The Wager of a Wallflower

CHAPTER 1

A SURE BET

April 1816, Weatherstone Manor, Mayfair

The moment Marcus Higgins, spare heir to the Earl of Greenley, invited Miss Lucy Fitzsimmons to join him in the Weatherstone Manor gardens during a ball was the defining moment in the young lady’s life.

Or rather, it was the moment afterwards, when she said, I’d be honored.

No. That isn’t quite right. It was several minutes later. Enough time for them to make their way out of the French doors, along the path of pavers in the short clipped lawn, under the arbor adorned with climbing roses, and to the fountain featuring a statue of Cupid drawing his bow.

Say, ten minutes after the moment she said, I’d be honored. For that was when Marcus told her she was the most lovely creature he had ever seen in his entire life.

Nervous, Lucy blinked and said, I rather doubt that.

Apparently not used to someone countering his compliments, Marcus regarded her with a look of suspicion. Why do you doubt my claim?

You only said it so you could steal a kiss, she challenged.

I said it because it’s true, and... Here, he paused, as if realizing she had guessed correctly. Well, yes, I admit it. I would like very much to kiss you.

Stunned he didn’t deny her charge and even more stunned he still wished to kiss her, Lucy darted a glance in the direction from which they had come. Once her mother realized she wasn’t in the ballroom or in the ladies retiring room, the woman would be on the hunt for her. They probably had five minutes until they were discovered.

Lucy leaned to one side and surveyed the part of the gardens directly behind where he stood, sure one of his friends from university was laying in wait to ambush them. No leaves rustled in the hedgerow, though. No suppressed chuckles sounded beyond the arbor.

Indecision had Lucy angling her head as she regarded Marcus Higgins with a curious expression. Never once have you asked me to dance, she accused.

This is the first ball I’ve ever attended in London, he said. At her look of doubt, he added, I’ve been away at university. Before that... He shrugged. Living at Higgins House in Staffordshire.

Lucy decided he had a good excuse. Oh, She inhaled and let the breath out in a whoosh. A white cloud formed due to the chill in the air. In all the excitement, she hadn’t realized how cold it was. Well, then... before we do this, I wish to make a wager.

Marcus gave a start, his eyes rounding. A wager? He glanced around. Did she think that just because his father had been a well-known gambler, he was of the same persuasion? His own gambling had been limited to a few shillings over an occasional game of hazard at university. What sort of wager? He was about to add that he didn’t have much in the way of blunt on his person, but then he noted she didn’t carry a reticule, and he rather doubted she carried coins in her ballgown. Mayhap she had some banknotes stuffed down her stays?

He had to cease thinking about that possibility when his manhood reacted at the idea of him retrieving said bank notes from her person. His fingers had itched all night with the want to touch the tops of her rising moons, to trace the edge of the neckline of her bodice with a fingertip. He imagined her skin would be as soft as the velvet of her white ball gown. Warm and sweet as honey should his tongue delve into the space between those gorgeous breasts.

Hoping she didn’t detect the sound of his groan of frustration given the splashing of falling water in the fountain, Marcus concentrated on Lucy’s mouth. Her lips, more kissable than he had first realized, were moving.

If anyone discovers we’ve done this, you’ll have to marry me, Lucy stated. I’m betting you won’t.

He furrowed his dark brows, which had him appearing far older than his one-and-twenty years. But... what do I get if I do? Marry you, I mean.

She blinked, apparently not expecting him to respond quite like that. "Well, me, I suppose. For life." She made this last sound entirely too ominous.

Marcus had to resist the urge to chuckle. He didn’t want her thinking he was laughing at her when in fact he was more intrigued than he had been back in the ballroom. Having watched her dancing with a string of young—and not so young—gentlemen for most of the night, Marcus had come to the conclusion she was a happy young lady, free with her smiles and possessed of a musical laugh he wished to hear again and again.

But he had known that already.

He had known it for years.

Finding the young woman with hair the color of rich mahogany standing by herself between two of Lord Weatherstone’s favorite potted palms had been the highlight of his evening.

So far.

He was hoping the kiss might be the new highlight.

What do you stand to gain if I don’t marry you? he asked, more curious than serious with his query.

Lucy scoffed. Besides a reputation as a ruined woman? she replied, her chin rising in defiance. You… you have to pay me... She seemed to quickly consider what amount of money might set her up for a comfortable life as a spinster. Surely more than the paltry dowry her brother claimed to have set aside on her behalf. Ten thousand pounds, she announced.

"What? he countered, realizing immediately he said the word far too loud. He leaned closer to her, his citrusy cologne mixing with the leafy green and earthy odors of the gardens to make for a heady scent. First of all, no one is going to find out, because neither one of us is going to say anything about it, he reasoned. I can keep a secret⁠—"

As can I, she quickly countered.

So our kiss won’t be discovered by anyone, he reasoned.

On the one hand, Lucy wished she could kiss and tell. She thought of all the friends—especially Marianne—with whom she could share the experience. Thought of all the ways she might describe touching lips with Marcus Higgins, spare heir to the Greenley earldom—no, make that the current heir to the Greenley earldom. His father had died earlier that year and his older brother, Max, was now the earl.

Keeping the news to herself was just as appealing, though. She’d be left displaying an enigmatic expression on her face for the rest of her life.

Marianne would simply think her daft.

So you accept the terms? she asked.

I do, he replied, holding out his right hand.

Lucy regarded the appendage for a moment before sliding her gloved hand into it. Despite his gloves, she could tell he had long fingers. He gripped her hand in his—firmly—but not enough to crush her fingers as he gave her hand two shakes.

For a moment, they merely stared at one another, neither one of them moving. Then, all at once, his lips were on hers, a hand at her cheek as one of her gloved hands moved to the side of his neck.

There was a moment when Lucy was sure time stopped, for the sensation of the firm pillows of his lips pressed to hers was unlike anything she had experienced before. When he angled his head slightly and his hand urged her face to turn in the other direction, an entirely different sensation ensued.

A kiss. Not just a touching of lips or a quick peck, but an all-out, full-fledged, open-mouthed kiss that had her forgetting where she was and who she was with. Her fingers speared his dark hair as her body fell forward until her chest pressed to his.

She felt one of his arms wrap around the small of her back to pull her even closer. His tongue touched her teeth, and when she responded by touching his tongue with her own, she felt more than heard his growl of approval.

At some point, she might have mewled or moaned, or perhaps it was he who did so, for they slowly gave up their hold on one another and both stepped back in surprise.

Lucy blinked a few times.

He allowed a tentative grin.

About to say something—once she sorted what she might say to such an earth-shattering event—Lucy moved closer to him and froze when she realized they were no longer alone. An audible gasp sounded from their side of the arbor.

Drat!

Someone had discovered them.

They hadn’t discussed this possibility.

Why, Lucy Persephone Alexandra Fitzsimmons, whatever are you doing out here?

Stiffening at the sound of her mother’s voice, Lucy winced. Her eyes rounded when she realized the woman wasn’t alone.

Lady Agnes Pettigrew was at her side.

Viscountess Agnes Pettigrew. The leading gossip maven of Mayfair. Despised by all but welcome in any parlor given the information she could provide on just about anyone in the peerage.

Allow me, Marcus whispered.

What?

Marcus kept his gaze on Lucy as he said, Despite the chill in the air, it is such a gorgeous evening, my ladies, I asked Miss Fitzsimmons if she might join me on a walk through the Earl’s gardens. He finally turned to address Jane Burroughs Fitzsimmons, Viscountess Reardon, by bowing deeply and reaching for her silk-gloved hand. Good evening, Lady Reardon. He turned and did the same with the viscountess. Lady Pettigrew. Your purple turban is most royal. You look as if you could be queen of your very own country.

The viscountess arched a graying brow, and the ostrich feather arcing out of her purple silk turban seemed to follow suit. Greenley’s whelp, are you not? The query was said with a good deal of disgust, suggesting she thought him bad ton.

It was Marcus’ turn to stiffen. He recognized the tone of voice. The sound of censure. The air of disgust, even if he hadn’t been expecting to hear it from her.

As the second son of the late Maxwell Higgins, sixth Earl of Greenley, he had come to expect it during his short stay in London. Everyone in the ton seemed to think ill of Greenley. Despite his gaming on behalf of the Crown to help root out a band of foreign agents exporting large sums of British funds to France, the widowed Greenley couldn’t tell anyone why it was he gambled to excess.

Unable to quit the habit, Marcus’ father had been known as the Earl of Gaming until his death only a few months earlier. Without the Crown’s funds to pay his bets, he had spent most of his time in a drunken stupor and died essentially broke.

At least Marcus had managed to secure his inheritance before it, too, was gambled away. With the help of his father’s solicitor, he had established an account at the Bank of England and made arrangements for his immediate future the year prior.

An immediate future which did not include marriage. He hadn’t planned for that to occur for another two years.

As for Agnes Pettigrew’s comment, it still surprised him. He had thought the viscountess an ally, not an enemy.

I am the spare heir of the Greenley earldom, yes, Marcus admitted, his answer directed to both matrons.

So you expect to gain my daughter’s dowry by ruining her here in the⁠—?

Mother!

No, my lady, Marcus stated, his offense apparent at hearing Lady Reardon’s insinuation. "That was not my intention at all."

He was well aware of Lucy’s sudden perusal of him. Despite the near dark of the gardens—the glow of a nearby Japanese lantern provided the only light on a moonless night—he could tell her eyes had narrowed with suspicion. As I said, I merely wished to escort her through the gardens before I take my leave this evening.

He might have said more in his defense, except another couple was making their way through the rose arbor. Given Lady Reardon’s rather loud voice, he realized if he didn’t make a quick exit, the newcomers would learn of his foray with Lucy Fitzsimmons—if not from Lady Pettigrew, then surely from the viscountess.

My apologies, but I must leave you, Marcus whispered, grabbing Lucy’s hand to kiss the back of it. I’ll find you when I return. Without another word, he stepped behind Lucy and disappeared through the nearest hedgerow.

Lucy whirled around. She was about to call out for him but stifled the urge when she noticed another couple approaching, their soft murmurs broken up with titters and laughter.

Her mother had apparently noticed as well, for Lady Reardon huffed and said, You’re coming with me, young lady, and if you think I’m going to allow you to attend another ball this Season, why, just you wait until I tell your brother about this.

Mother! Lucy said in a hushed voice, sure the other couple was close enough to have heard the scold.

Did he run off? Lady Pettigrew asked in disgust, her skirts rustling as she stepped closer to the fountain in search of Marcus.

Who? Lucy asked, pretending innocence now that the older couple had joined them at the fountain.

Momentarily flustered, Lady Pettigrew didn’t answer, and then she couldn’t when Lord and Lady Weatherstone—their hosts for that evening’s ball—greeted them.

Lovely evening for a stroll, William, Earl of Weatherstone, remarked, snagging an ornate silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. Except that it is rather chilly out here. So don’t stay out here too long, my ladies. Supper is about to be served. At the stroke of midnight.

We wouldn’t miss it, Lady Reardon replied, her head—and enormous hairstyle—bending forward in greeting. For a moment, Lucy wondered if the entire coiffure was about to end up on the ground. She was sure it was a wig. Maybe more than one.

As for