Epilogue
“She’s betrayed us,” Millie whispered to her sister Lenora as they watched Cassie and Harbury waltz around the Almack’s dance floor at the start of the next Season.
“You said you liked Harbury, now,” Lenora pointed out.
“I like him well enough,” Millie shot back. “But she’s mooning over him. Here. In Public.”
“That she is.” Lenora sighed happily. “And you thought nothing could be worse than Eliza and Adrian.”
“You’re all mad—you with Asquith, Nettie with Blackwell, Eliza with Adrian and”—she waved her hand in the direction of the dancing couple—“that abomination over there.”
Briefly, Lenora glanced in Asquith’s direction. Then, she turned back to her sister. “Cassie has too loving a nature to ever be called an abomination.”
“Ugh.” Millie groaned. “The way her feelings for her husband spill out of her eyes! It is almost worse than having our underthings out on a line to dry where everyone can see.”
“Sst,” Lenora hissed. “You can’t say”—she mouthed underthings—“at Almack’s. Are you trying to get our vouchers revoked, too?”
“The patronesses wouldn’t dare.” Millie tossed her head. “Not only has Lady Asquith taken us under her wing, we’ve both a marquess and a duke for brothers-in-law.”
“Well, I’d rather stay on Lady Asquith’s good side,” Lenora said under her breath. “If everything goes well, I will need her approval.”
Millie’s gaze came to rest on Asquith. She’d no objection to their guardian, but he was deep in conversation with the man she thought of as the little lordling, or, as Asquith’s mother might say, that Neville. “How are things going?”
“Nothing to report.” Lenora blinked innocently. Too innocently. “Yet.”
Millie narrowed her gaze. “Nothing since the hedge?”
Lenora blushed. “I told you I don’t want to talk about the hedge.”
“Very well.” Millie had her own reasons for not wanting to think about the afternoon she and Neville had followed Asquith and Lenora into the yew maze at Ravenswood.
“These things must be done slowly,” Lenora added. “Carefully.”
Millie made a dismissive noise.
“You just carry on with your plan to test the limits of Society’s outrage,” Lenora said. “But don’t go as far as to ruin my chances—or Nettie’s. Or Emily’s, for that matter.”
“I gave up on you and Nettie a long time ago. Love. Love. Love. That’s all you and she ever want to discuss.”
“To be fair”—Lenora raised her brows—“Nettie talks about pastries quite a bit.”
“Well, Lady Emily, at least, is no more interested in finding a husband than I am.” While not strictly a Wainwright, Emily had become part of the family circle.
Lenora frowned. “Did Emily tell you she had no interest in marriage?”
Millie shrugged. “Why else would she have delayed her debut another year?”
“So she might come out with Nettie, of course.”
“Well, anyone who places their security in something as fickle as love is, in my opinion, mad. I’d rather be notorious than leg-shackled!”
“Notorious?” Lenora chuckled. “Well, that dress of yours is a nice start.”
Millie’s smile broadened. “Isn’t it just?”
*
To Ambrose Augustus Merriweather, better known as Lord Neville, this Wednesday night at Almack’s was even more painful than the last. Every stratagem he could think of to keep his gaze from repeatedly straying to Millicent Wainwright had failed.
In his defense, she was, by far, the most beautiful young lady in the room.
Pity she was also the most infuriating.
Little lordling, she’d taken to calling him. And every time she did so, he wanted to—Well, perhaps he should just say he could think of any number of ways to put her lips to better use. He closed his eyes, shook the thought right out of his mind and then reopened them.
Unfortunately, she was still directly within his line of sight.
The pale purple hue of the silk gown she’d chosen may have been appropriate, but the closely fitted cut was drawing too many pairs of eyes. Male eyes. Including his own. He sent his friends Lord Asquith and Lord Blackwood a sidelong glance. Of course, they were staring in her direction, too.
“She’s outdone herself tonight.” Lord Blackwood folded his hands behind his back as he shook his head. “What a spectacle!”
“If you mean Miss Millicent”—Neville used the excuse to prolong his study—“Then, yes, I wholeheartedly agree.”
“Actually, I was speaking of Duchess of Harbury.” Blackwell smirked. “And, for that matter the duke.”
“I don’t see anything untoward in his behavior.” Neville replied.
The duke and duchess were dancing too close, of course. But Harbury was his cousin. If Neville was anything, he was loyal.
Blackwell turned to Asquith. “Even your mother and her fellow battle-axe dowagers are over there sighing.”
“I know,” Asquith replied darkly. “My mother has a soft spot for all the Wainwright ladies. Only the twins are her godchildren, but, since I inherited their guardianship from my father, she’s taken the younger three under her wing, too.
” Asquith’s gaze followed the couple as they took another turn.
“I cannot believe how hard Harbury has fallen for Cassie! Redver for Eliza, too. Clearly, the Wainwrights pose significant danger to any unmarried man.”
“Do I detect a hint of fear?” Blackwell took his friend’s measure. “Fear, perhaps, you may be the next to succumb to the siren call of a Willful Wainwright?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Neville cut in. “Asquith would never do anything so untoward as to fall for one of his wards.”
“Untoward,” Asquith repeated under his breath. “Yes, very.” He gave himself a subtle shake. “A marital alliance is out of the question—not that I’d want one.”
“What do you think is their secret?” Blackwell asked.
Asquith shrugged. “Well, Eliza is a firebrand. Cassie is sweet. Nettie has a bright and curious mind. And Millie…” He frowned. “Well, clearly every man present has taken note of that dress. Every man other than myself, that is. Millie has been like a hoydenish little sister to me.”
“You see?” Neville said to Blackwell. “If he fears anything, it’s failing to marry them off in a timely fashion.”
“Ah,” Blackwell replied. “Then I suppose desperation to marry them off is why, when the Wainwright ladies were living with your mother and you moved into the Albany, you begged us to come along with you whenever you were invited to dine?”
“I asked you to come because you adore the tarts my mother’s pastry chef is so fond of creating.” His gaze met Neville’s. “Him, I invited because he’s a paragon.”
“I asked him because he’s a paragon. An absolute model of propriety.”
“I see,” Blackwell responded at length. “No one could accuse either of us of having nefarious intentions toward the ladies with a bishop’s nephew at our side.”
“Glad to be of service,” Neville said dryly.
Blackwell cocked his head and frowned. “Neville, am I mistaken, or did Asquith forget to mention Miss Lenora when describing the Misses Wainwright?”
“Lenora.” Asquith said under his breath. “I could never forget Lenora.”
Neville frowned.
Last summer, Asquith, who’d always taken care to keep his distance from the youngest Misses Wainwright, had disappeared into a maze with Miss Lenora. Goaded on by Miss Millicent, Neville had plunged into the maze, intent on finding the pair before any damage was done.
Then, Miss Millicent had burst upon him, and then…
Well, he’d rather not think about and then.
“Asquith,” Blackwell said with an edge of disappointment. “Have you, perhaps, been using us as a shield?”
“How lovely Millie looks…” Asquith changed the subject.
She did that. The minx.
“…Hard to believe she’s the same cheeky chit that stole my breeches so she could practice riding astride.”
Neville felt as if someone had punched his gut.
Asquith chuckled nervously, clearly hoping that a shocking on dit would permanently alter the conversation.
Neville’s frown deepened.
Which was worse—the yew incident or the indecent picture that arose in his mind of Millicent in breeches? Again, he shuttered his thoughts. While he might find his natural, ah, appreciation for her form difficult to suppress, he’d no desire at all to be intimately acquainted with the lady.
She was a hoyden, through and through.
But—my God—how had she gotten Asquith’s breeches up over those hips?
Hips that had, for a few indescribable moments, accidentally fit against his own as they’d tumbled backward into dark branches.
He closed his eyes, again, reminding himself his interest could only ever be familial in nature. Her sister Cassie—the very sister dreamily circling the room—had married his cousin.
Which, in a way, made Millicent part of his family, now. And as part of the family, didn’t he have a responsibility toward her?
The two eldest Wainwrights had, by a mere hair’s breadth, skirted scandal. Someone needed to keep an eye on Miss Millicent, lest she tumble into the same.
Tumble.
He cleared his throat. Poor choice of words.
“Breeches you say?” Blackwell cocked his head. “Can’t imagine…”
Neville lifted a brow. Blackwell had better not try to imagine!
“…Though, I must admit, she is the most dashing and statuesque of this year’s crop. My interest, of course, is purely academic,” Blackwell clarified. “I’ve no taste for scandal, and ten to one Millie will embroil herself in one before the little Season is done.”
“Please don’t make that bet,” Asquith sighed.
“Shame on you both,” Neville snapped. “Especially you, Asquith. Her protection is your responsibility. If you’re worried, you should be devising a plan to keep her safe.” His gaze moved to Blackwell. “And you, at the very least, should be refraining from gossip about your good friend’s wards.”
Blackwell blinked innocently. “If you’re so keen to protect, Millie, why don’t you volunteer?”
“Me?” Neville felt his cheeks heat. “I have neither feeling nor responsibility for any of the Misses Wainwright, especially Miss Millicent.”
Blackwell exchanged a glance with Asquith. “Especially,” he repeated.
Neville did, however, have a keen sense of impending disaster. “I was merely pointing out that young ladies are in want of protection.”
“I beg your pardon,” Asquith replied. “After last Season’s Almack’s catastrophe, I made sure Harbury at least pretended to court Cassie, and I had to threaten him to do so.
I shudder to think what further misadventures lie in store for me.
Then again…” He turned a speculative gaze on Neville. “Blackwell might have a point.”
“What point?”
“You.” He lifted his brows. “And Millie.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Neville scoffed. “Besides, you owe me, not the other way around. I didn’t have to volunteer to serve as your second in case Harbury accepted your challenge, especially since your challenge was to my own cousin.”
“Please,” Asquith replied. “You only came because you were afraid of the damage his actions could do to your family name. We both knew Harbury wouldn’t agree to a duel. He just needed a little nudge to act.”
Neville folded his arms. “Yes, well, that’s beside the point.”
Blackwell reached into his pocket and drew out a pen knife. “Asquith, your fob chain, if you will.”
Hesitantly, Asquith handed over the chain. Then, he and Neville watched as Blackwell cut a string off the tassel.
“Hey!” Asquith exclaimed.
“Frayed,” Blackwell said apologetically. “Been driving me mad all night. Do have a word with your valet.”
Asquith scowled down at the tassel. “He’s likely to want a word with me, thanks to you.”
Blackwell turned away. When he turned back, he held out his fist, which contained three lengths of gold string.
“I have cut the string into three parts. One piece is shorter than the other two. Time to take lots, gentlemen. The person who pulls the smallest string from my hand must keep watch over Millicent Wainwright, either until the Season’s end, or until she is properly betrothed, whichever comes first. Neville, as you seemed the most concerned, you go… begin.”
Neville eyed his friend with suspicion, then glanced to Asquith.
Asquith shrugged. “I’m willing to abide by the result. And I’m willing to lend my flintlock to the poor sod who draws the smallest string.”
“None of us would turn a pistol on a lady!”
Asquith snorted. “What if the lady drew first? Millie is a crack shot, you know.”
Neville knew Millicent could be outrageous. She rather thrived on the condition. But a crack shot? Just how mad was she? He glanced over his shoulder, easily spotting the indecent frock. He had to admit, the effect was rather like staring down the barrel of a gun, and not just because of the dress.
That hair—brown, yes, but, in the right light, with an intriguing reddish hue. That statuesque, arresting figure. That slim waist. That…ample bosom. And that fire glowing in her green eyes…
That was a blaze which could well become an inferno, if not properly tended. Untended, she was a danger to humanity. Someone needed to tame her and that someone would be doing humanity a great service.
“Very well.”
As he reached for one of the tassels in Blackwell’s fist, his heart beat more rapidly than the situation should have called for. A second later, drawing a string less than a half inch long felt like fate.
“Well,” Blackwell said, “there’s no point in continuing. Clearly, you’ve drawn the shortest string.”
Neville stared at the tiny slash of gold between his thumb and forefinger.
A great service.
A sacrifice for the good of all mankind.
He tucked the thing into his waistcoat pocket and adjusted his cravat. “If you’ll excuse me, I will see to my duty.”
“What do you intend to do?” Blackwell asked.
“Ask her to dance,” he said. “Of course.”
Amused, his friends watched him march away.
“Seems he’s fallen hard, too,” Asquith commented.
“And he has no idea.” Blackwell chuckled. “This should be entertaining.”
“I’m just glad he drew the short thread,” Asquith said. “I’ve enough on my hands with…other matters.”
“There was never any danger of him drawing the larger.”
“What do you mean?”
Blackwell shrugged. “All three lengths were the same size.”
“Blackwell, you fiend!”
“A fiend who not only took a headache off your hands, but one who has just acquired a front row seat to what is bound to be the Season’s best entertainment.”
“You know, Blackwell, your youthful face belies terrible cunning.”
“Oh, I know.” Blackwell straightened his jacket. “That’s why no young lady will ever get the better of me.”
“Nor of me,” Asquith agreed, intentionally avoiding any public acknowledgment of Lenora, now gazing speculatively in his direction.
The End