Wallflowers Don't Wilt (2 page)

Debson smiled. “Miss White and, ahem, Miss Black, I believe, Your Grace.”

Right, and he was Mr. Green.

He made his way back downstairs, somewhat irritated. Nothing would induce him to tie another cravat at this time of night, even though Debson had entreated him to do so, saying it was not seemly to meet guests in such a state of undress.

Why on earth were Bella and Serry, for he was certain it was they, visiting at such an hour? They were lucky he did not choose to see them in his robe, or less.

His irritation subsided somewhat as he opened the door to the Blue Salon and contemplated its occupants.

Entwined. There was no other word for it. The sofa on which they were ensconced was furnished in a soft blue velvet to follow the hues of the room. Surely it had never before experienced such enchanting occupants? His semihard cock was immediately transformed into a lusty spear, ready to be thrown in their direction.

He coughed delicately.

Neither stirred. With her head on Serry’s breast and her hand around her waist, Bella slept on, her lips parted as if ready to claim one nearby nipple. Serena, cushioned hard against the high back of the sofa with her head tipped forward to rest against Arabella’s, was equally inanimate.

The sleep of the innocent, or so it seemed. The delicate flush on their cheeks, the slight dishevelment of their clothing, and the almost-catatonic state they seemed in, gave lie to his observation. He coughed again. Louder.

Bella stirred and looked at him owlishly. She nudged Serena.

“Look who has finally decided to return home.”

“Ladies. Why are you here at this time?”

“Waiting for you. Where have you been? Oh, your pardon, Your Grace.” She obviously
realized whom she was addressing.

“Granted. Perhaps. Let me rephrase my question: Why have you found it necessary to visit me, at this hour, in my home? Do you not comprehend what being here, unchaperoned, could do to your reputations?”

As he watched, each shook herself slightly. Serena stretched, slowly, seductively, and regarded him, her eyes still slumberous.

“Your Grace,” she uttered. “After tomorrow, we will probably have no reputations other than irredeemable ones.” She peered at Arabella, who smiled and gave her a reassuring hug.

“Ivo, we need to speak with you,” Bella continued firmly. “It is important, not only to us, but to you also. Will you listen?”

He nodded, stirred the embers of the fire, waited until they glowed into life, and added more kindling. Sitting down in a large, leather wingback chair placed at a right angle to the sofa, he regarded them.

“Go ahead,” he invited, his legs spread wide and his semihard erection beginning to show itself in an overt manner guaranteed to intimidate many people. Not so Arabella and Serena, he understood with good humor. After a brief, downward scrutiny, Arabella ignored his pose and began to talk.

“Firstly, I will say, yes, we have heard about your reputation, your predilection for less-than-usual practices. We are hypothetically intrigued by what you wish to discuss, if it involves this; however, we feel you should be made aware of a few things regarding our future lives. Ours as in myself and Serena.” She stopped, undecided perhaps how to continue.

“Go on,” he replied levelly. “Elucidate.”

“We noticed your interest in our pinkie linking. You asked us if we knew what that signified in certain circles, and we said we did. Do
you
know, Your Grace?”

“Of course.” There was a pause as all assessed each other. Eventually, with a lift of his shoulders, he spoke. “My dears, it signifies you are followers of Sappho.” Still neither girl replied. So be it. He decided to risk all, as if on a throw of the dice.

“I do believe”—his tone was sensual, enticing, his intention to seduce evident in every nuance—”that those who pinkie link are more inclined to experiment. You are obviously of that persuasion, else why be here? Although I must confess, I had cause to wonder why two such young, beautiful, vivacious ladies as you have chosen that route through life. For it will be neither easy, nor I fear, pleasant at times.”

He saw their exchanged glances. Not disinterested, he thought. So it was up to him to turn that to his advantage, and furthermore, give his cock the workout it sorely needed.

“Am I correct in my belief that you may be interested in my expressed desire earlier?”

Slowly, both assented. “Nonetheless, Ivo, we need to explain a few things, ask some questions. We require the answers we so desire before we make any commitment to you.” It was Serena who gave their concerns. “For our first, indeed our primary, commitment is to each other. Always. We decided many years ago our interest was in each other and no one else. Not because we did not, how shall I say, wish to understand the mechanics of lying with a man, but because of a man’s predilection to subjugate a female.”

Arabella continued, her eyes shadowed with thoughts perchance not pleasant. “You know our grandfathers were cousins and that their lands abutted each other? Our fathers grew up almost as brothers.”

Ivo bowed his head in understanding. Force-fed the hierarchy of the
ton
from an early age, he could give chapter and verse on all relationships, close or not.

Serena glanced at Arabella and gave her hand a squeeze of comfort before she took over the narration from her. “It seemed our grandfathers were of the opinion that to beat information into their sons meant that the information stayed with them. Had our mamas given them the chance, our fathers would have followed the same path with us. Neither, perhaps luckily, was blessed with sons of their own. Toward us and our mamas—neither of whom have ever, to our knowledge, expressed a thought of their own—each was rigid, unbending, and generally uncaring. Unneeded and, we felt, unwanted, we were both sent to Miss Miller’s School for Young Ladies in Bath. Our salvation. Here we were lucky enough to share a room and were able to talk freely about our lives and the misery our mamas were put through. Indeed it is our determination never to be subjected to such acts of disinterest.”

Her face clouded, as if the sun had hidden. Ivo noted her blank expression was mirrored by that on the visage of Arabella. An inkling of their childhood began to form in his mind. Were their fathers alive now, he would have taken a vicious delight in dosing them with their own medicine. Would those unhappy early years be enough to mold them to the way they were now? He thought not. “And henceforth?” he prompted.

Serena sighed. “Why is a lack of patience so ingrained in men?” she queried in dulcet tones. Arabella giggled, changing it to a poor imitation of a cough as she noted Ivo’s raised eyebrows. No meek and mild milksops were his lovers-to-be.

“I fear I have no idea why the general ramblings and side tracks usual in the mind of a female should perturb me or any male,” he retorted. “Nonetheless, may I prevail on you to continue?”

She stood and curtsied, mocking him. Minx. There was no graceful subservience there, merely mockery. He had no recourse other than to laugh. “I can see my life will be anything other but dull when we become a three,” he remarked. “I look forward to the challenge.”

“
If
we become a three,” Arabella retorted. “May we continue, Your Grace? Or wish you for us to digress further?”

Ivo bowed his head. “I await your pleasure, my dears. In more than this situation.” He watched as Arabella successfully struggled to control her ready remark. Instead, she subjected him to what could only be described as a glacial stare, something her blue eyes excelled at.

“Then, Your Grace, I will continue. Once we were at Miss Miller’s we found ourselves able to share confidences to a greater degree. Found just how negligent our fathers had been in our upbringing, our education of our world. Seeing how our mamas lived, we had both decided the married state was not for us. Neither of us was prepared to be subservient to any man. Neither of us knew there was any alternative.

“Now? Well, now, Your Grace, we may perchance be encouraged to think differently.” She was silent. He saw the private glance that passed between them and felt unaccountably left out, like he was missing something important. That, he determined, was something he could and would change.

“So,” Serena took up seamlessly, “we were sharing a room, confiding in each other, and very sure where we did not want our destiny to be, equally as unsure as to where it resided. One day, I was requested to wait in the library for an unexpected visit from my father. Waiting for what seemed like eons, I came upon a little-read tome. I read it, assimilated it, and thought it may be for me; however, I did not feel able to share my learnings for an age.

“My father, in his usual bombastic manner, informed me my god-mama had died and left me a considerable fortune. On his advice it was not to be available to me until I was five and twenty. Subsequently, I learned Arabella had her fortune with the same proviso attached. It was not until a particularly vicious thunderstorm which occasioned us to hide under the same bedcovers did I disclose all I had read on that dismal day of endless waiting.”

Arabella giggled. “There was one particularly violent clap of thunder that elicited a shriek from me, whereupon I almost clambered into her lap. Imagine how I felt on perceiving how enjoyable that was.”

“As did I,” solicited Serena. “On sharing my discoveries from that dusty tome, we decided to follow Sappho, see where our destinies lay. We left school, came out, and, er—shall we say—made sure we caught the eye of no male on the hunt. Of any age or capability. So here we are. Two wallflowers, not wilting but flourishing.”

He laughed deeply, loudly. If he had his way, that flourishing would be done under his aegis, and no one else’s.

“As you say. Until now.”

Arabella nodded her agreement. “You may or may not realize, Ivo, but Serry and I, we share the same birthdate. As Serena disclosed, our father’s both chose not to allow us access to our fortunes until we reached the age of five and twenty or upon our marriage, whichever was the earlier. For those reasons already disclosed, neither of us is inclined to marry, for marriage between two women will never be accepted.

“We knew from an early age we were destined to be spinsters, on the shelf, and then old maids. Happy, in love, loved, and fulfilled. Albeit spinsters. Tomorrow, we visit our respective solicitors, conveniently with chambers adjacent to each other. Sign any necessary papers and remove to our newly-purchased townhouse or perchance our country estate. Be happily shunned by the
ton
and start the rest of our lives together.”

“With me.” He was adamant. “Else why let me see you pinkie link?”

“By accident?” Serena offered.

He scoffed. “No, my dears, by design. Of that I am sure. So tomorrow, after you visit your solicitors, perhaps I may see at least your townhouse. See if it is suitable for what I have in mind. What have I said that so entrances you?” he queried, for they both broke into peals of laughter.

“Oh, Ivo.” Arabella giggled, looking much younger than her years, her long, brunette ringlets dancing as she did so. “You may not approve of the house or our taste in décor. Nevertheless, I feel you will approve of its situation.” She paused.

Serena, her opposite with corn-colored hair straight and pinned closely to her head, continued flawlessly, “It backs on to here. The only thing between our establishments is the mews.”

Chapter Two

“Ah. You have purchased Clerrow’s house? I was given to understand it was acquired by a Mr. Woodson. A solicitor? Whose?”

“Mine,” Arabella spoke. “On my behalf. Well, I should say, on our behalf. For we will be unconventional, and with luck, after the morrow will not receive invitations to those dratted
ton
events. But we
will
be elegant. We will lead our lives as we think fit, which includes a box at the opera, which may or may not include you. We may be avant-garde, but we will be unconventional women in the way we choose.”

He clapped his hands, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness of his breeches as his cock, interested beyond belief at mere talk, strained to be noticed. It seemed its activities gained it the recognition it sought, as both girls glanced at the general area and smiled. Not blushed, he noted, but smiled. “Bravo. So?”

“So, Ivo.” There was a saucy smile on Arabella’s face, matched by the one on Serena’s, as they both faced him, seemingly now wide-awake. “Just what is making your breeches stand up so?”

Minx. In fact, minxes. Plural. They knew much more than any well-bred young lady should.

“My cock. Desirous of attention. Preferably inside one of you.” He looked to see their reaction. No maiden modesty there. Yet another look exchanged between them. He wished he could interpret the meaning. He had a lot to learn, he mused, and was sure considerable enjoyment would prevail as he did so.

“We need to try before we buy. Or, in this case, see before we agree.” Serena laughed audaciously. “Lud, I am a poet. So, Ivo, the choice is yours: Do we see this excitable appendage? Touch? Perchance taste? For we have no need of its uses unless we so decide.”

This was something they had discussed at length before they decided to take it upon themselves to speak to him in such an unconventional manner. Perfectly happy until that evening, his request had reawakened ideas both had discussed and discarded many years earlier. However, neither chose to agree or admit to anything that may spoil their future life without due consideration. Seeing what could be on offer not only filled those criteria, but as Bella had so succinctly put to Serena, “If we choose to go no further, we will be in the envious position of perusing a man’s protuberance in all its supposed glory.”