Liz Tyner - The Wallflower Duchess

He’d tried to curl the fingers down, except for the middle one, but he didn’t think he’d made it before an angel had taken his hand, pressing, covering his fist. A feminine touch held his fingers. The skin was cool—refreshing after the heat that smothered him. An angel to ease his pain and take him from life.

He’d squeezed the fingers twice.

The angel had grabbed him and jostled him, sending aches throughout his body. But then she’d hugged him, pressing closer. A wisp of her hair had tickled his nose and the flowery soap she used had masked the sickroom scent. Her touch worked better than laudanum and the pain had abated. He’d breathed in, trying to keep the scent of her locked inside him and the feel of her cheek imprinted on his.

‘Hurry and get better,’ she’d whispered, her lips at his ear.

The touch made his blood flow and his heart beat, but when her hands left him, he’d been unable to move to follow her.

He’d wanted her to stay. Ached for her to stay, but it was a different kind of pain than the jagged throbs that had sliced him.

She’d told him to get better and he’d done it. For her. For the angel. For Lily. And he’d be damned if he didn’t ask her to marry him.

Chapter Two

‘Gaunt.’ Edgeworth stepped from the window when his valet entered. ‘Are my things prepared?’

‘Your Grace?’ Gaunt tilted his head forward in question.

‘For my neighbour’s little...’ he waved his hand in a circular motion and sat at his dressing mirror, pleased that his face had regained the look of health ‘...soirée. Surely you have my clothes ready.’ Keeping his eyes on the mirror, Edge asked. ‘You do have my clothing ready. You have not forgotten?’

‘Um, yes, Your Grace. Of course.’ Gaunt stepped away, feet brisk.

Edgeworth didn’t move. In one brief moment, he’d seen Gaunt’s eyes reflected in the mirror. Even as he answered with the usual unruffled respect, the valet’s eyes had briefly looked heavenward. Exasperated.

Edgeworth stared at the looking glass. Gaunt had been Edgeworth’s only valet—ever. And the servant never forgot a—Edgeworth thought back. He’d not told Gaunt of the soirée. No. He had no memory of mentioning it. He’d been busy catching up with all the duties that had fallen by the wayside while he recovered and he’d been planning his proposal. But it didn’t matter. Gaunt was always prepared.

When Gaunt returned, he had the same stoic expression as always—except for the few moments before when he’d not known himself observed. Now Gaunt whipped things about just as if he’d been told earlier of their need. Warm water appeared. Clothes were readied. Shaving was quickly accomplished, with the little splash of the scent which Gaunt said was nasturtiums and Edgeworth suspected was merely an ordinary shaving soap put in an expensive container.

Edgeworth gave a final perusal of himself, though he knew the valet would have alerted him to any flaw.

‘I can’t believe you forgot the soirée,’ Edge said.

‘Nor can I.’

No flicker of irritation. Perhaps Gaunt did think he’d forgotten.

Edge took the comb and did another run through his hair, then set the comb on the edge of the tabletop, absently letting it fall to the floor. When he stood, he picked up the dry cloth on the table, brushed it at his cheek, wadded it into a ball and tossed it over the soap pot. On the way out, he glanced at Gaunt’s expression. Calmness rested in his eyes.

The Duke paused outside the door, shutting it, but then he stopped and opened it quietly. Gaunt retrieved the comb, putting it in the spot it belonged. Then retrieved the flannel and his cheeks puffed. He wrung the cloth once, and then again, and again, as if it were—perhaps, a neck. Then he precisely smoothed it before returning it to the exact spot Edge preferred.

Pulling the door softly shut behind him, Edgeworth paused. The towel had not been wet, but if it had been his neck, he wouldn’t be going to the soirée.

* * *

Lily walked to Abigail’s room and peered in. Her sister had the face of her mother, a perfect heart shape, and her father’s fair colouring and blonde hair.

Lily supposed her colouring came from her true father. At the one time she’d seen the blacksmith, she’d not been aware that men could pass their resemblance on to their children. She was thankful for that.

Her mother had jerked Lily’s hand forward, pulling her into the invisible wall of heat and charred odours which separated the shop from the alive world. A blacksmith had appeared, standing like a gruff ogre at a fire where his next meal could be roasted—or a fire where a little girl who’d stepped too near could be tossed.

His eyes couldn’t have been gleaming red-hot—he was human—but in her memory he’d had red eyes, blocks of huge teeth and his wet hair had spiked down the sides of his face into points.

When the stories in the newspaper were published about her birth and she fully considered what that really meant, she’d shuddered. Fortune had plucked her into a princess world where even her maid hummed. Being illegitimate wasn’t nearly so bad as the thought of how different life would have been with the man whose walls hung dark with long pinchers.

She’d only had the one nightmare where he’d grabbed her with the pinchers and tossed her into the flames, laughing and telling her she didn’t belong in the rich man’s world. She belonged in the coals.

Now, Lily appraised her sister, thankful for the brightness Abigail brought into the world.

‘You look like a princess.’ Lily leaned around the doorway.

‘I feel like one, too.’

Lily smiled and left, moving down the stairs to the ballroom. Tonight, instead of frowning at any man who stood too close to Abigail, she would smile and step into the shadows.

She took a breath before she walked into the ballroom, the scent of the specially ordered candles wafting through the air. She fluffed out the capped sleeves of her gown. The dress was three Seasons old, but the embroidery on the bodice and hem had taken a seamstress months and months to complete.

She paused when she took in the broad shoulders and firm stance of Edgeworth. The man to the left was taller. The one to the right had a merry face and narrow frame. Edgeworth was not above average in height and features, except for his shoulders and eyes.

Everyone noticed him, even if the ladies were cautious about it. No one wanted to anger Edgeworth. Even her. Usually.

But she had once borrowed his book when he’d left it outside on the bench. She’d known he was returning for it. She’d known—and she’d darted upstairs, nearly biting her tongue in half when she’d stumbled on the steps, then she’d rushed into Abigail’s room to watch the events next door unfold. The hedge around the bench hadn’t been so big then and she’d stood at the window, waiting.

He’d returned and stared at the empty spot.

Then he’d looked up. She’d held the book against the glass.

Edgeworth had pointed to the bench and she’d seen the set of his shoulders.

He’d moved one step in her direction. He’d waggled a finger. He wasn’t smiling as she’d thought he might. One hand was at his side and clenched.

She’d put the book down because she couldn’t manage a book the size of a chair seat and the window at the same time.

She’d pulled open the window, lifted the book and then held the volume in both hands and released it flat. Then she’d jumped back inside, shut the window and stepped from sight.

The rest of the day she’d expected to be summoned for punishment, but no one had mentioned it. Her father would never have forgiven her. A common girl did not irritate a duke’s son.

And then he’d left that second book out and she’d taken it, knowing he left it for her. She’d laughed when she’d seen the title. She’d never read it, but still, she’d placed it in her father’s library and it had made her smile when she walked by and thought of him leaving it for her to find.