Always the Wallflower (Never the Bride Book 5) Read online

  Always the Wallflower

  Never the Bride

  Book 5

  Emily E K Murdoch

  © Copyright 2020 by Emily E K Murdoch

  Text by Emily E K Murdoch

  Cover by Dar Albert

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition July 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

  Never The Bride Series

  Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)

  Always the Chaperone (Book 2)

  Always the Courtesan (Book 3)

  Always the Best Friend (Book 4)

  Always the Wallflower (Book 5)

  Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

  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

  Epilogue

  About Emily E K Murdoch

  Chapter One

  There was nothing more Lady Letitia Cavendish could do to make herself less noticeable, and yet she shrank back as a gentleman with a ridiculous cravat walked by.

  “—and Prinny said no one else had better, and of course, I agreed with him, for I had never seen…”

  Letitia swallowed down the bile that had risen at the mere possibility of a gentleman speaking to her. Shyness: what a curse.

  Her clasped hands shook, and her gray eyes looked around the room at the dancing couples. The entire day had been a dream. Harry and Monty’s wedding. Lady Harriet, Duchess of Devonshire, as she should be known now. A smile crept over Letitia’s face at the very thought. The two girls had grown up together, and to see her now, utterly captivated by the love of her best friend, was satisfying.

  It was what Letitia had dreamed of all her life.

  Something drew her attention—a gentleman. He was standing on the other side of the room, watching couples dance.

  Letitia hated herself for feeling embarrassment from a mere look. A war was being waged within her, desperate to both be noticed and not noticed. The unending, internal dispute of a wallflower.

  The gentleman was not unattractive, Letitia mused in the privacy of her own mind, and not utterly repugnant. He had a charming smile, which broadened as he waved.

  Her cheeks heated as her shoulders hit the wall behind her. She received such little attention, after all. It would be a shame to waste it.

  The man left his position at the opposing wall and started moving toward her.

  Letitia’s heart thundered, and she took a step forward. Was this the moment? The opportunity, finally, to be asked to dance by a gentleman and not to stand alone by the side?

  He was nearer, and Letitia scrambled to think what to say. Good afternoon, sir? Did you enjoy the church service, sir? Yes, what a happy couple.

  All the pleasant nothings one said at weddings. All seemed crass and inconsequential, but as she opened her mouth, hoping that the least embarrassing one would find its way to her lips, the gentleman’s gaze slipped past to a young lady behind her.

  “My dear Miss Eagerton, I had no idea you were in town!”

  Letitia retreated to her safe position by the wall and hoped, as her cheeks burned, that no one had noticed her error. Of course, he had not stepped across the room to greet her. That simply did not happen to wallflowers like her.

  The first time she had been called a wallflower had been so long ago, it was impossible to untangle the thought of it from her own self. Letitia, the wallflower. The person no one noticed. The woman who faded into the background.

  This time, she spotted a gentleman who was definitely staring at her. Wasn’t he? She looked around as inconspicuously as she could. There did not appear to be another lady he could be watching nearby.

  Heat rose from her toes to her neck, and Letitia had a vision of her skin turning crimson. He was handsome. Perhaps he would ask her to dance—she had been standing here, after all, for the last three dances.

  Perhaps he was the one, finally, who would see her for what she was. Not just a wallflower, but a young lady.

  The gentleman was not alone. Beside him stood another man, less handsome but dressed in the latest fashions, and he leaned to whisper something.

  They laughed, their gazes flickering to her as their humor increased.

  She flushed. It was bad enough that she, bridesmaid to the new Duchess of Devonshire, was forced to remain at this wedding reception far longer than she would wish, but to be openly mocked by these rapscallions!

  If only she had the talent, as so many of her friends did, of speaking her mind. There was much she could have hurled at the pair of gentlemen openly mocking her, but even considering it made her nauseous.

  But she was a Cavendish, and that meant something. Letitia did not allow her head to lower as she so desperately wanted. She might always be the wallflower and never the bride, but she would not reveal her pain.

  Rapid movement visible through the open door to the hallway caught her eye. There was Harry, the Duchess of Devonshire, darting with Monty behind he
r, and Letitia caught a scrap of their conversation.

  “Well, where is she?”

  “You know little Letitia, she craves inattention, not adoration. We will find her.”

  “She could be anywhere!”

  Letitia wondered whether it was possible to cross the dance floor and sit down out of their notice, but it was too late.

  “There you are!” Harry beamed as she entered the room with her husband behind her. “Letitia, thank you.”

  Letitia swallowed. “What for?”

  “The mere reason you do not know why you are to be thanked is reason enough,” Harry smiled. “But beyond that—”

  “There you are!” Monty had finally disentangled himself from well-wishers and was grinning as broadly as his bride. “You found her. Thank you, Letitia.”

  Letitia looked from one to the other. “I-I still do not understand—”

  “You are my bridesmaid,” Harry reminded her.

  “All I did was walk behind you, Harry.”

  She saw Harry and Monty exchange a pitying look, and a spark of anger rose. She did not want their pity, however well-intended. Yes, she was shy, but that did not mean she had to endure their public display of sympathy.

  “They are making a set in the dining room,” said Monty gently. “With the doors to this room open, it will make for at least eight couples. Can I encourage you to join them, Letitia?”

  Her heart sank. She had known it would come to this—what was a party if no one was dancing? But it was her own personal hell, and Harry’s warning glance was too late to prevent her husband from speaking.

  Taking a deep breath, Letitia managed, “N-No one has asked me, Monty.”

  “Why don’t you,” Harry began.

  “Give me a moment,” said Monty, glancing around the room, “and I can—”

  “Please.” From somewhere within her soul, Letitia found the courage to speak, and the defiance in her tone surprised even her. Monty turned back to stare at her. “Please, Monty. I beg you. No partners out of pity.”

  Letitia tried to keep eye contact with her cousin, but her gaze dropped. Being a wallflower was not just uncomfortable for her; she knew it was an embarrassment to her friends and family even more so. That a Cavendish should be so plain! That a Cavendish, that noble family, was not even pretty enough to tempt a young man to dance with her for twenty minutes?

  Harry was watching her with genuine concern. “Letitia—”

  “Lady Harriet!”

  Harry groaned, and Letitia looked up to see Mrs. Bryant, gossip of London, trying to force her way through the crowd.

  “I had better go,” said Monty hurriedly. “I think I am needed by—”

  Letitia crept away from the confrontation, anything to escape the direct firing line of Mrs. Bryant. Thankfully, there was enough hubbub in the room to move without censure.

  “You know, you will never find a gentleman to marry you like that.”

  Letitia jumped. Miss Mariah Wynn was seated in a nook behind her, spectacles on her nose and a book in her hands.

  Letitia smiled, tension leaving her shoulders. “Hello, Mariah.”

  Mariah rose from her seat, put her spectacles and book in the reticle dangling from her arm, and sniffed. “No young gentlemen queuing up to dance with you, I see?”

  Letitia’s stomach twisted. Mariah was a good friend to her, and they had found much solace together through a shared passion for books and quiet. However, Mariah did inadvertently vex her at least five times every conversation.

  “No,” she said quietly. “N-No gentlemen, queuing or otherwise.”

  “Well, I do not suppose any of them will consider asking you, not when you look so ashamed just to be here. You are a Cavendish, for goodness sake—a true Cavendish.”

  Letitia heard the bitterness in her friend’s voice but did not question it. It was known that Mariah had been adopted, but she had indicated on numerous occasions that she would not speak of her family. Letitia was not the kind of person to press such a topic.

  She tried to smile. “Being a wallflower is not so bad, I assure you. I can spend my time watching the dancing, appreciating the cleverness of movement, the—”

  “Do not give me that,” Mariah cut in firmly. “If you are never brave enough to speak to a gentleman you have not been introduced to, Letitia, then you are going to end up like me.”

  Letitia glanced at her companion. Mariah was not much older than her, perhaps by a year, although she looked older thanks to eschewing all sense of fashion.

  “Like you?”

  Mariah nodded. “Old maid material. Now, I have no concerns on that score, no interest in the matter. But you, Letitia, you want a husband, and you will never get one if you do not look a gentleman in the eyes.”

  It was difficult not to feel hurt at her friend’s words, and Letitia reminded herself that Mariah did not speak to offend. But still…

  “I do not wish to be berated,” Letitia murmured, hoping no one else could hear their conversation. A pair of young ladies to their left seemed far more interested in them than necessary.

  “It’s not berating if it’s true,” Mariah said with a wry smile, “and you know I do not speak to hurt you. When I last saw a gentleman I wished to speak to, I just did. Sometimes you have to ignore your impulses.”

  Letitia sighed. If only she could be as brave as Mariah Wynn, a woman who never allowed society’s view of her inferiority to stop her from anything.

  Mariah knew her own mind and was not afraid to speak it. Letitia never did, and even when she had an opinion, it felt impossible to share.

  Who wanted to hear the opinions of a young lady, even a Cavendish?

  Mariah sighed heavily, and Letitia looked up to see a trio of young gentlemen, evidently a little worse for drink, stumble out of one room and into another with fits of raucous laughter.

  “Men,” Mariah said calmly. “Allowing them to frighten you suggests to them that they are superior. An utterly mistaken impression, and we should not permit them to form it. Your mother would tell you the same thing.”

  Letitia smiled. The word ‘bluestocking’ had been made for Mariah, and she wore it like a badge of honor. In her eyes, women could do anything.

  And she was right. Her mother would tell her the same thing; it was a mercy that Lady Cavendish had not spotted her across the dance floor and loudly instructed her daughter on the best way to attract the eye of an eligible gentleman.

  “It is not that I am afraid of men,” Letitia murmured, “more of the possibility they may actually wish to speak with me.”

  Her words sounded ridiculous even as she said them.

  Mariah snorted. “All men are the same, and they are so predictable.”

  “Predictable?” Letitia could not conceive of a single predictable trait of the gentlemen in her acquaintance.

  “They want to find a wife who is pretty, subservient, and does not think for herself,” her friend sniffed. “Anyone else is just decoration or a nuisance.”

  A smile crept over Letitia’s face. How very like Mariah. Ever since they had shared a governess when small, she had wanted to know more, learn more, and the fact that she was a young lady and not a young gentleman had not stopped her.

  If only she could be more like Mariah, sure and certain—or more like Harry, vibrant and confident. Letitia twisted her fingers together. Anything other than who she was.

  “Champagne?”

  Letitia jumped. She had not noticed him approach, and the handsome footman proffered a silver platter with flutes of champagne.

  “Y-Yes,” she stammered, hating herself. A servant, too? Was she to be overwhelmed by any man who spoke to her?

  Taking the glass, Letitia tried to watch the dancers in their careful steps.

  There was Lady Charlotte, the Duchess of Mercia now, of course. To think that a year ago, she had been society’s chaperone, never expected to wed—and there she was, dancing hand in hand with her husband, their son held by a nursema
id.

  Pain twisted Letitia’s heart: jealousy, an ugly emotion she could never bear to admit. Why was it so impossible to find a happily ever after?

  She had seen four young ladies in her acquaintance, one of them, her dear friend Harry, marry recently, and no gentleman had even looked at her twice, other than to laugh.

  Heat blossomed in her body despite the chill of the glass in her hand.

  “Have you read it?”

  “What?” Letitia looked wildly at her friend.

  Mariah sighed. “You have not been listening to a word I have been saying, have you?” Without waiting for Letitia to reply, she continued, “I was speaking of the most exciting book that has just been published. I have borrowed it from the lending library. A New Mathematical and Philosophical Dictionary—does it not sound riveting?”

  Letitia shook her head. “Not really, Mariah, you know my interest in mathematics is but fleeting.”

  “Oh, Letitia, you absolutely must dive into this text,” Mariah said, enthusiasm rushing through her words, eyes widening. “I had not been aware of some of the complexities of the formulae—to think, Letitia, almost anything can be made and unmade through the power of numbers. I had not even realized that—you are not listening to me.”

  “Mariah, you know I have no intellect for such things! My mind is simply not made that way, and you cannot scold me into it.”

  Mariah smiled. “Everyone’s mind can be made to think that way. Even a woman may master the sciences, although that may surprise many I have spoken to at…”

  Letitia allowed Mariah’s words to wash over her. She had seen something far more intriguing on the other side of the room.

  Or rather, someone. It was Edward, Viscount Wynn.

  Her heart fluttered. The eligible bachelor had arrived in town but three weeks ago, and everywhere he went, there was scandal and intrigue. It did not hurt that he was remarkably handsome, but there was something more.

  Letitia stared, drinking him in during this rare occasion to watch and be unseen. He was tall, far taller than her own father, with hair so dark it was almost black. His attitude was regal, the way his gaze swept across the room.