Wallflowers Don't Wilt

Wallflowers Don’t Wilt

by Raven McAllan

Breathless Press

Calgary, Alberta

www.breathlesspress.com

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.

Wallflowers Don’t Wilt

Copyright© 2011 Raven McAllan

ISBN: 978-1-77101-009-2

Cover Artist: Victoria Miller

Editor: Jackie Moore

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews.

Breathless Press

www.breathlesspress.com

Dedication

To all the members of Up and Coming Writers Crit Group, without whom this would never have been written, and to Jackie, my lovely editor, without whom this would never have been published. Thanks, all of you.

Chapter One

London, 1817

“The last time, thank goodness.” Arabella, Lady Dunsmuir, smiled at her companion as they took their seats among the wallflowers at Lady Hersingsham’s Annual Ball.

The wallflowers—those unfortunate young women who, due to age or appearance, took little part in the festivities at a ball.

Serena, Lady Saltsey, nodded in agreement as both settled their dresses around them, their ankles covered as polite society decreed. Their fans were retrieved from the ribbons, which secured them in elegance on to their skirts, and readied them for use if they deemed necessary. They could choose to dance or to be content to sit, watch, and discuss the latest
on dit
being furtively whispered among their peers. Furthermore, they also chose to only wear the finest clothes, the most up-to-date-designs, and wear them with elegance and grace. In addition, they ignored the put-downs, pithy comments, and snide remarks said loudly enough for them to hear, and treated them with the contempt they felt they deserved. They were two very strong-willed, self-assured young ladies, determined to lead their lives as they so desired. Damn the consequences.

Arabella was the more forthcoming of the two. Many times, her outspokenness had earned her harsh words from parents, governesses, and even at times Serena.

Serena, her opposite in most things, was ever a peacemaker, but could be as equally outrageous when she chose. She chose, however, to do so in such a manner that the parties involved were never quite sure what act of rebellion or sheer stupidity had occurred.

There was the time they had wished to see the fireworks on the Thames. Forbidden to go, Serena had donned the footman’s breeches to facilitate her escapade. Or the occasion it transpired that her new ball gown had been inexplicably festooned with “moth holes,” because to her mind it had been totally unflattering. Serena largely got away with her excesses.

Poor Arabella had to face her punishments. As she always felt whatever misdemeanor she had carried out had been successful, punishment seemed a small price to pay, especially when shinning down the ivy from her bedchamber was so easy to accomplish.

As she gazed around the room with interest, Serena answered Arabella. “At times I thought this day would never arrive. Now we have only this last ball to endure, and tomorrow we can say farewell to all this.” She waved her hand around the ballroom at the laughing men and women, the pitying glances from those dancing, and the looks of despair from those seated nearby.

Arabella found her other hand and squeezed, smiling as their pinkies linked, entwined, and made silent promises.

“Tomorrow, Serry, just one more night before we are together.”

***

Ivo, Duke of Daranton, leaned against the ballroom wall, wondering for the umpteenth time how long it would be before he could make his way to the salon where he knew the card tables were waiting. Saturnine, handsome in a devilish way, with his slightly overlong hair, almost black eyes, and a smile guaranteed to make women—and truth be told, many men—beg to bow to his every indulgence. His boredom threshold was low, his libido high, and his patience very limited. Tonight, dressed to perfection with his evening wear fitting him like a second skin, he was not only truly elegant but danger personified. Dark stories regarding his unusual habits were whispered in the drawing rooms of many townhouses. Hints of “unnatural,” “depraved,” “unstoppable” were bandied about, usually by the debutantes with a hint of a thrill in their voices, not knowing what they were talking about, except that to them it sounded exciting. What he did prefer would send them screaming for their mamas and their papas for their shotguns.

This sort of
ton
event was pure torture to him. He only deigned to attend to please his beloved mama, with the proviso that he would not dance nor stay long. His proclivities were not suitable for the young girls he would be introduced to at an affair such as this. To date, he surmised, as he caught a glimpse of the byplay between two certain young ladies of his acquaintance, which now gave lie to such an assumption.

No new debutantes, those two, he mused. He had been charged with entertaining one of them many years previously on the occasion of her mama visiting. She had been almost but a babe, and he home from Eton. As he was now five and thirty, he was fairly sure she was almost on the shelf. Judging by their demeanor, they had no worries regarding that possible state of affairs. They were smiling playfully at each other, and, he noticed with narrowing eyes, pinkie linking. Did they know what that suggested in some circles? The way they looked at one another, he rather thought they did. Hmm, an intriguing thought to ponder.

His interest piqued by their attitude, he made his way leisurely around the perimeter of the ballroom to where they were seated. He chose to disregard the many sets of eyes on him, the hopeful and then despondent looks from the debs and their mamas as he ignored them. It was well known that the only way to keep Ivo Daranton at any
ton
event was to let him do exactly as he pleased without interference. A circumstance that his mama, the duchess, said gave him an inflated value of his own importance, and had her in despair of never becoming the Dowager Duchess of Daranton. Ivo felt no compunction to tell her the likelihood of him marrying to give her that title was negligible. Let his beloved mama have her dreams.

Be that as it may, he thought as he made his elegant progression through the crowded room, he was bored and needed entertainment.
No, be honest with yourself, Ivo
.
You need a ménage. Soon. For some strange, inexplicable reason, hopefully with these two.

High in the mountains of China on his varied travels, he was introduced to the delights of loving and being loved by two women at the same time. Seeing them fondle each other and him was his ultimate, nay his only, desire. One-on-one or with either sex—and indeed, he had tried both—did not give him the satisfaction he desired. He could, and did, enjoy that conventional coupling on occasion, but the relief he gained was short-lived. As was the relief achieved solely with another male. Paying for the privilege, although sometimes a necessity, was also something he had no desire to do. Therefore, once back in England, he was not often fulfilled. Luckily he was a master at self-help; however, now perhaps maybe fulfillment without that was near.

Ivo wondered why these two affected his cock when others hadn’t. Why, in all honesty, he could not comment. Their looks, their figure, each was pleasing. The way they were a perfect foil for each other also. But perchance, something more. Something indefinable, that elusive element that defined hope.

Why not two widows, ripe for fun and attention? Perchance a divorcée ostracized and ignored? He knew the answers to those questions without thinking. From his wide and varied knowledge, widows tended to be individuals out for what they could get. Be it a lover or a husband, the relationship would be for themselves. No sharing. Not for them were the long, slow seductions of the senses. More often it was a swift, flirtatious coupling, often with a monetary exchange. None of which held any appeal for him. He knew his feelings on the matter were irrational and unfair to many females of the widowed state; however, he had no intention of being inveigled into an arrangement he had no wish for.

Divorcées, in all probability, meant going abroad, something he had no inclination to do merely to satisfy himself. Sad to say, they were shunned by all. Divorce was almost unheard of and could only be achieved with considerable difficulty at the discretion of the church. A female could not divorce her spouse, but yet any divorce was laid at her door, and ultimately led to her being disowned by her family, never to be spoken of. This seemed to him unfair at times. Often they were innocent but lost all they had prized—station, position, and usually their children. The man lost nothing.

Not for him to endorse or ignore, but an area Ivo felt was preferable to avoid, even if he found two willing and arousing divorcées. Furthermore, a trek to another country every time his cock needed satisfaction was not his inclination. In addition, he feared his worries regarding two widows living as a couple together would prevail regarding divorcées: it would just cause him untold complications.

Finding two, happy women, let alone widows, partnering each other and agreeable to allowing him access into their union would be nigh on an impossibility. That was why, on spying Arabella and Serena, he had felt wild elation. They were old enough to seemingly know their own minds, yet young enough not to be jaded, and for all intents and purposes, unattached.

Seeing Serena and Arabella and the way they conducted themselves—bold, not brash; confident, not coquettish—his interest was piqued. He had not dared to hope he would engage their attention in any way, let alone in his chosen sphere of sexual entertainment. But then, seeing their pinkies linked and knowing what that meant, had brought his already-interested cock to attention, ready to salute them and go into action.

“Ladies,” he murmured as he made an elegant leg. “My Lady Dunsmuir, My Lady Saltsey. How are you both? Looking radiant, if I may be so bold.” He watched as they looked at each other, unlinked hands, and smiled at him, but not in an altogether friendly manner, he felt.

Arabella Dunsmuir was glaring at him from blue eyes under dark brows with the familiarity of one whose mama was his mama’s bosom-bow and whom he had dangled on his leg when she was still in leading strings.

“What do you mean, Daranton? You never give compliments without an ulterior motive.”

He grinned back. “How well you know me, my dear Bella. How correct you are in your assumption. I have noticed how, shall we say, contented the two of you seem. Not at all daunted by sitting here, ignored by the eligible of the
ton
.”

There was no answer. Seeing his advantage, he pressed on.

“Therefore, My Ladies, I wondered why?” He paused, and there was still no answer from either female. He did, however, notice the anxious expression that was mirrored on each face.
Mm, better and better.

“I assume you know what pinkie linking signifies in some circles?” he asked in a low, conversational tone. He had noted there was no one close enough to eavesdrop, but he was not prepared to take any chances.

A furtive look passed from one woman to another. He was satisfied that they did, whatever they might well say. Yet, he was pleasantly surprised.

“Of course we do, Ivo,” Bella rejoined
impatiently. “Why on this earth would we not?”

“For why would we do such a thing if it had no meaning?” Serena added. The glances he received were challenging.

“Regarding that, my dears, I have no idea. Perhaps you would like to appraise me?”

There was silence.

“Perhaps not,” Serena said finally, her brown gaze shooting resentment in his direction.

“I think if you wish to continue whatever it is you are planning, then perhaps yes,” he retorted.

He monitored the emotions crossing their faces, and wondered briefly why they had chosen to become followers of Sappho, and indeed how they knew of the words and wisdoms of those who chose to do so. Where would two young ladies of the highest
ton
find out such details, furthermore agree to them, and it seemed, live by them? He was determined to find out and use such knowledge to his advantage.

“So,” he spoke slowly, the tone he used adding a certain determination to his soft-spoken words. “Do we discuss our, how shall I put it, future activities now, where we may then become the latest
on dit
, or when I call for you both tomorrow?”

“Why?” Arabella asked him forthrightly. “Why do you choose to call on us? What interest do you have in either of us?”

“My dear, you would be surprised,” he reposted. “I shall just say these four words to you before your acceptances of a drive in the park—shall we say at eleven? Think and cogitate: ‘ménage à trois’ and ‘Sappho’.” He bowed elegantly. “Until the morrow, My Ladies. I believe, as you live nearby each other, I will not keep either one of you waiting.”

“Er, Ivo? We may keep you waiting.” It was Bella who spoke, pale but resolute. “Unless, perchance, you could be disposed to pick us up at Hollister, the solicitor’s, in Lincoln’s Inn?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Perhaps. Why?”

“For, my dear Ivo,” she spoke softly but firmly. “Tomorrow we both, by lucky chance, reach the age of five and twenty and receive our inheritance. We sign the papers for our new life together.”

Another mystery to solve.
He was intrigued. He rather thought his life was on the up. The stirring of his cock told him that part of him was also.

One elegant, perfectly sculptured eyebrow lifted. “I perceive I could. At eleven?”

He received two nods, and a further tightening of his cock in response. A good half an hour all told, he felt, as he made his way to the card room. Now all he needed was a run at cards to make his evening complete.

Some time later he got it. A sign that augured well for his future? He could only hope so.

It was the early hours before he left and, disregarding the hackneys waiting for fares, walked the few hundred yards to his townhouse. In many parts of town, this simple act would be inadvisable. Here, with the watch around, he was able to stretch his legs without fear.

Debson, his valet, was waiting for him as he entered his bedchamber, his cravat removed in one hand, his other hand going to the buttons on his fine lawn shirt.

“Your Grace,” he said formally. “Did you enter the Blue Salon on your way up?”

He shook his head. “I had not the need.” He looked at his valet. “I instructed all servants not to wait up. Either I am becoming senile, or you, my dear Debson, chose to ignore my command.”

“As well I did, Your Grace. There are two young persons awaiting your return. I left them in the Blue Salon.”

Ah, fuck.
Well, his cock was interested. He was amused by Debson’s careful wording.

“You need not wait up any longer, thank you, Debson,” Ivo instructed. “I will go and see what the young persons want. Er, did they furnish you with their names?”