The Wallflower’s Wild Wedding (The Wallflower Wins Book 3) Page 10

  It had been his goal this year.

  His parents had had a terrible marriage.

  He’d never even expected friendship in his. . . But he and Eloise were already close.

  She saw him in a way no one else did. Could they marry?

  It seemed terrifying, really, to be close to someone like that for always.

  Of course, the idea was absurd. It was the opposite of her dreams, and he wished to give her dreams life, not take them away.

  “Right,” Stanley said. “I’m going to arrange a private gathering this evening. And your young lady will sing for us. You are both invited, and you will both come well.”

  “We will not,” St. John retorted.

  “It is my ducal decree,” Stanley announced before he winked. “It’s the best thing if you wish to promote her career. I wish to hear this voice of an angel. . . Or do you intend to keep her to yourself, after all?”

  St. John scowled. Of course he would take her to Stanley’s gathering.

  This was exactly what was supposed to happen. This was indeed what he had hoped for, for Eloise.

  Damnation. Why had he allowed himself to cross the line from protector to lover? What would he do when other men approached her? Kill them? It was certainly tempting.

  What if a friend became interested in her?

  Things would grow remarkably difficult.

  He was going to have to have a discussion with Eloise. They had never addressed whether they would be exclusive.

  Would she forget him quickly in her success, choosing someone like Stanley, who might be able to do more for her?

  And suddenly, he realized he sounded like a three-year-old who was about to lose his toy, and that was not respectful of her at all.

  Good God, what had happened to him?

  Stanley leaned forward. “Are you all right, old boy? You look quite ill.”

  “I am realizing I am in a particular dilemma,” he rasped. “One I never thought to be in.”

  “What is that?”

  “I’m afraid of being jealous,” St. John said, feeling ill.

  “You?” Stanley said flatly. “Jealous? I can’t even imagine the thing. You always leave ladies before anything like that can happen. You’ve never been interested in anyone so much as to be jealous of them.”

  “I know,” St. John agreed. “This is most upsetting.”

  Oh God. . . Perhaps he was in love.

  Stanley leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “You have joined a remarkable club, my fellow.”

  “What club is that?” St. John demanded.

  “The club of men happily in love.”

  “I feel sick.”

  Stanley laughed. “You should give in, old boy. Do it. Nothing would make me happier than to see you happy.”

  “I’m not marrying my mistress,” he said, though he suddenly pictured Eloise by his side. . . Forever smiling at him as she had done this morning. He shook his head. “I need to find a young lady of suitable birth to have some heirs and then get on with it.”

  Stanley shrugged. “You keep insisting,” he said, “but the more you insist, the more difficult this shall become. And you must never let love go when it comes your way. You will regret it if you do.”

  St. John tossed back his brandy and stood. “I shan’t have this conversation a moment longer. And I won’t argue with you. You’re becoming insufferable.”

  Stanley shrugged, undaunted. “The more insufferable I am, old boy, the more it indicates you’re in denial.”

  “I shall be in denial when hell freezes over,” he drawled before stalking off, unable to bear his friend’s might any longer.

  Love, ha! Marriage, ha!

  He knew he needed an heir.

  But when he thought of love and marriage, he thought of his mother and father and the brutality of it. Love was a dangerous thing in marriage. His father had claimed to love his mother, even as he’d terrorized her, controlling her every move.

  No, it was far better to feel nothing for one’s wife. . . than risk feeling too much.

  Chapter 16

  “I have not had as much fun as I had last night in years, my dear,” Mrs. Drake proclaimed on the stage, her stunning voice echoing through the cavernous theater.

  Eloise stared up at the woman from the red-velvet runner leading through the seats. She longed to set her feet upon the boards.

  Soon, she would get to.

  “Nor I, Mrs. Drake.”

  “Come, come,” Mrs. Drake tutted. “I can hardly believe it, a woman of your talents. You have not had such excitement?”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Drake. I am a stranger to it.” Eloise folded her hands before her sapphire day gown, which was tailored perfectly to her frame and embroidered with red roses. “I admit. I am only recently discovered by the Earl of Hollybrook.”

  “Then, we best commence.” Mrs. Drake took a step forward, her skirts swishing. “Now, come up along these side stairs.”

  Mrs. Drake indicated the steps that led up to the side of the stage. Doing exactly as bid, Eloise rushed up them and stepped onto the sacred boards. It was a huge dark space lined with rigging and thick curtains.

  They creaked ever so slightly beneath her feet, boards that had borne the most famous singers and most talented actors of the last hundred years. It was a powerful feeling.

  Hollybrook had purchased the theater five years previously, as she understood, and had made many necessary improvements.

  She had spent so much time sitting in the audience, on red-velvet chairs, gazing up at the boxes of the finest aristocrats and staring at the performers on stage, but this? This was something else, indeed.

  It was totally a transformative moment.

  As she walked across the stage and turned to look out at the red-velvet upholstery, the gold-embellished boxes, and rows and rows of seats in the orchestra, she felt herself fill with such love and excitement that she could barely countenance it.

  Her heart swelled. This was better than any marriage could ever be. This was better than any ball. This was what she had been built to do.

  Mrs. Drake joined her, staring out into the empty theater, gazing up at the gallery. “You know how many girls fancy themselves to be prima donnas? They join the chorus, they do their very best, and they never move along. But you, my dear, are unique, and you are lucky. You have the attention of the Earl of Hollybrook, the patron of our theater, which means that, of course, we shall give you special attention. And luckily for you, we have all heard how talented you are. Otherwise, we should smile at you, but whisper about you behind your back.”

  Mrs. Drake took her hand, squeezed it, and winked. “Luckily, none of us will have to suffer such a thing.”

  Hargrave then strode out onto the stage, his thick hair wild. He had clearly had quite the night. He drove a hand through it, yanked off his wide-tailed bottle-blue coat, and threw it across a chair lingering in the shadow. “Now, the other night, you sang Mozart. You sang with such fire. But. Now you must sing with love. Have you known great love, Miss Cartwright?”

  She gaped at the astonishing question as well as the energy of the male singer. “No, not at all,” admitted Eloise, “but I can imagine it.”

  Hargrave and Mrs. Drake exchanged glances. “When one is in the theater, in opera, it is good to expose oneself to as many emotions as possible. To use them. I advise you fall in love at once.”

  Eloise coughed. “With Hollybrook?”

  Again Mrs. Drake and Hargrave exchanged a glance. Both of them looked doubtful.

  She looked up to the large chandelier that dominated the ceiling, in the center of a mural of Greek gods frolicking about a teal-blue pond, and she suddenly felt herself soaring amongst the heavens. But what if she fell?

  She thought of St. John. He’d not tolerate such a thought.

  Nor would she.

  She was supposed to fall in love, was she? She’d denied love just now. But she wondered. . . The way he made her feel. The way
she longed to soothe his hurts–

  “We shall open in a week,” Hargrave announced. “Do you think you’re capable of learning a part that quickly? We do not rest on our laurels here.”

  “I am,” she declared firmly, turning to the handsome fellow. “I could not wish for anything more.”

  “Good,” Hargrave said. “We shall tell all of London an angel has descended from the heavens and anyone who misses this opera shall be missing the greatest performance of the year. How does that sound?”

  “I can hardly believe it,” she breathed.

  Mrs. Drake’s smile grew wicked. “If you do not fancy yourself in love with Hollybrook, dear fellow that he is, in a month’s time, you shall have any man, you know? And you’ll never have to worry about marrying a boring old fool. You shall rule the demimondaine instead.”

  She swallowed.

  Any man she wanted. She wondered why Mrs. Drake would say such a thing when she knew she was meant to be Hollybrook’s mistress.

  Did Mrs. Drake also know that that was a ruse?

  Except it no longer was a ruse.

  She turned back to the sight she had so longed to see: the audience. Did she wish any man possible? Last night, she had known the wonder of Hollybrook’s arms, and she could not imagine being in anyone else’s.

  He had been perfection.

  His body had been like a fortress, shielding her, more protective than any words he could have ever uttered. He had touched her with reverence, and it had been heaven.

  She felt herself blushing at the thought, her cheeks heating, and she wanted him more and more with every passing moment.

  Suddenly, she had the deep desire to go home to him.

  She wished to share her happiness with Hollybrook, for it seemed to her that everyone had got him wrong entirely. He was not a heartless rake. He was a man who had suffered and was doing whatever he could to hide that suffering. She wanted, instead, to help him heal it. For, hiding it was doing him no good.

  Chapter 17

  The Duke of Stanley’s small gathering was, in fact, a crush of people in his extensive gardens. . . With fireworks.

  It was no small affair.

  St. John rolled his eyes so hard at his friend’s machinations he feared they might remain in the back of his head.

  Except, he couldn’t take his eyes off Eloise for long.

  She was dressed to perfection in a crimson frock which scarcely covered her frame. Oh, there was enough material to go from her shoulders to the tips of her matching slippers, but it was what the gown barely hid with its nearly translucent fabric that was important.

  It was a gown meant for a votary of Venus, and she wore it like a goddess divine. And her voice? Her voice filled the garden as if an ethereal being had come down amongst them.

  The demimondaine and crème of London’s more scandalous society were transfixed.

  The song she had chosen to sing that night was Dido’s Lament, and every single member of the ton and demimondaine listened in the palm of her hand.

  He’d seen nothing like it before as the tragic notes of the song swirled around the attendees of the party. As one, the guests seemed to lean forward, spelled by her.

  Just as she finished, Stanley came up beside him. “Oh, friend, you are in a world of trouble.”

  St. John gritted his teeth.

  He knew what trouble he was in. She was about to be swarmed.

  The moment the string orchestra placed their bows at rest, applause exploded in the garden and the demimondaine fell upon Eloise.

  It appeared the lot of them longed to kiss her hand and tell her how amazing she was.

  Both men and women alike.

  It was a sight to see: Eloise surrounded by the most stylish members of society in their sparkling jewels and rich fabrics, ready to pay her court.

  At Stanley’s signal, the orchestra picked up their bows and began a dance tune.

  Luckily, a great number of the crowd went out to the dance floor the duke had constructed upon his back-garden lawn. The floor was immense, painted with beautiful patterns inspired, no doubt, by the golden filigree made so famous by the Bourbons in France before the Revolution.

  Now, when one said garden in reference to a townhome, one most likely thought of a reasonable space with trees and flowers, but not so for the Duke of Stanley.

  In fact, the duke’s garden was nearly as large as Green Park. It certainly put Vauxhall to shame in its sumptuous luxury dedicated to entertainment.

  And just like Vauxhall, there were many a winding paths where lovers could be alone.

  Soon, couples would pair off into the night to frolic in the duke’s paradise.

  Stanley’s parties were infamous, but St. John had expected his friend to not have something completely wild this evening. He should have known better. Stanley was not capable of something small. He did everything on a grand scale. And it appeared he was determined to make Eloise a star, himself.

  Which made St. John terribly suspicious. Why the devil had the duke taken such a pointed interest in Eloise, if not to infuriate him?

  Of course, Eloise was exceptionally talented, but this felt. . . personal.

  He should have been grateful. He was not.

  Stanley looked at him. “You need to ask her, you know?”

  “Stanley,” he began with a heavy exhale. Surely, his friend wasn’t going to harass him the whole evening.

  Stanley’s gaze danced with amusement. . . and something serious. “If you don’t ask her to marry you, I will.”

  “What?” He growled, his gut twisting with a shocking wave of jealousy.

  “Why not?” Stanley said, shrugging carelessly and picking a non-existent bit of lint from his perfect burgundy coat. “My great-great-grandfather married one of the first female actresses upon the stage. Why should I not carry on the tradition?”

  “You’re mourning your lost love,” St. John gritted. “You don’t wish to remarry.”

  Stanley smiled slowly, wagging his finger. “Now, now, Hollybrook, you know I do not have to love her to marry her. I can give her a great position. After all, she is clearly a gem.”

  Stanley folded his arms across his chest. “Not a diamond. That one is a ruby, all fire.”

  St. John ground his teeth down so hard, he feared for the state of them. “Stay the devil away from her.”

  Stanley’s eyes widened with faux innocence. “Why should I if you don’t intend to keep her? It sounds as if you may throw her away at any moment, and a woman like that is a price above rubies. Even if she’s not modest and all that nonsense.”

  St. John stalked off, seething at his friend’s blatant ribbing.

  He wasn’t going to listen to it another moment. Stanley was doing his very best to get a rise out of him, and he refused to listen.

  Truly.

  Jealousy was not for him. He couldn’t allow it.

  Yet. . . Oh God, he felt it. It burned through him like white-hot flames.

  He pushed his way through the crowd, feeling most odd doing so.

  Usually, ladies came to him.

  Even men came to him.

  They were all drawn by his power and ease with others, but now, she was the one with the power.

  Of course, he was delighted for her, but he felt completely off foot.

  As he wove his way through the crowd, closing the distance between them, he drew a deep breath, focusing on his happiness for her, and applauded. “Well done, my darling,” he said.

  She gave him a slight curtsy.

  “Thank you, Hollybrook. I am glad you are pleased.”

  “So pleased,” he announced, taking her hands and kissing her cheek, longing for more. “Are you?”

  “Of course I am,” she said. “It is a remarkable night. I’ve never been to a party like this.”

  Stanley came up beside them, his presence as obvious as a galleon in full sail. “My dear, this is just the beginning of what awaits you. I shall, no doubt, arrange countless partie
s in your honor.”

  St. John cleared his throat and shot Stanley a daggered glare. “You need not attend them if you do not wish.”

  Eloise swung her gaze from Stanley to St. John, clearly confused. “You two are friends?”

  “Oh,” St. John said, realizing they had not been introduced. “Yes. This is your host, the Duke of Stanley. He must have been elsewhere when we arrived.”

  Stanley flashed his rakish smile.

  Almost certainly, Stanley had been on one of his dark walks with a lady.

  Stanley held his hand out to Eloise, his sapphire signet ring winking in the torchlight. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, my dear. Will you do me the honor of this dance?”

  She beamed. “Of course I shall.”

  St. John was going to murder his friend.

  It was everything he could do not to reach out and strangle him.

  It would be one thing if he was simply befriending Eloise, but Stanley was doing his best to absolutely rile St. John. He would not rise to it. He would not. Or so he kept repeating to himself.

  Eloise turned to St. John. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” St. John said quickly. “You needn’t ask my permission. You are a free woman. It is the point of all of this.”

  The words were the right ones, and he meant them, and yet, they felt terrible.

  Pleasure did not radiate from her face as he’d expected. She gave a nod instead and followed Stanley out onto the floor in her crimson gown, which skimmed her breasts and her hips, leaving little to the imagination.

  He cursed himself for choosing dresses that would be so beautiful upon her frame.

  She truly was a ruby.

  Stanley was not mistaken, and he didn’t wish to hide her away, but now he felt confused by his feelings.

  He longed to make her his, but it was the last thing she would want. What a fool he would be to ask.

  Asking for her to marry him, to be his, exclusively, he would be crushing what they had set out to do together.

  He wouldn’t do that to her.

  Stanley and Eloise danced about the elaborate floor, surrounded by other beautiful couples.

  The moon shone above them in a rare state of a London summer.