Waltz of the Wallflower

By Diana Connell

After suffering through two Seasons of torment and verbal abuse at the hands of her peers, Meredith Phelps swore never to attend another Season in London. As a self-proclaimed spinster, she has a plan, and it doesn’t involve finding a husband. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

That all changes with a single letter, penned by her cousin and asking her to act as chaperone. Despite her family’s plotting to see her married, Meredith is content with watching from her place near the wall. Until, that is, she attracts the attention of Lord Nicholas Valentine.

What starts out as a game for Nicholas to alleviate his constant boredom quickly becomes the honest pursuit of winning over Meredith’s heart. But he’ll have to contend with her stubborn determination to live a life of independence, and the dreams she’s planned for herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Connell
• Release date: Sep 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301287192

Diana Connell

Diana Connell lives in the suburbs of Utah, with her dog and two parakeets. When she’s not writing, she’s reading. When she’s not reading, she’s knitting or crocheting, usually while listening to audio books. And when she’s not doing that, she’s spending time with her friends and family.Along with regency romances, her reading interests include historical fiction, fantasy, urban fantasy, and young adult. She’s particularly fond of anything with a flair of magic, and loves stories that include a hefty dose of sap.

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Waltz of the Wallflower

Diana Connell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Diana Connell

For my beloved little sister.

Chapter One

The letter had come a week before. It remained sitting on her dressing table, unwanted and unopened. It glared at her each morning when she sat to tend to her hair, and haunted her dreams each night. A letter from London. Only a month before her cousin's first Season in Mayfair.

She knew what it said. She, the spinster, was wanted to provide companionship, wisdom, and a watchful eye for Annabelle. Sweet Annabelle, who was flighty as a butterfly, and unlikely to get into too much mischief.

Which made the invitation all the more suspect. Despite the two years wasted searching for a husband she didn't particularly want, her family was intent on forcing her to suffer through another Season of malicious whispers and pointed verbal barbs in the hopes that she'd fall madly in love with a man capable of taking care of her. Of providing for her in a way her parents never had.

No. Meredith knew what that letter wanted from her, and she refused to give in to it.

A week after the dratted thing arrived, her mother came into her bedroom and caught her staring at the letter. Meredith sat with her comb half brushed through her frizzy brown hair, dread making her stomach knot. When her mother cleared her throat, Meredith snatched up the letter and glanced around her sparsely furnished room, as if looking for some place to hide it. Her mother came and took it from her, her smile indulgent as she set the letter on the table where it'd been living for the last week.

Why don't you go? she asked, attempting to smooth Meredith's untamable hair. I'm sure you'd have the time of your life.

"No, Mother. I've been subjected to the ridicule of the ton before, and I've no desire to put myself in a position to experience their mockery. Not again."

Yet even as she bit her lip, determined not to subject herself to the exacting standards of her peers, she couldn't help but reach out and touch the letter with one fingertip. Almost she could hear the music, see the beautiful gowns of the beautiful women, smell the rich cologne of the men blending with the burnt scent of coffee and cigars.

Almost, she wished she were brave enough to go.

Meredith—

She snatched her finger away as if the paper had burned her.

Mother, please, just leave it, she pleaded.

Her mother sighed, her hands falling to her sides.

I think it'd be good for you, she said softly. Then she turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

For a long time Meredith sat, staring at the letter without really seeing it. She should open it. Or burn it. Ignoring it hadn't been working, and doing nothing certainly wouldn't improve matters. In fact, she was fairly certain that the longer she did nothing the more it would eat at her.

You are being ridiculous, she chided herself.

Suitably chastised, she picked up the letter and broke the seal. After all, reading it wouldn't change her mind. Then she could pen an honest reply to Annabelle and that would be the end of that.

* * *

Annabelle's letter had been quick to reassure her that her services as the family's spinster were needed, and there was no need, none at all! for her to participate in the Season as anything but a chaperone. It still felt to Meredith as if her family—her sweet cousin in particular—was attempting to play matchmaker. Why couldn't they just leave her be? She knew what she wanted out of life, and a husband was required for any of it.

She'd read the letter and tried three times to pen a reply. She sat in her father's study, quill poised over the paper, staring at what she'd written.

Dearest Annabelle,

That was all. Every time she thought she had her reply thought out, she'd touched the quill tip to the paper and all the words would flee from her mind. There was now a sizable ink splotch on the paper where there should instead be words.

It's not that difficult, she told herself. All you have to write is 'thank you for your kind invitation, sweetest cousin, but I simply can't join you in London for the Season.' Right then.

Quill touched paper. She managed to get most of it written before she stopped again. Stared at the page.

Thank you, for your kind invitation, sweetest cousin.

She sighed at herself. She was being a ninny. Saying no had never been one of her strong suits, it was true, but usually she only suffered when speaking to the asker face to face. Writing a refusal had never been difficult before. Why, then, couldn't she pen the words that would keep her safely away from the attention and gossip of the aristocracy?

A polite knock on the door brought her out of her brooding, and she looked up to find her father standing in the doorway, a curious smile on his lips, his newspaper tucked under one arm.

You've been working on that letter quite some time, he said. It must be quite the response.

Not really, she said glumly.

Curious, he came around the desk and leaned over her shoulder to read.

Ah, he said.

I know what I want to say, but I can't seem to say it on paper.

Sighing, Meredith leaned her head against his hip. He set his newspaper down on the desk beside the unwritable letter, and smoothed a hand over her frizzy hair. Which did nothing to tame the wisps that had managed to escape from her careful, and painfully tight, coif.

If I didn't know better, I'd say your inability to tell your cousin no is because you secretly desire to go, he said.

But you do know me better, she said quickly. She could deal with her mother pestering her go. She wasn't sure she'd be able to maintain her resolve if her father started insisting as well.

I hope I do, yes, he agreed.

Giving her cheek a fond pat, he picked up his paper and started for the study door, presumably to find somewhere to sit and read it, since she was currently occupying his study. She didn't watch him leave, but bent her head back over the letter she was trying to write with such surprising difficulty.

Merry, her father said. She blinked, startled to find him still standing in the doorway. You might find you actually like London, if you're there with no intention other than to enjoy yourself.

He left the door open behind him, as it had been before. She stared at it spot where he'd been for a long time, her mind wandering. London had been spectacular. The only reason she hadn't enjoyed it was because of the trials and heartaches of her two Seasons. She could go to the theater. See the opera. Walk in the sunlight in Hyde Park without caring if that man there noticed her, or if that lady there were sneering at her poor quality gown. She could go and be herself and not have to give one whit about what the ton thought of her.

The thought was surprisingly tempting.

When she put quill back to paper, it wasn't the refusal she'd intended to write that scrawled across the blank surface.

#

His opponent caught him by surprise.

The blow connected with his nose with a disturbing crunch. He staggered back, head reeling for a heartbeat before pain blossomed, starting as a low throb that radiated out from his nose to the rest of his face. His opponent tried to push the advantage, fist coming in low, aimed to knock the wind out of him. He twisted, taking the blow in the side of his ribs, grunting from the impact. It allowed him to throw his whole body into the left handed jab that sent his opponent reeling backward.

He grinned. Then turned his head and spat out a wad of phlegm and blood.

Nicholas, Marquess of Oakwater, enjoyed boxing. The thrill of pitting his skills against another. Testing the waters, coming together, trying to prove who was the better man with speed, precision, and strength.

It also helped break up the monotony of every day life.

His peers stood around him, cheering, makes bets. Duncan Phelps, his closest friend, grinned at him from the ring of spectators. When it became clear that his opponent was out for the count, Duncan came over to him. After collecting on the bet he'd placed.

Well done, Nick, he said. With your help, I've now earned back all the money I lost to you at cards yesterday.

Nicholas grunted, letting his friend steer him out of the circle of men as another young man from the gentry stepped into the open space and waited eagerly for a challenger. Duncan wasn't a big gambler, and what he did of it, he did wisely. If gambling in any form could ever be considered wise.

Are you going to fight? Nicholas asked, pressing his shirt tails against his nose in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He didn't think it was broken. Best have Richardson give it a look to make sure. Assuming he remembered after he drowned himself in his cups. It'd be best to have his valet examine it before then, he decided.

Not this time. My cousin Meredith is going to be arriving in London, and she'd tan my hide if I ended up in the same condition you're currently suffering.

He grunted in sympathy. She's overbearing, then?

Duncan surprised him by shaking his head.

She'd be miffed that she didn't get to watch, he said, and grinned.

Nicholas considered that for a moment, intrigued despite himself.

I've never met a lady of standing interested in watching men bloody each other in the name of sport, he finally said.

Duncan shrugged. Meredith's not interested in the mills, not exactly. She would, however, enjoy the chance to see my hat handed to me. I'm ashamed to say we fought frequently as children, and I teased her mercilessly. She clocked me upside the head more than once, though she was never able to put me properly in my place. He smiled, fondly. Though it certainly wasn't for lack of trying.

Sounds like a real doll, he said dryly.

Again that fond smile. It was an expression Nicholas was familiar with. It was what Duncan wore whenever he spoke of his younger sister, the delicate Miss Annabelle Phelps, whom he knew Duncan adored. He hadn't known he also adored this cousin Meredith. He'd never met her, which was unusual. He was very familiar with Duncan's other cousin, Barbara Eastman. How could he not even know of Meredith?

Merry's too stubborn to be a doll, Duncan said. Once she gets an idea in her head, she clings to it with a tenacity that's almost alarming in its ferocity. If she weren't so self-conscious, she'd have turned London on its head during her first Season.

He fell silent, the smile slipping into a brooding glower. He pulled himself back into good cheer with a visible effort. Nicholas watched, silent and waiting for some explanation.

He didn't get one.

Once more his smiling self, Duncan clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "No matter. You'll be able to meet her soon enough, and then you'll see for yourself what sort of a doll my cousin Meredith is."

#

The Phelps family house in London was a huge affair, with a long, well raked gravel drive sporting a lovely fountain as the centerpiece. Meredith sat back in the carriage as if she weren't impressed with it at all, though what she really wanted to do was hang out the window like a country bumpkin to take in everything, commit every detail to memory so that she'd never forget it.

Never mind the fact that she'd been there before, had even stayed there during her two Seasons, her Aunt Amelia playing chaperone, her Uncle Devon acting as guardian, when her mother and father couldn't make it. The house was still incredible. Almost like a fairytale castle. Especially in the spring. The flower beds were a riot of color, and she closed her eyes as she breathed deep the scent of rain and wet gravel.

Along with the jumble of other scents that was London in all her soaking wet glory.

Quickly she touched a hand to her hat, making sure it sat correctly atop the severe bun she'd tried to tame her hair into. The ribbons were new, as were the ones giving life to her old gown of dull green. When she'd first bought them she'd thought the yellow brightened the gown, made the green deeper and a little less worn. Now she was sure the pale, but vibrant, ribbons had been a mistake. Their newness just accented how near to tatters the gown was. She closed her eyes, mortified. She should have stretched her allowance, saved for at least one new dress, but there hadn't been time.

She should have asked her mother for one of the gowns they created together. Her mother was an excellent seamstress, while Meredith had a fair hand for embroidery. Better than fair. Her stitch-work was impeccable. But no. She couldn't take away a dress that, if it sold, would keep her parents fed and in their small house, or help pay the wages of their maid of all work. She'd had no choice but to bring her least worn gowns, and it wasn't her fault that they were all out of fashion and obviously not new.

That will be quite enough of that, Meredith told herself firmly. Aunt Amelia knows the state of affairs, and won't be at all surprised by your dress.

If she were lucky, Amelia might even gift her with a new gown, as payment for her coming all the way to London to play chaperone for Annabelle.

The carriage rocked to a halt, and she heard the footman hit the gravel with a crunch. She took a breath, fingering the new yellow ribbon. Courage. She mustn't let the cruelty of her richer peers bring her down. She was happy where she was. She enjoyed doing embroidery to decorate the gowns her mother sold in secret. Her life, though poor, was fulfilling. Complete. She didn't need money to be happy, and she didn't need a man to take care of her.

She was quite capable of taking care of herself.

The thought of working to make her living, as her mother did now in secret to help supplement Father's small pittance of income, didn't horrify her as it should. She liked sewing, enjoyed creating beautiful things that other women could wear and appreciate and others might admire. But the act was always tinged with shame.

Because her father should be making more than he was. Should be able to make enough to care for their small family without her mother needing to work. Because he was the second son of a baron and he'd spurned becoming a soldier or joining the clergy or becoming mired in law. The pride he took in tending his small parcel of land, most of it orchards, wasn't enough to drown out the scorn of the ton. Already she could hear them, whispering and laughing behind her back. Imagined the thinly veiled insults they'd make to her face.

The sense of pride she took in working with her mother evaporated, leaving her self-confidence shriveled and cowering.

The door of the carriage opened. She stared at it as if it'd become the gaping maw of some beast, ready to devour her whole. The hand of the footman hung in the air, waiting for her. With a little shake of her head to chase away the imaginary voices of the ton, she took a short breath, accepted the hand, and stepped down to the gravel drive.

Thank you, sir, she murmured politely as she tipped her head back to stare up, and up the grand staircase leading to the front door.

We'll have your luggage unloaded in a hurry, miss, he said.

Nodding, she mustered up a smile that flickered into place and then died.

Why had she agreed to do this again?

Obviously I must be out of my mind.

The footman, if he heard her, made no comment.

Slowly she

Reviews for Waltz of the Wallflower

[Tiffanie Crust Hicks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The leading lady kinda made me want to pull my hair out. Couldn’t really see what he saw in her, she was rude, unforgiving and so incredibly thin skinned that I found myself rolling my eyes every time she ran away from him crying. Which she did. A lot.

[Leena Aluru · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

2.5 stars actually. I didn't like the heroine too much. Extreme drama queen, arrogant selfish and wallows too much in self pity.