The Wallflower’s Absolutely Scandalous Seduction (The Notorious Briarwoods #1)

Chapter 1

London, 1789

Five dances. Just five.

That was all that was required of Lord Crispin Newfield, fifteenth Earl of Drexel, and yet it felt like so very much. He had promised his mama, the formidable Lady Millicent, that he would attend the Cadly ball and do as an earl should. He would ask five young ladies to dance with him. He would also consider them for the role of his countess.

Still, he would far rather be at Devonshire House speaking about politics and gambling. He was quite careful about how he gambled. He attended the famed house for the conversation, more than for the turn of a card and the possible loss of a fortune.

After all, he had more fortune than most people knew what to do with. His ancient line had no problem with copious amounts of capital. As a matter of fact, they had more coin than most could ever imagine, and that meant, of course, that the continuation of his line and their power was essential.

Crispin had turned thirty recently, and his mother had become obsessed with getting him married. Thirty seemed to be a line for her. He’d crossed it, and now she would stop at nothing until an heir and a spare were produced.

In practical terms, he understood her need. Her eldest son, his brother, had died of a lung complaint when he was but fourteen.

Crispin was not supposed to have been the heir, and his life had changed immeasurably the day his elder brother died.

His mother was a rather determined woman. And his hat was off to her on that point. She’d survived a great deal. But sometimes he wondered at her willful urge to thrust him into the institution which she had abhorred so entirely. She had loathed his father, and his father had loathed her. Something that all of their children had known. The entire family was aware of it.

In fact, society had known as well. The reputation of his family for their dislike of each other was now legend, but tradition held the Drexel earldom together.

Tradition that stretched back hundreds of years, and none of them would shirk their duty, including him. Still, he had hoped to play the field a bit longer. Yet here he was surveying said field of young misses dressed in various hues of pale colors and dancing back and forth. Doing their best to impress the gentlemen about them.

He disliked the Cadly ball. The punch was bad, the music below mediocre, and, frankly, the conversation was exceptionally dull. No young lady could say anything interesting, lest she risk being branded a bluestocking.

Frankly, he rather wished that a bluestocking would approach him. At least then he wouldn’t fall asleep of boredom.

He placed a gloved hand behind his back and surveyed the floor again.

Who would he ask?

His mother had suggested several young ladies’ names, and he had of course looked them up. It was his duty to know something about the ladies who might one day grace his bed. If it was up to his mother, she would’ve compiled whole treatises on the various available females of the Season. He told her that was not necessary and that when he had picked a few, he would send them her way for approval. It was how things were done, after all.

His mother had been thrilled. Well, as thrilled as someone who seemed so thoroughly displeased by life could be.

Much to his chagrin, at present, he could see no one that he wished to ask. Not because there was something wrong with the young ladies, but he felt no interest, no spark. He supposed that feeling a spark was not actually important in a ton marriage, but he rather hoped for a bit of it.

Perhaps it was too much to ask to be attracted to one’s wife. He certainly knew that he was never going to fall in love with her. No, not when he had seen the dangerousness of that sort of nonsense. His parents’ marriage had told him very quickly that all he wished for was a partnership, and he would secure that. So, he needed to find a very sensible young lady who wouldn’t bother him overly much, and he would be happy to leave her to her own endeavors in turn. Then they could both get on with life and not have any wars. Wars which rattled the house and left children in continual fear.

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind him.

He frowned, peering about, still trying to decide who he should ask to dance while memories of the past spun powerfully in his head.

“Excuse me,” that voice came again. This time paired with a tap on his shoulder.

He took a step back, and a yelp pierced the air at his back.

“Zounds! Get off, sir!”

He jolted forward, realizing he had stepped on a slippered foot.

“Zounds?” he echoed. “Are you Elizabethan?”

An impatient huff followed his query.

Crispin turned slowly and his gaze met the silk-papered wall. He blinked and then he lowered his gaze. A young lady stood there, her expression rather fierce, leaning on one foot as she favored the other.

Sharp blue eyes sparkled up at him. But her lips were also twitching with amusement. She was clearly standing as tall as she possibly could, but that was only about five feet and three inches.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“First, you’ve trodden upon me and, second, you are in my way.”

“Am I?” he queried, his brows rising in surprise.

“Yes,” she said. “Your shoulders, though very well-made, are quite broad and, frankly, blocking my view.”

His own lips twitched at that. His shoulders were well-made, were they? It was rather an interesting thing for a young lady to say. Did she admire his shoulders? As he gazed at her, he found it amusing to think it possible.

“Do forgive me for stepping on you. I had no idea you were there.”

She gave him a quick, relenting nod.

She looked positively tart, yet fascinating. She was all but bouncing on her toes and tapping her fan against her hand. Her lips were pursed as if she was suppressing a host of delightfully antiquated curse words.

Her nose was upturned slightly, her chin pointed, and her cheeks a delicious pink, as if their exchange had caused her a great deal of excitement.

Her hair was a beautiful russet-red and curled atop her head with coils spilling over her shoulders. Her gown was simple yet cut elegantly. It was an ivory affair that emphasized her bosom, and the soft folds of the skirt came out from her hips.

Yes, she was pleasant enough looking, but there was nothing unique about her. As a matter of fact, she rather blended into the wall.

Except for her surprising personality.

“You wish me to move?” he queried.

She gave him an impatient look which suggested she worried he was a dullard.

“The way I pass my evenings, sir, is to observe the dancing and the couples and make note of everyone. You are in my way and making it impossible to do so.” Her pink cheeks deepened. “Your back is not very interesting.”

He snorted at that. “I imagine not.”

She cleared her throat. “Though, I will say the cut of your coat is rather fine.”

He gave her a slight bow. “Thank you. My tailor will be most pleased to hear it.”

“I say, do you so usually dress in dark colors?” she asked.

“Yes, I know the fashion of the day is bright things, lavishly embroidered, and festooned with lace,” he said. “But I find that a sleek cut of a coat is to my liking.”

Her brows lifted. “I see,” she said.

Crispin glanced to the dance floor, then returned his gaze to her petite person. “Since you wish a good view, why are you not dancing?”

She bit her lower lip at that. “Well, does not one observe better from a distance?” she asked. “Rather than being in the fray?”

“A point to you, madam. Do you always study the company?”

“Indeed, I do,” she informed.

“Ah,” he said, understanding dawning. “You are a wallflower. Is that it?”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Indeed, I am, and I find the occupation to be rather suitable for my needs.” She shrugged. “And the fact is that I’m seldom asked to dance.”

He could see why. She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Her dress was well-made, but she looked as if she had no desire for conversation. There was something about her person which suggested she had no desire to be approached.

“Would you like me to ask you to dance?” he blurted.

“No,” she stated swiftly, snapping open her painted fan.

“No?” he queried, shocked at both his own invitation and her refusal.

Her fan flicked back and forth, causing her curls to dance over her plumped-up bosom. “I am quite happy as I am, and my mother shall return at any moment.”

“Who is your mother, if I might ask? Since we have not been introduced…” He waggled his brows playfully, hoping to disarm her, though he was not certain as to why. “This conversation is on the verge of scandalous?”

She laughed suddenly at that. “I suppose it is. How rude of me to speak to you, sir, but I found myself being pressed up against the wall with your back quite close to my face, if I’m honest.”

He grimaced at that. “Oh dear, was I truly pressing you into the wall?”

She grinned and her whole face lit up with a glow that sparkled. “It was a very near thing.”

That look… Dear God, it stole his breath before he murmured, “Truly, I had no idea you were there.”

“I’m used to it,” she said, wincing slightly.

“Are you?” He could scarce imagine it. Surely, she wasn’t so entirely invisible? “That sounds a rather dreary existence.”

She sighed. “I am not particularly remarkable, and one gets used to not being seen. Though I am grateful you did not set your full weight down when you stepped back upon my toes. You are rather large.”

He groaned. “How shall I ever make up for nearly crushing your perfect feet?” He smiled down at her.

“Oh, I shall think of some penance worthy of the offense,” she teased. “To answer your question, my mother is the Duchess of Westleigh.”

“My God,” he breathed as her words sank in. “You’re a Briarwood.”

A strange look crossed her face. “I am, indeed, sir. Clearly our reputation precedes us.”

“Your reputation precedes you everywhere,” he said.

“The Briarwoods are notorious,” she allowed.

“Unarguably,” he agreed. He hesitated.

Notorious, a Briarwood.

His mother would be both furious and delighted. Yes, her emotions in regard to his conversation with this young lady would be a strange combination because the Briarwoods were nothing like his family.

The Westleigh dukedom was created only one hundred and fifty years ago, won by sheer will and audacity. The original duke was so powerful and so beloved by the king that he could do anything that he pleased, and every Duke of Westleigh thereafter had done the same.

The last had married an actress… This young woman’s mother.

The young lady who stood before him did not appear to be the sort of person who could be the daughter of a famous actress, and yet it had to be so.

“Dance with me,” he urged, possessed by some inner drive that he refused to give thought to. “Surely, it would be exciting for you to get away from the wall.”

“Everyone will stare.”

“Doesn’t everyone always stare if you’re a Briarwood?” he returned.

She groaned. “Why, you are correct in that.”

“Then let us go.”

And he held his hand out to her, waiting to see if she would be bold enough to take it. For though she was a wallflower, there was an edge to her that he found interesting.

And as his hand extended, he knew that all of this was wrong. They’d never been introduced, and yet he couldn’t resist.

This rebellion outside of the rules of decorum was too delicious for words. He held his breath for a moment, wondering if she would be amenable to his proposal.

She nibbled her lower lip, something he found rather interesting. That soft, playful lower lip.

Suddenly, he wondered if he could nibble at it. What would she do then? What would his little wallflower make of that? It was the strangest thought that danced through his head, for he was not accustomed to thinking such things about debutantes.

No, he generally entertained ladies who were more experienced. He wasn’t a terrible rake, after all. Just one who enjoyed good company.

He had no desire for serious scandal. Not like the Briarwood family.

But perhaps a little scandal would do him good.