The Wallflower Win, page 1
The Wallflower Win
The Whitmorelands
Book Four
Valerie Bowman
June Third Enterprises, LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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The Wallflower Win, copyright © 2023 by June Third Enterprises, LLC.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Print edition ISBN: 978-1-960015-03-7
Digital edition ISBN:978-1-960015-02-0
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Book Cover Design © Lyndsey Llewellen at Llewellen Designs.
For Kate Happ,
who was always looking forward to Eliza’s story.
I’m so glad we became friends.
Hug Josh for me.
She’s a wallflower on a mission to win.
Bookish Lady Elizabeth Whitmoreland has no interest in being a debutante. She’d rather immerse herself in the tranquility of a library than dance in a ballroom with some silly fop. But when she overhears a wager being placed on a game of chess, she sees her chance to challenge the ton’s smuggest rake. If he loses, he’ll have to pretend to court her for the entire Season to fend off her relentless mama.
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He's a rake who’s never been beat.
Christopher St. Clare, the Marquess of Claremont, is a man who staunchly avoids the debutante scene and marriage altogether, confident that his brother will carry on the family line. But when a spirited debutante challenges him to a chess match, he can’t resist. He's always been unbeatable, but his world is turned upside down when he faces an unexpected loss. Now, he must play the role of a devoted suitor for the entire Season.
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In a game that quickly turns to seduction, the stakes have never been so scandalous.
Lady Eliza might be beautiful, clever, and witty, but she’s still a debutante. One playing a dangerous game when she begins tempting him beyond all reason by asking him to kiss her. Despite their undeniable chemistry, Christopher remains resolute. He will not touch her. But when Eliza steps up her attempts to seduce him, how long will he be able to resist the undeniable attraction between them?
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Also by Valerie Bowman
Let’s Keep in Touch
About the Author
Chapter One
London, July 1814, The Duke of Thornbury’s Town House
When the door to the library opened, Lady Eliza Whitmoreland ducked behind the nearest bookcase.
Bother!
Who in the world was coming in here, interrupting her reading? Her twin sister Jessica’s wedding ball was underway in the ballroom upstairs. As usual, Eliza had sneaked down to the library to hide from the constant threat of being forced to dance with some boring fop she had no interest in speaking to. And she never had an interest in dancing.
She peered around the side of the bookcase to see two gentlemen striding into the room. They appeared to be headed straight for the glossy mahogany table set in front of the mullioned windows. Eliza noted with some interest that a chessboard sat upon the table.
“This way, Milford,” the taller of the two men said, leading the way.
She narrowed her eyes at the men. From her vantage point, she’d couldn’t make out their faces, but one of them was obviously Lord Milford. She’d met him before. He was one of the many suitors who’d spent most of the Season in her brother Justin’s drawing room, attempting to woo Jessica while Eliza had sat in the corner near the window, happily reading.
The other man, the tall one, who also appeared to be quite overbearing, was not familiar to her. If she’d met him before, she would have remembered his height. She couldn’t see his face, but he had dark hair and wide shoulders and was dressed in all black. He strode directly to the table and splayed his hand, offering his friend a seat.
“Shall we place a wager on our game?” the taller man asked.
Eliza recognized the cunning tone in his voice immediately. It was the same cunning tone she employed when she asked unsuspecting opponents to play chess with her. It was the tone of a person perfectly confident in his ability to win.
“I’m not certain, Saint,” Lord Milford said with a tentative chuckle. “I’ve heard you’re excellent at chess.”
“I win from time to time,” the taller man—Saint, apparently—replied in a deceptively casual tone.
Hmm. Eliza folded her arms and watched the man called Saint. He’d even managed a shrug. Exactly the sort of misleading gesture she would employ if she were attempting to convince someone to play chess with her. Lure them in with the false hope of their ability to win and then spring your trap! It was the same reason most people who’d played chess with her refused to play with her again. She always won, and she always paraded about like a peacock wearing a medal afterward. She simply couldn’t help herself. It was far too much fun to win.
Father had taught Eliza and Jessica how to play chess when they were young girls. Jessica had barely paid attention. She’d been more interested in tending to her dolls’ hair and clothing. But Eliza had taken to chess like a reader to a good book. Indeed, she’d become so skilled at the game that she could rarely find a willing partner. This man, Saint, was of her ilk. She could tell. And she was intrigued.
“How much of a wager do you have in mind?” the victim, er, Milford, replied.
Saint did an admirable job of making his next shrug appear nonchalant. “How about…say…one hundred pounds?” He waved his hand in the air.
One hundred pounds? Her brows shot up. Quite a sum. He wouldn’t suggest so much without full confidence. Would he? She leaned closer. This was becoming more interesting by the moment.
“Hmm. Seems a bit rich for my blood,” Lord Milford replied. “How about fifty pounds?”
Wise, Milford. Wise.
“Whatever you like,” came Saint’s too-innocent reply. “After all, it’s just for fun.”
Eliza’s lips twisted up into a smile. Oh, it wasn’t just for fun, and Saint knew it. The man was about to give his friend Milford a solid drubbing. And for once, something other than a book had distracted Eliza at a party. Rare, indeed.
“Are you certain we have time for a game?” Lord Milford said next. “Shouldn’t you get back to the festivities soon?”
Saint shook his head. “Not to worry. I told Thornbury I’d be hiding for a bit. He understands.”
Eliza cocked her head. Thornbury was her new brother-in-law, Jessica’s groom. Saint must be one of his friends.
“Hiding?” Milford echoed. “Hiding from what?”
“Hiding from whom is more like it. And the answer is boring little debutantes,” came Saint’s reply, followed by a sharp laugh. “Specifically, the bride’s twin, Lady Elizabeth.” Saint released a loud, bothered sigh. “Thornbury’s mama is intent upon me asking her to dance, and I heard she’s an inveterate wallflower and a complete bore.”
A slight gasp flew from Eliza’s lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth and her eyes went wide just before they narrowed to slits. Saint. Saint? This horse’s arse had to be the much-vaulted Lord St. Clare, the Marquess of Claremont. Earlier, Thornbury’s mother, the dowager duchess, mentioned to Eliza that she had requested that Lord St. Clare ask Eliza to dance. It was half the reason Eliza was hiding in the library to begin with. She had no intention of dancing with any of the partygoers, let alone a man who had been cajoled into asking and apparently wanted no part of it. She might be a bore. She was definitely a wallflower. But she was hiding from him, not the other way around, and she had no intention of allowing him to think otherwise.
Eliza leaned her head out farther to get a look at the face of the man who apparently thought he was God’s gift to boring debutantes. Tapping the top of her book against her chin, she contemplated her choices for a moment. She glanced at the chessboard, then the marquess’s rigid back. Hmm. This little scene may have just provided her with the perfect opportunity. One she had never anticipated, never saw coming, but now that she contemplated it, she realized how utterly opportune it could be.
If she handled it correctly. And she had every intention of handling it correctly.
Both men’s heads swiveled to face her, and Eliza swallowed hard when St. Clare turned. Blast. Blast. Blast. He was attractive. Quite attractive. Why did Fate allow arses to be attractive? Unfair, that. He was the kind of attractive that made one swallow and give one’s head a small shake. She’d only ever read about such an attraction in books. She’d never actually felt a sharp intake of breath when seeing a man’s face for the first time. Wholly unexpected. And he’d just turned the full force of his stare on her.
Eliza allowed her gaze to sweep him. In addition to his uncommon height, he had an aquiline nose, a sharp jaw, firmly molded lips, and tousled dark hair that brushed his collar. But it was his eyes that most captured her attention. His arresting greenish-brown eyes pinned Eliza to the spot.
The arrogance had been temporarily wiped from his face, however. No doubt at the shock of learning the young woman he’d just insulted had been standing behind a nearby bookcase. But a look of supreme confidence mixed with humor quickly spread across his Adonis-like features.
“Lady Elizabeth?” Interesting that he didn’t stumble over her name in embarrassment. In fact, he’d said it quite smoothly, as if he were not in the least affected by her unexpected appearance.
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. She wanted to tell him to save any attempt at charm he was about to employ, but she kept the fake smile pinned so tightly to her lips that her jaw ached.
“Oh, let’s not be so formal, shall we? My sister is married to your closest friend now. As I said, call me Eliza.”
Lord Milford had turned a mottled red color and was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Lady Eliz…er…Lady Elizabeth,” he choked out, bobbing a quick bow in her direction.
“Nice to see you again, Lord Milford,” Eliza said, giving Lord Milford a truly kind smile. The poor man didn’t deserve to be fallout between her and the arrogant St. Clare. Milford didn’t deserve to be St. Clare’s target in a chess swindle either, but she was about to take care of that.
“My apologies, my lady,” St. Clare had the grace to say, treating her to an unhurried, formal bow. Apparently, he had some manners. “I didn’t realize you were hiding behind the bookcase.”
His smile was as fake as hers, and there was no mistaking the edge of irritation in his voice. Oh, no. Had she bothered him? How unfortunate.
She sauntered to the table and came to a stop in front of the chessboard. She wished to Hades she wasn’t wearing a light-pink gown of all regrettable colors, but it was Jessica’s special day, and pink had been her sister’s choice. Eliza always felt better in a solid green.
“Yes, it’s lamentable,” she began, “but I was forced to hide from a man I didn’t want to dance with. One the dowager duchess told me would be looking for me.” She let the words linger in the air as she locked gazes with St. Clare. She blinked at him with false innocence.
His dark brow arched, and she recognized the hint of respect in his eyes. She’d obviously made her point clear, and St. Clare was obviously clever enough to get her meaning. He gave her a once-over, and she lifted her chin higher. The light-pink gown was about to play in her favor if she didn’t mistake her guess. This man was about to underestimate her. Right on cue.
Lord Milford cleared his throat. “I think we should…er…return to the ballroom, should we not?” The man looked as if he wanted nothing more than to flee from the uncomfortable situation.
Eliza’s gaze remained locked with the marquess’s. “I have a proposal for you, Lord St. Clare.” She hoped her smile remained both convincing and innocuous.
St. Clare crossed his arms over his chest, and Eliza pretended not to notice how muscled they were.
“What sort of proposal?” he drawled.
Eliza glanced down at the chessboard as if she hardly knew what it was. “I’ll play you in a game of this…chess.” She waved her hand toward the board.
St. Clare’s head fell back, and his sharp bark of laughter echoed off the wooden bookcases. Then he straightened his shoulders and adjusted his snowy-white cravat, still smiling as if she’d said one of the most amusing things ever. “I don’t think so, my lady.” He gave his head a condescending shake. In fact, condescension oozed from his every pore.
Eliza bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling bigger. This was going to be her favorite part. The part where he would sorely misjudge her in three…two…
“Chess is a particular skill of mine,” St. Clare announced.
“Is it?” She batted her eyelashes at him, widening her eyes slightly to feign surprise. “You won’t mind playing with me then, will you? Even if you’re a far superior player?” This time she kept her face blank, but she was mentally grinning from ear-to-ear. Men were so predictable. This was like fishing out of a bucket. A small bucket. “I even have an idea for what we can wager,” she added, ensuring her voice remained high and sweet.
“Oh, I don’t think—“ Milford tugged fitfully at his lapels, shaking his head.
“What did you have in mind?” St. Clare asked, interrupting his friend and narrowing his eyes on Eliza.
Oh, so predictable. St. Clare hadn’t been able to resist the mention of a wager.
He bent over the right side of the table, his knuckles pressed to the wood on either edge of the chessboard, eyeing her with one arched brow.
Eliza mirrored him, leaning down over the left side, her own knuckles pressing into the wood, she matched him look for look. “If you win, I’ll tell the dowager you asked me to dance, and I refused due to a megrim.”
A half-smile lifted his full lips. “You would do that?”
“I detest dancing,” she added. He would remember her reputation as a wallflower right now and wonder if she was lying only to save face. Because he was predictable.
“Very well,” St. Clare said with a sharp nod. He stood up straight again. “I accept.”
So. Very. Predictable. The arse hadn’t even asked what the forfeit would be if she won. Just as she’d hoped. This was going to be a true pleasure. “And if I win…” she continued as if he had said nothing at all. “You shall pretend to court me next Season.”
“Pardon?” St. Clare’s brows snapped together.
“Pardon?” Lord Milford echoed.
Both men stared at her as if she’d gone mad. Also, predictable.
“You heard me.” Eliza straightened to her full height, her gaze never leaving St. Clare’s face.
“Why in the world would you want me to court you?” the marquess asked with eyes narrowed once more.
Eliza pushed back her shoulders. She was not short. Even so, St. Clare towered over her. “Not court me, my lord. Pretend to court me.”
His eyes remained narrowed. “Why would you want me to do that?”
She waved a hand in the air as if it was a trivial matter. “My sister has just married. Which means my mother is about to turn her sights on me and my prospects. She shall nag me endlessly about finding a husband next Season. And as you pointed out, I am a wallflower.” There. That was enough of an explanation.
