Wallflower (Old Maids' Club, Book 1) (2 page)

Bethanne wrinkled her pert nose. “Very
true.”

“
You have what might
possibly be unlimited funds for a dowry,” Jo continued, “but, as
your father has made it all too clear, you have physical hindrances
for finding that suitable match. And as for me?” Jo returned to the
sofa and landed upon it in a frustrated flop. “I think I’ve made it
profusely clear to everyone I know that I will not be seen as
beneath anyone.
Especially
not a husband.”

Tabitha sighed all the way to her
toes. Jo was right. “But Father—”

“
But nothing,” Jo
interrupted. “None of our fathers will be particularly pleased, to
be sure. But they will never force us to do something against our
will. They’ll treat us just like they treat Aunt
Rosaline.”

A smile threatened to overwhelm
Bethanne’s impish face. “They will, won’t they? Oh, how wonderful.
What can we call it?”

“
Call what?” Tabitha asked
cautiously. This whole charade might not the best idea, but what
else was she to do? After all, thinking of the type of gentleman
who might actually want to offer for her someday caused her to
shudder quite vehemently. They’d have to be fortune hunters or...or
what, exactly? She didn’t know.

Bethanne’s eyes shone with her
excitement. “Our pact, silly. We need a name for it.” She lowered
her voice and glanced over to the open door of the parlor before
continuing. “A secret name.”

Jo made a show of examining her
fingernails. “Well,” she drawled, “they do tend to call Aunt
Rosaline an old maid, and we will be just like her. Why not the Old
Maids’ Club? We can be free and blissful, and grow old together as
old maids.”

A nervous titter escaped Tabitha’s
lips at that suggestion. “What, call ourselves the very thing they
will say about us?”

“
Exactly,” Jo said. “We
can take away the power of that nonsensical phrase by choosing it
for ourselves.” Her blue eyes sparkled with the intensity of the
midnight sky.

Take away the power? But it was only
words. Just a phrase.

Just a phrase.
Oh, precisely. Words held no meaning if one
afforded them none. Tabitha’s heartbeat roared to life. “Old Maids’
Club?” she asked.

“
Old Maids’ Club,”
Bethanne said, grinning like an imbecile.

Jo came back across the room to join
them, taking their hands into her own. “Old Maids’
Club.”

Yes. She would claim her future as
whatever she wanted it to be. She would follow her aunt’s advice
and be herself, whatever that entailed. Tabitha took Bethanne’s
free hand and completed the circle.

She would be free.

Chapter One

Spring, 1815

London

“
It’s obscene, really.”
This came from Lady Kibblewhite, who leaned over until her
near-bluish hair virtually assaulted her companion. The massive
aubergine feathers adorning her headpiece finished the attack where
her hair had left off. Not that she needed to lean in at all. Her
wobbly voice carried halfway across Lord Scantlebury’s ballroom.
One would have to exert a valiant and sincere effort in order not
to hear the sprawling whine of a voice.

From Lady Tabitha Shelton’s chosen
location, safely ensconced behind an array of potted plants and
hidden from the view of the majority of the ballroom, she couldn’t
possibly avoid the ancient society matron’s words. She was, after
all, merely a few feet behind the two and several positions down
the wall. Tabitha remained where she was for two reasons: first, to
avoid the possibility of dancing with any gentleman whatsoever; and
second, to avoid the notice of Lord Oglethorpe, the blasted fortune
hunter currently attempting to pay her excessive attention of the
unwanted variety.

As luck would have it, Tabitha had
selected a green shade of silk for her gown that evening, one that
fortuitously fell somewhere between the hues of the verdant ivies
in pots before her and the somewhat softer Pomona green draped over
the walls. She thought she blended in quite well, all things
considered.

“
Do keep your voice down.
She’ll hear you.” And
this
came from said feather-assaulted companion, Lady
Plumridge, as she searched about to find the obscenity in question.
Lady Plumridge was younger, yes. And also much squatter.

She was no less a gossipmonger,
however.

Lady Kibblewhite’s head
popped up, with the feathers bashing around atop her head until
they created a breeze almost strong enough to cause Tabitha to
shiver. “I don’t care one whit if she does. Even
she
couldn’t deny the
indecent dimensions her dowry has taken on this Season. How
disgraceful, that Lord Newcastle has had to resort to such
measures. Pathetic, really...if one should ask me, that
is.”

“
And we all know that one
ought to do precisely that,” Lady Plumridge said with far more
gusto than Tabitha thought necessary.

The two dragons were
right, of course. Tabitha harbored no disbelief that
she
was the subject of
their current discussion, and she was also forced to agree with
them—at least on one point. Father had, yet again, increased her
preposterously large dowry to near epic proportions.

He was desperate to find her a
suitable husband before she reached her thirtieth birthday—a feat
his brother-in-law, Viscount Hazelwood, had not managed with
Tabitha’s cousin, Jo. This was likewise a task in which he was
certain to fail, however much it pained Tabitha to disappoint him
with regard to any matter.

Sadly, Father refused to
listen to her arguments. The way he continually increased her
dowry
did
manage
to attract a potential suitor or two from time to time.
Regrettably, these gentlemen all held one commonality which Tabitha
simply could not abide: a propensity for fortune hunting. They
wanted her for her money, not for herself. Who
would
want her for herself, after
all? Certainly not Oglethorpe or any of his ilk.

At less than a month shy of
nine-and-twenty, she had never been considered an Incomparable.
Tabitha could not boast excellent skill at playing the pianoforte,
or an aptitude for painting watercolors, or cleverness in
embroidery or stitchery, or expertise in any other traditional
feminine pursuit. Additionally, she was rather more plump than
could be considered fashionable and rather more plain than pretty,
with straight hair of some muddy, brownish hue and eyes of a
lackluster grey that turned downright stormy when she was in a
temper, as Jo was frequently keen to inform her.

There was, to be blunt,
nothing to recommend her save her disproportionate dowry and a
superb proficiency at remaining a wallflower. Tabitha couldn’t
convince even herself otherwise, so how on earth could she be
expected to convince the
beau
monde
? It was simply one of the sad facts
of who she was.

“
If her mother were still
alive,” Lady Kibblewhite intoned, “I daresay she would have had an
apoplectic fit by now for not securing a husband for her only
daughter. At least
one
of Newcastle’s sons has married—the heir. Heaven knows
if
anyone
can
ever bring the spare to heel.”

Someone bring Toby to heel? Tabitha
had to tamp down on a fit of missish giggles at the absurdity of
the thought.

Suddenly, she felt parched—almost
desperately so. But if she were to move from her spot, she would
alert the Ladies Kibblewhite and Plumridge of the fact she’d been
eavesdropping. Not only that, but she would also make it much
easier for Lord Oglethorpe to resume his attentions. Blast. So a
wallflower she must remain. It ought not to be difficult—at least
not overly so. She’d graced the edges of ballrooms for twelve
Seasons running. Why break the streak?

Lady Plumridge nodded frantically.
“Mr. Shelton has become quite the rogue. Newcastle seems to have
lost his rein on the lad.”

The
lad
, indeed. Tobias Shelton, Toby to
those who knew him well (which admittedly one could argue would
include the majority of Britain and a good half the Continent), was
mere minutes younger than Tabitha—and therefore far past the age
when a gentleman was expected to cease sowing his wild oats and
become a respectable member of society. Toby, however, had no
intention of becoming anything close to resembling respectable. He
made certain to inform Tabitha of this fact on every occasion he
could, just in case she had somehow forgotten.

He’d been graced with a dashing figure
that set all the young, unmarried ladies’ hearts aflutter, complete
with rich brown hair that glistened in the sun, laughing blue eyes
that always bespoke some devilry or another, and pristine, straight
teeth. He could charm the stockings off anyone he chose.
(Thankfully, she had not yet heard tell of his charming the
stockings off an innocent. She could only hope she wouldn’t.)
Essentially, Toby was quite Tabitha’s opposite in every way but
age.

Which only served to prove
God’s sense of humor.
Blast
him
. Toby, not God.

Lady Kibblewhite shook her head
forcefully. “He is a lost cause. No lady will tame the rascal he
has become.”

But then Tabitha’s attention was drawn
to her cousin, Jo, making her way through the throng toward her. Jo
wore her blonde curls down in waves that bounced about her
shoulders against a bold blue satin gown that highlighted the
particular shade of her eyes. And, bless her, she carried two
glasses in her hands.

The matrons ceased their
gossiping long enough to watch Jo’s progress, too. For that matter,
it seemed nearly every eye in the ballroom was trained upon her.
Unlike Tabitha, Jo
had
been an Incomparable. In fact, were she not already so firmly
entrenched in her position upon the shelf, Jo might still be
considered an Incomparable to this day.

For a moment, Tabitha silently cursed
her cousin for drawing attention to her position of safety—in
particular because Lady Plumridge and Lady Kibblewhite looked over
at Tabitha with heated disdain. Her eavesdropping had been
discovered. Perfect. She feigned a smile and waved before whipping
her fan out.

Tabitha’s despair could only last a
moment, however, because she was in dire need of whatever drink Jo
was carrying. She said a silent prayer for sherry, though she
doubted the Scantleburys had provided anything of the
sort.

“
How did you know?”
Tabitha asked. She had barely strangled the words out before
snatching a glass from her cousin’s hand. Her voice even cracked
from how dry her throat had become. She took a long sip then
grimaced. “Lemonade?”

“
It was all they had,” Jo
replied. “How did I know what? That you were thirsty, or where to
find you?” She took a tiny and elegant sip from her own
glass.

“
Both, I
suppose.”

Jo smiled, a
cat-that-caught-the-canary sort of grin, and raised a brow. “The
answer to both is the same. You’re predictable.” At Tabitha’s huff
of indignation, Jo allowed a small laugh to break free.
“Predictably reticent, Tabby. Retiring. Always hiding from the
finer things in life. And it didn’t hurt that Lord Oglethorpe had
just sought me out while I was at the refreshment table, hoping I
could direct him to where he could find you. He hopes to claim your
hand for the supper dance. I assume you already knew
that.”

Tabitha nodded, her eyes wide. Surely
Jo wouldn’t have directed the fortune hunter her way. She’d
strangle her cousin for that.

“
I thought as much,” Jo
said. “So I knew you would be in hiding somewhere. When I didn’t
find you in the retiring room, I merely had to search the walls for
a spot of brown hair amongst the plants.”

Thankfully, Lord Oglethorpe did not
seem to have deduced as much as Jo had. At least not yet. Tabitha
stole a furtive glance around the ballroom to locate
him.

“
I directed him to the
pond in Lord Scantlebury’s park. He’ll be searching for you out
there for at least the next two sets. Perhaps three.” Jo paused a
beat, taking a sip from her lemonade. Then she winked. “You can
thank me tomorrow.”

A grin overtook Tabitha’s face. “Have
I mentioned recently that you’re one of my favorite
cousins?”

“
One of?” Jo replied with
as much haughty condescension as she could muster. “I should think
I would be your
absolute
favorite by now.”

“
You and Bethanne are
essentially in a tie, and you well know it. You wouldn’t have it
any other way. And besides, both of you have yet to challenge a
scoundrel to a duel in order to protect the honor of someone we
both love,” Tabitha said. “Isaac has you bested on that
score.”

Jo frowned ferociously. “But only
just. I would have done it if he hadn’t. I’m still sore with him
for not allowing me the opportunity. I’m the better
shot.”

Of that, Tabitha held no doubts. There
was nothing she would put past Josephine Faulkner, including a
duel. Jo likely would have managed it with more finesse than their
mutual cousin Isaac had, too, taking a clean shot that might not
have killed the lecherous bastard. But that was another matter
entirely.