A Fake Betrothal for the Duke (Wayward Wallflowers #2)

Chapter One

Jacob Ashford, the Duke of Rosedale, was not a man easily irritated, but his patience was beginning to wear thin.

This uncharacteristic ill humour wasn’t due to being forced to hide out in the Kent countryside, far from the pleasures of London.

Nor was it the result of his friend Henry, the Earl of Northwood, hosting a weekend party at his estate and inviting a coterie of debutantes, all determined to bag themselves a husband before the Season had hardly begun.

It wasn’t even the thought of the scandal waiting for him back in London that was undermining his even temper.

All those things were irritants, but the final straw was an annoying piece of cardboard that had lodged itself between two cushions and was jabbing him in the back of the neck.

It had taken him a long time to find this hiding place.

In the late afternoon, the morning room was ideal for his purpose, even if it was not at its finest at this time of day.

The large sash windows which overlooked the grounds no longer had sunlight streaming into the expansive room, and the traces of the debutantes’ morning activities were yet to be tidied away by the busy servants.

Piles of embroidery and coloured threads littered a nearby table, and an easel set up in the corner displayed some young lady’s unfortunate artistic endeavour.

All of which reminded him of the need to hide.

But, despite hints of their previous occupation, the room was empty now.

There was not a twittering young lady or determined mother in sight and there was a settee on which he could stretch out.

In other words, it was perfect. Or it would be if he wasn’t being attacked by a vengeful piece of stationery.

Disturbing himself as little as possible, he reached over his head and grabbed the offending card.

Just as he was about to toss it onto a nearby table, something drew his eye.

His legs swung off the settee and onto the floor.

He sat up straight and looked down at the cardboard square.

Then he laughed. Louder and with more pleasure than he had since he’d escaped London.

Still laughing, he perused the cartoon some cheeky individual had drawn of the guests attending the weekend party.

The artist had caught them all to perfection.

The debutantes were drawn as a herd of shy fawns, with large doe eyes and long fluttering eyelashes.

Their mamas were depicted as ferocious sheepdogs, trying to corral a group of roosters around the fawns, the roosters obviously being the unmarried gentlemen.

In the centre was a peacock, his ostentatious train taking up more space than all the roosters combined. That person was undeniably him. The artist had even put a coronet on his head at a jaunty angle, in case anyone failed to realise it was a duke.

The only jarring note in an otherwise amusing cartoon was the depiction of the flower in the far corner, winding its way up a pillar like clinging ivy towards an open window.

That young lady’s expression was not comic but one of desperation.

The bottom of her stem was being held by the feathered wing of a honking goose, whose other wing was flapping vigorously in the air in a futile attempt to draw the attention of the roosters strutting in front of the fawns.

He hadn’t noticed any wallflowers among the herd of pretty young things Henry had invited for the weekend, but then he’d been paying the debutantes as little attention as politeness would allow.

But one thing he did know; it would be best to dispose of this drawing.

The poor girl did not need to know she had been the subject of a cruel jest.

The door opened and Jacob quickly put the cartoon behind his back. A young lady entered quietly, stopped and stared at him, as surprised to find anyone in the morning room at this hour as he was.

He bowed his head in greeting. He’d probably been introduced to her at some stage but could not for the life of him recall her name. One thing was however certain; she was the wallflower in the picture.

The artist had accurately caught her pained expression, the way her dark eyebrows knitted together, and the manner in which her full lips pressed tightly in disapproval. That was exactly how she was looking at him now.

She walked across the room towards him and as she drew close it became apparent the artist had failed to capture her large hazel eyes, which would probably be quite pretty if she was not scowling, the lushness of her thick chestnut hair, the curve of her high cheekbones, nor the delicacy of her soft creamy skin.

‘Your Grace,’ she said with a perfunctory curtsey.

‘Miss… Whitmore,’ he said with a bow, pleased that her name had jumped into his head.

‘I believe most of the party have gone down to the lake for a picnic.’ He pointed to the window, hoping she would take the hint that he wished to be alone.

‘Those who haven’t chosen to take advantage of this delightful spring day can be found in one or more of the drawing rooms.’

He smiled and waited for her to depart. She did not.

‘Yes, I am well aware of that, but you’ve got something of mine and I’d like you to return it.’

His polite smile died and he looked at her in disbelief.

Not just because of her accusation, which was entirely unfair—he had taken nothing from this young lady—but the way in which it was said.

He was a duke. When people spoke to him, especially for the first time, and especially if they were a young unmarried woman, they never forgot that for a moment.

Their eyes would be lowered, their tone deferential, and they would never, ever accuse him of anything as untoward as theft.

‘Miss Whitmore, I can assure you, you are mistaken.’

She sighed lightly and came very close to rolling her eyes, another behaviour which a debutante would never exhibit. If this was indicative of her usual manner, was it any wonder she had ended up a wallflower stuck in the corner?

‘You are hiding my drawing behind your back.’ Her hand stretched out towards him, palm upwards, in the manner of a schoolmarm demanding a slingshot off a naughty schoolboy.

‘Your what?’ he responded, doing his best to act like a dignified peer of the realm and not a recalcitrant child being reprimanded by Nanny. She surely could not be the artist, not when the drawing depicted her in such an unflattering, insulting and, well, downright cruel manner.

‘You are hiding my sketch behind your back and I wish you to hand it over,’ she repeated, still sounding like a disapproving schoolteacher. ‘I was drawing in here earlier today and I left it behind.’

‘You did this?’ He removed the drawing from behind his back and looked down at it.

She said nothing and remained standing in front of him, her hand outstretched.

‘I found it wedged between two cushions.’ He pointed over his shoulder at the site of his discovery.

‘Yes, that is where I left it.’

‘Am I to assume you did not want anyone to see it?’ The sketch amused him, but he knew what outrage it would cause if any of the other guests were to see it, especially those strutting roosters. He doubted the barking mamas would see much humour in it either.

‘You can assume whatever you like, but may I please have my sketch?’

‘It’s rather good.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, not sounding the slightest bit pleased with the compliment and not lowering her hand.

‘In a few strokes of the pen you’ve captured everyone perfectly.’ He continued to stare in admiration at the drawing, then looked up at her. ‘I assume the peacock is me.’

She said nothing, just continued to stand there, her demanding hand not moving.

‘It’s better than many of the political cartoons in the newspapers. Perhaps Punch should employ you as a satirist.’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, I am a woman. Women are not employed in such jobs.’

He had indeed noticed she was a woman, a rather intriguing one, but thought it wisest not to mention that.

‘But why did you depict yourself as a wallflower?’ he said instead.

Her eyes grew wide, as if to say, Is that not obvious?

Perhaps it was. She quite clearly did not understand the behaviour expected of a debutante.

But she was not unattractive and would be rather pretty if she stopped frowning.

As discreetly as possible he flicked a quick glance up and down.

There was nothing about her feminine curves that would put a man off, all in the right places and in perfectly acceptable proportions.

If this young lady was a wallflower, it was due to her appalling attitude and as it was her own fault he would not feel sorry for her.

‘My sketch,’ she repeated in that stern voice.

‘So, this is how you see the weekend party, is it?’ He looked back down at the picture he was reluctant to surrender. ‘I take it such social events are not something you enjoy.’

She huffed out an exasperated sigh, either at the question or his refusal to do as he was told, but at least she lowered her hand.

‘Presumably, that’s why you’ve drawn yourself heading for that open window.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘And I assume the goose is your mama, who is trying to stop your escape.’

He looked at her and waited for an answer. She said nothing.

‘I know exactly how you feel,’ he said.

‘I very much doubt that.’

‘Believe me, it’s not much fun being a peacock and having all those fawns, well, fawning over you, or being corralled by those determined sheepdogs.’

This weekend party was certainly not what he’d expected when he’d fled the brewing scandal in London. He’d hoped for a few quiet weeks, alone in the countryside with his old schoolfriend, a visit to the local village being the most sociable activity in which they would be likely to partake.