seen her before he could not remember where.

  The duke shut the door with a resounding bang, but he didn’t avert his attention from the duchess or her companion who spoke in hushed, rapid tones.

  “Lady Scarboro did not seem to know that you were meeting her. If I can trust what she’d just stated at the door about you.” The duke walked over to the hearth and sat in the wingback chair. “But I would believe you over her ladyship. Her history of being deceitful leads to such a surmising. Even so, you and Miss Grant have been found in bed together, with your front falls open, no less. Tongues are wagging as we speak and if we’re to limit the damage to Miss Grant, there is only one solution that I can see.”

  “I will not marry her.”

  “I will not marry him.”

  Both their words merged into one refusal and Luke heaved a sigh of relief that he wasn’t about to be hitched to a woman he did not know, or had ever heard about within the circles that he graced.

  He shuddered at the idea of marrying, of having a wife and possibly children in the future. Having been orphaned at an early age, he no longer needed such support and had grown up relying on himself for most things. His grandmother was always there, hovering like a ghoul, but she too was gone now and he was on his own.

  Just as he preferred it to be.

  Marriage did not fit in with his plans.

  The duke stared at him, unmoved, and panic clawed across his skin. “You know I never plan to marry, Carlton. We will explain that I simply entered the wrong bedchamber and be done with this mess.”

  “You will not be done, though, will you, Graham? The ton, at this very moment, will be spreading across town what they saw here tonight. My wife’s friend’s reputation will be ruined.”

  Luke spied his coat jacket and, picking it up, shuffled into it. The young woman’s face was pale, her dark-blue eyes wide with the announcement that her reputation was lost. Guilt assailed him, but he forced it aside. He should never had agreed to come upstairs to have some fun and games with Lady Scarboro.

  Her ladyship’s smugness flashed before his eyes and his own narrowed. Had she planned this for him? Had she schemed to force his hand with a woman who was far removed from him in his social standing?

  “You’re suggesting that I marry her.” Luke took a calming breath. This could not be happening.

  “If you do not, Miss Grant will be ruined.” The duke came over to the fire, holding his gaze. “You’re better than this, Luke,” he said, using his given name. “You must do the honorable thing.”

  He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. The room closed in around him, his skin prickled before a cold sweat ran down his spine. He’d never wanted to marry. Such a road led to heartache and despair and he would not put himself through that emotion again.

  The duchess and Miss Grant spoke quietly beside the bed, Miss Grant glaring at him with any opportunity that was afforded her. He stared down at his feet, cringing. Whatever would he tell his cousin? They had made a promise, a pact that the title would go to his relative, his heir upon Luke’s death. A wife meant the possibility of children, of a family of his own.

  He ran a hand through his hair. The idea repulsed him. If indeed he did find out that he was tricked into this scheme by Lady Scarboro he would ensure she was ostracized by the ton.

  “Miss Grant, it seems that my error has led to us being placed into a position of matrimony. I will marry you
and I apologize for any trouble this may have caused you. It was not my intent.”

  He cast a glance at Miss Grant, watching as the duchess spoke into the young woman’s ear. The woman was not unfortunate in appearance, her hair was a pretty deep-russet brown color and her eyes were large and round, perfectly shaped brows arched over them. Her full lips were set into a displeased line, but even that position revealed two dimples on either side of her cheeks.

  No, Miss Grant wasn’t so very bad in relation to her looks, but her breeding, her non-existent dowry. Well, that was another matter entirely.

  He would never live down this mistake.

  She sighed. “Very well,” she said, raising her chin. “I will marry you, but only because I’m being given no other choice. Do not expect anything from me.”

  Luke raised one brow. The word prickly floating through his mind. “Good, because you should not expect anything from me either.”

  The duke clapped his hands, drawing Luke’s attention back to him. “It is done then. You are betrothed.”

  Chapter 4

  A week passed and still the marquess had not returned to marry her. He’d left a missive for the duke telling him he’d gone to Doctors Commons in London to procure a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury. A procedure that may take some time and a hefty amount of guineas if what Mary had told her was true. Even so, a week did seem overly prolonged, even to Louise.

  She sat alone in the duke and duchess’s drawing room. A book lay closed and unread in her lap, her ability to do anything other than think about the Marquess Graham impossible.

  At this very moment she should be in York, starting her new life and ensuring the safety of herself and her siblings. She sighed, placing the book on a nearby table and standing. Her letters to her family should have reached Sandbach by now and they would know their situation had changed.

  Over the past week Louise had ample time to think about her change in circumstance and a small part of her, the common sense part was happy that marriage was imminent. Her brother and sister would return to town to live with her, and she could possibly secure them a better future than she could’ve given them before. Give them the life that their parents had not been able to. A life where one did not need to worry about whether they would eat dinner that evening or not. If they were able to order a new winter coat or boots.

  It had been better for them all from the moment her aunt had procured her the position with the Earl of Lancaster, but still, Louise had always wished for more for them. They were good people and deserved only the best.

  Her mind wandered to the marquess. A marriage to such a powerful man within the ton had never been her goal. A simple country gentleman would’ve suited her very well. He was so very well-regarded in the higher echelons of Society, even if he did have a wicked reputation when it came to women. She shivered, unsure if she would be able to meet his standards both within Society and in his bed.

  As a companion she was always there and yet excluded. Not part of the set or seen, rarely spoken to and mostly ignored by the society in which she circulated. Of course, Mary had never treated her in such a way, had always tried to include her and ensure she was happy, but Mary’s friends had not, and it had been easier to meld into the silk wallpapers than to cause raised brows when she imparted information or an opinion on a subject that they did not see her fit to know about.

  A footman in bottle-green livery knocked and entered the room. “A letter has arrived for you, Miss Grant.”

  She took the missive, recognizing the seal to be Sir Daxton’s. Louise broke the seal and read the missive quickly.

  * * *

  Miss Grant,

  We have received word that you were found in a compromising situation with the Marquess Graham. Please take this letter as termination to our agreement for you to travel and work for my family. As a Christian man I shall take this opportunity to express that your sins will not be forgiven by God and I suggest you repent such behavior and seek forgiveness before your soul is doomed for eternal damnation.

  Sir Daxton

  * * *

  “Well,” she said aloud, reading the note again to ensure she understood what she read. She had written to Sir Daxton, explained her situation had changed, but obviously he’d heard the scandalous part of her betrothal. The marquess had sent out a notification in the paper that they were to be married. Obviously not soon enough if she was to receive such missives from people in York of all places. Was the whole of England in possession of her downfall?

  Damn the marquess and his inability to keep from sampling the female flesh for one evening.

  Had his lordship actually ruined her then she could understand such reactions from people, but to be accused, shamed for an event that was none of her doing was unacceptable. She was still a maid for heaven’s sake.

  Mary strode into the room, male voices accompanying her. Louise turned to watch as the duke and Marquess Graham entered close on Mary’s heels. Glancing past them all, she spied an elderly man with thin graying hair brushed flat on his head with the help of some sort of pomade to hold it in place. His lined face had seen many years, and he waddled into the room with a decided limp.

  “Prepare yourself, Miss Grant. We’re about to be married.” The marquess came up to her, looking her over as if she were some horseflesh he was inspecting for his stable. “Not the finest gown, but under such circumstances, that will have to do.”

  “Graham,” the duchess chided, taking Louise’s hand and squeezing it a little. “Don’t be so blunt. If you’ve not forgotten the whole reason my friend is in this predicament is because you could not behave yourself for one night.”

  Louise sniffed, lifting her chin. “I was thinking the same thing before you joined me.”

  The marquess took her hand, placing it on his arm, and walked her over to where the priest waited for them before the fire. Louise looked down at her hand atop his arm. Her fingers were gloveless, her having not thought she’d need them in the drawing room today. Had her mother been here she would’ve been so terribly aghast that she hadn’t worn gloves on her wedding day.

  Fear shot through her at the realization. This was her wedding. She was marrying the Marquess Graham, which meant tonight would be her wedding night. She swallowed, her heartbeat loud in her ears and drowning out the priest’s words.

  The priest mumbled through the ceremony, and Louise, as if hearing herself from a far-off distance, answered when required. It all happened very quickly and soon enough the priest was pronouncing them husband and wife. The marquess stared down at her and she raised her chin, ignoring the fact that she would not have been the type of woman he would’ve ever married under normal circumstances.

  She may not be a diamond of the ton, a woman of wealth and good bloodlines, but she was also not to blame. They were in this position because of the rogue before her, and it was his fault that he’d had to marry a woman of no rank or anything else.

  Her breath lodged in her throat and for a moment she thought he might lean down and kiss her. Instead he turned, shaking the duke’s hand and accepting a kiss on the cheek from Mary. That his smile was lackluster should not hurt, but it did. She’d told him herself not to expect anything from her, and he should not.

  Still, to be so undesirable was not what a bride, no matter the circumstances, wished to feel on her wedding day.

  “I think champagne is in order to toast to the new Marquess and Marchioness Graham,” the duke said, turning to a footman nearby and requesting the beverages.

  The footman did as he was bade and within minutes a crystal flute was handed to each of them. Mary held up her glass, smiling. “To the happy couple. May you only have bliss and,” Mary pinned the marquess with her gaze, “may you know what a gift you’ve been given this day.”

  Heat rose on Louise’s cheeks and she glanced down at her shoes, anywhere but the marquess or the duke whom she had no doubt was willing his wife to behave. Louise almost snorted at the idea. M
ary was not one to be told what to do.

  The champagne was cool, fruity and refreshing and the nicest thing that had happened to her so far this day. She furtively took in the marquess. He wore a day suit of royal blue. His cravat drew the eye to his lordship’s neck, and the wide shoulders that followed. He was a tall gentleman, a man without fault some would say, but he did have a fault.

  And it was her. His marriage to her.

  Louise finished her drink. “Am I to stay here, Lord Graham or am I to move to your townhouse today?” There was little point in not discussing the elephant in the room. Her and her sleeping arrangements. She would of course prefer to be traveling to York instead of being married to such an ogre. This was not the type of marriage she’d thought to have for herself. Even if she’d only married a man of little means, she’d always hoped there would be affection between them. No amount of money in the world—and the marquess had quite a lot of it from all accounts—could make anyone happy.

  His eyes widened and it wasn’t hard to tell he’d not thought that far ahead when he’d decided today was the day they would marry.

  She raised her brow. “Should I have my trunks sent over or would you prefer another night as a betrothed and not a husband?”

  Mary chuckled and turned it into a discreet cough. The duke glanced at his wife, shaking his head.

  “You shall return with me, of course. Mary will have your things sent over directly. I have already hired a lady’s maid for you and she’ll attend you upon arrival.”

  It was Louise’s turn to be surprised, but she schooled her features, not wanting him to know she’d not thought it possible of him thinking of anyone else but himself. “Very good.”

  The marquess glanced between them all and Louise felt very little inclined to help him fill in the awkward silence that had fallen between them. The situation was not ideal and as no one was particularly happy about what took place not a half hour ago, one was not inclined to celebrate.