Winning A Wallflower

  WINNING A WALLFLOWER

  WENDY VELLA

  CONTENTS

  Winning A Wallflower

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Sensing Danger

  Wendy Vella’s Books

  About the Author

  WINNING A WALLFLOWER

  By Wendy Vella

  Their course was set, but the game of love changes everything. Can a well placed arrow bring them what their hearts desire?

  Miss Ivy Birdwhistle’s first season had been a disaster. Four years on, and not much had changed, except her aunt had promised this will be her last. All she had to do was support her cousin at Lady Pandora Osborne’s house party, and her torment was over.

  All was going to plan until the enigmatic man who had saved her from ruin four years ago returned from his travels. Bramstone Nightingale was her handsome savior. It’s clear he does not recognize her. And it's also clear that he is determined to ignore the fact she is the most unpopular guest at the party. With him continually seeking her out, and Lady Osborne insisting she compete in the archery competition, her careful plans are deteriorating.

  Bram was a vastly different man than the spoiled indolent one who walked out on society. He’s learned control and will no longer willingly follow the dictates of his family. And this is what draws him to the shy wallflower, Miss Ivy Birdwhistle.

  With her hideous dress sense, and need to make herself invisible, Bram is intrigued to know why she is hiding. When he discovers her secret and that he played a part in the woman before him today, he is forced to face something he’d never believed himself capable of. His heart beats a little harder when Ivy is near and suddenly his most dangerous adventure is the one he faces pursuing her.

  Winning A Wallflower was originally released in the Wedding Wager Anthology.

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  For mum and dad.

  I write because you made me love books.

  I write funny stuff because you made me laugh.

  I can write about love because you taught me all about that too.

  Xxx

  PROLOGUE

  The ballroom glittered with the twinkling light of hundreds of candles. The crystal chandeliers sparkled in such a way that they rivaled even the most precious of jewels adorning the ladies present. As always, the Westfield Ball was the event of the Season. Everyone who was anyone amongst the Ton was present. And if one was not present, well, that omission spoke volumes.

  Standing on the edge of the dance floor, an elaborate silver monocle pressed to one eye, Lady Pandora Osborne was dressed in unrelieved black, her silver hair swept into an elaborate confection of curls. It was her one vanity—even at her advanced age, her hair was still thick and glossy, shining like spun silver. But it wasn’t vanity that prompted the slight curve of her lips as she observed the dancers with the barest hint of amused disdain.

  It would show remarkably poor breeding to simply grin like a fool, but she would be lying if she didn’t admit to a small amount of pride as one particular couple waltzed past her. He was handsome and wealthy, she was beautiful beyond words and charming. They were the couple of the season—brought together by her supreme skills as a matchmaker.

  “There they are,” she said, her tone smug, as she nodded her head in their direction.

  Taking the monocle from her cousin’s hand and holding it to her own eye, Lady Octavia Sewell surveyed the couple. Her expression remained curiously impassive. “I had thought she was a great beauty,” Octavia mused. “I’d hardly call that more than passably pretty.”

  Pansy’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. Indeed, it would take someone who knew her very well indeed to detect the degree of her displeasure. “She is beautiful… the standards have changed from your youth, Octavia. It is no longer necessary to cover one’s self in velvet beauty marks and paint one’s self like a tart in order to be deemed a diamond of the first water. The girl is exquisite. To say other wise smacks of nothing more than sour grapes—They are the match of the season. Everyone says so.”

  Octavia looked down her rather sharp nose with a pinched expression. “Who is this everyone you speak of, Pansy? Really! I’m certain they’re quite a good match, though I hardly think it one for the ages.”

  Pansy resisted the urge to stamp her foot in frustration. “And how many matches have you facilitated, Octavia? The last time I checked the only couple you’d managed to get married was your own daughter and her wastrel husband—I’d hardly boast about it.”

  Octavia’s pinched expression hardened into one of complete and utter animosity. “Honestly, Pansy, you act as though no couple in all of England could manage to get themselves married without your interference! I daresay that passably pretty young woman and cow-eyed man with a generous income and a lack of intelligence might have gotten themselves to the parson’s doorstep without your aid. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

  Pansy snatched her monocle from Octavia’s hand. “I am the most skilled, most sought after and most naturally gifted matchmaker in all of society. I daresay that I could find a match for anyone!”

  Octavia’s artificially darkened brows shot skyward. “Anyone, you say? You’re quite certain of that.”

  “Of course, I am. And in no time at all. Not only am I the most skilled matchmaker, I am the most efficient,” Pansy replied once more, a snap to her words as they came out curt and crisp.

  Octavia leaned in, a gleam in her eyes that ought to have been a warning. “Then by all means, cousin, prove it… In fact, I dare you to prove it.”

  Pansy’s stomach fluttered a bit—equal parts excitement and nerves. “What are you suggesting, Octavia?”

  Her cousin smiled at her, the expression quite cunning. “A harmless wager, of course… Efficient and skilled as you are, I can’t imagine you would balk at such a thing.”

  The waltz ended then, the couples wandering from the dance floor as others lined up to take their positions for a country dance. The gentle strains of the waltz gave way to a jaunty tune as the two women faced one another in a stalemate.

  “I have no need to prove myself to you,” Pansy stated after the silence had stretched to the point of discomfort. “But, if I did, what exactly would that entail?”

  “Twelve months and twelve matches,” Octavia said. “And if you win, I shall not only bow to your matchmaking expertise, I shall shout it far and wide, that you are indeed the absolute best.”

  The very idea of her superior and snobbish cousin having to admit she was the best at anything was like a balm to Pansy’s soul. “And should I fail? Not that I will, but still—the risks must be known.”

  “Grandmother’s tiara. It was rightfully mine anyway. The fact that I’ve been magnanimous enough to allow you to keep it all these years speaks volumes about the generosity of my nature… But this way it would be settled once and for all, wouldn’t it? The tiara would be with its rightful owner.”

  Oh. If she weren’t a lady she would curse. She’d allowed Octavia to back her into a corner with nothing more than her own prideful boast. “Twelve matches in one year?”

  “You did say you were efficient.”

  “Here in London?”

  Octavia smiled. “Not necessarily. Certainly, the season will help, but once the season is done, it would prove difficult. House parties, your yearly sojourn to Bath for your aging bones… you may make your matches wherever you wish—with one caveat. They cannot be easy. No simpering beauties and eager young men without the sense of a rutting goat. No. The women must be those deemed unmarriageable by age, income or homeliness. And the gentlemen—-well, confirmed bachelors, I think. Men who have heretofore eschewed the institution of marriage.”

  Pansy did not gape at her. Gaping was for gauche country folk. But if it took a moment or two to get her mouth to close fully, surely she was entitled to a bit of shock? “That is impossible. You are intentionally creating a wager that is impossible for me to win.”

  Octavia spread her hands in a gesture of innocence. “I am simply utilizing the terms you set forth, cousin. But if you feel that you misspoke, and that you are not up to the task—”

  “I most certainly did not say I wasn’t up to the task!” Pansy snapped. “Fine. Twelve months. Twelve matches. Shocking matches for women who have been deemed hopeless and men who have been deemed uncatchable. And when I complete this endeavor, you will never again attempt to lay claim to Grandmama’s tiara, and furthermore, you will tell everyone far and wide, that I am a matchmaker extraordinaire!”

  Octavia smiled then, a true smile, lit with triumph. “My dear, if you succeed, I shall march up and the streets of Mayfair shouting it like a costermonger.”

  “Have your husband put it in his book,” Pansy said.

  “The deadline shall be the Westfield’s ball next year?”

  “That will suffice,” Pansy stated. “And you will not be so smug next time we speak.”

  Octavia laughed then, the tinkling, delicate sound at odds with her sharp nose and somewhat harsh features. “Oh, no, cousin. I daresay that smug will not even begin to describe my feelings the next time
the subject is broached. You might as well be Hercules with a task this gargantuan and impossible for you.”

  “Indeed, I might, cousin. Like myself, Hercules was successful!” Pansy snapped, before turning on her heel and marching away.

  This novella is part of the Wedding Wager anthology.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bramstone Nightingale stomped from the stables, his booted feet crunching on the stones as he attempted to bring life back to his frozen toes. The air was frigid and still, settling around him like a chilly cloak. Before him loomed Nightingale Hall, the house he had grown up in. The cream stone walls climbed several floors and covered a vast amount of ground. He’d lost count of how many rooms were inside years ago.

  He’d run wild and alone over the grounds surrounding it and slid down the banisters inside it when his parents hadn’t been looking.

  “Did I miss it though?” Bram studied the large facade and felt a tug of something inside him. Perhaps in a small way he had. Plus there were his nieces and nephews, who he loved very much and had missed desperately.

  Bram had been summoned to visit for a house party his mother was hosting on behalf of an old friend. And not just any friend: Lady Pandora Osborne. The woman had been terrifying her way through London society for years. She was a gossip who had no issue with stating whatever thought came into her head. Secretly, Bram admired her, even if she had terrified him upon occasion.

  I know you are back in London, Bramstone, and also that you have yet to visit with your family. You will come to my house party, his mother had written in the letter that was awaiting him in his lodgings in London. He’d been there a total of four days when the note arrived. The shame you bring down on this family will stop, even if only for a few days.

  She was right, of course; he did bring shame down on the sainted Nightingale family, but only because he would not conform to his mother’s expectations. His sainted brother, however, was all that was gentlemanly and noble. At least, that’s what he wanted people to think. Bram knew better.

  Muttering and stomping, he hoped his valet and bed were waiting. It wasn’t overly late, but dark had fallen, and he would be arriving after the guests had eaten and were no doubt enjoying some form of entertainment. Tomorrow would be soon enough to subject himself to them.

  Hands in pockets, thoughts centered on his exhaustion, seeing as he had ridden for hours to reach here, he did not see the figure before him until it was too late. Bram collided with her, forcing her to stumble back several steps. Before he could grab her, she’d fallen.

  “Christ! Sorry. I mean…” He didn’t know what to add to that, so he simply bent to help her rise. She scrambled back on her hands and feet like a crab, then rose unaided. Bram watched as she slapped down her skirts, then bent to pick up what she’d dropped.

  “Excuse me.” She attempted to move, but he blocked her exit.

  He hadn’t seen much of her other than slender calves when her skirts were askew. The hood of her cloak still covered her hair and face.

  “Forgive me. I was not watching where I was going.” He bowed.

  “I won’t tell your employers. It was an accident,” she said. Her tone was clipped, eyes on the ground and not him.

  “My employers?” Bram looked down. Did he dress like a servant? His boots were dusty, and there were smears of dirt on his breeches, but his overcoat was of the finest quality. Plus, his voice surely gave him away.

  “Excuse me.” She began to walk past him.

  “Should you be out here alone?” Bram stepped into her path again.

  “I beg your pardon?” Her chin lifted to look at him, and he saw her more clearly. He had a fleeting glimpse of soft, pale skin and big eyes of undetermined color. They widened in recognition as they locked on him. She stumbled back a few steps.

  “Do we know each other?” He leaned closer.

  “No.” Her small hand reached up to tug the hood of her cloak forward, and she was no longer visible to him.

  Her reaction to him would suggest she was lying.

  “Should you be out here alone at this time? I see no one accompanying you.” He wondered why he was bothering. Bram never really got involved in anyone else’s business unless it affected him. If she was a guest seeking a liaison with a gentleman, who was he to stop her—or judge, for that matter.

  “It’s a house party, not the streets of London, sir. Please excuse me.” She sounded panicked now.

  “But still…” He looked around him as if danger lurked in the shadows.

  She made a small sound that Bram had no idea how to interpret.

  “I am Mr. Nightingale.” He bowed. If he gave her his name, she might give him hers.

  “I know. Welcome home.” The words came out in a rush once again.

  “Thank you.” She knew who he was and that he had not set foot on this property for many years due to his travels. “Where have we met before?” He tried again to get her identity, stepping sideways for a better angle to see her face. He was thwarted as she turned also.

  “We haven’t,” she said quickly.

  “And yet you know who I am and that I have been absent from England, which would suggest you are not telling the truth.”

  She muttered something that he thought may have been “drat.”

  “Good evening.” She dropped into a curtsey. “Excuse me.”

  He couldn’t detain her without touching her, and he had no right to do that, so he said, “Can I accompany you somewhere, miss?”

  She stepped around him and walked away. His eyes fell to what she held in her hand: a quiver.

  Odd.

  Where would she be going with that at this time of night? Practice, maybe? He knew there would be a tournament, as that was his brother’s usual form of entertainment. He excelled at archery and liked to show off to people. The only problem for Malcolm was, Bram excelled too.

  Who was she? A maid or a governess? Why would either know him? Strangely, Bram felt the need to know her identity.

  Battling to keep from following, he instead continued on to the house. As he’d been raised here, he knew it well and let himself in a door less used by the guests currently inside.

  Climbing the stairs to his room, his footsteps were muted on the soft carpets. His eyes reacquainted him with the fussy furnishings of his brother’s estate. Nightingale Hall was one of the oldest properties in the Nightingale family. Bram’s brother was now Viscount Seddon. He was also as obnoxious and pompous as his sire had been.

  He heard voices and braced himself. Bram had really hoped that he’d be washed and dressed impeccably before he met anyone. He’d also preferably have slept a full night, but it looked like that was not to be the case.

  “Good Lord, the black sheep has returned to Nightingale Hall!”

  And it just had to be them he saw.

  “Malcolm, how delightful that the first people I meet at Nightingale Hall are you and Sylvia.” Bram forced his lips up into a smile. “How are you, brother?”

  The viscount and viscountess glided down the stairs toward him. Sylvia had her fingertips on Malcolm’s arm, as was proper. Their noses were raised, and they both wore pious smiles that had his teeth gritting.

  “Good Lord, look at you, Bramstone,” his brother said. He sniffed and looked Bram up and down.

  “I rode from London. Unlike you, who was properly tucked in a carriage with your knee blanket.”

  He hadn’t seen this man for four years, and Malcolm could not greet his brother with anything but disdain. There were two years between them, and they’d never been close.

  Inhale and exhale, Bram.

  People often said the brothers shared absolutely no similarities in either looks or personality. He’d always been happy about that fact.