The Wallflower Duchess

No other woman will do for the determined duke...

To Lily Hightower, Edge is still the adventurous boy she grew up with, even though he’s now become the formidable Duke of Edgeworth. So when he doesn’t propose to her sister as everyone expects, shy Lily marches right up to him to ask why...

Wallflower Lily is amazed to learn that she is the duke’s true choice. She’s hiding a secret that, if he found out, could threaten everything. But Lily is the duchess of his dreams—and Edge is determined to make her his!

Edge had botched the first proposal terribly. But he wasn’t going to botch the first kiss.

He moved Lily slightly, turning her so he could savour every second and give her a feeling she would cherish.

‘This is how it starts,’ she said, whispering, shaking her head, turning away. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘One kiss,’ he said, knowing it was likely the biggest lie of his life.

‘No.’

But she didn’t push him away. She didn’t move to her feet—she just sat and leaned closer against him.

‘Half a dozen, then.’ He didn’t smile, again letting her hair brush his face. ‘Twenty. And that’s my final offer.’

Author Note

When the Duke of Edgeworth first appeared in The Notorious Countess, and felt irritated by his brother’s choice of an adventurous wife, I wanted Edge to have his own chance for love. Only Lily Hightower would do for him. No one would be better for him than the reserved woman he’d known since childhood.

Writing Lily’s story gave me a chance explore the path of having been friends with someone from such an early age that you can’t remember first meeting him, and knowing he is right for you and yet not quite being able to get beyond the barriers inside and around you.

That path of discovery is what I planned for both Lily and Edgeworth—because when romance enters the picture, no matter how long you have known someone, you can realise you hardly knew them at all.

Lily and Edgeworth are characters of my heart, and I hope you enjoy their journey as well.

The Wallflower Duchess

Liz Tyner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups, and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com.

Books by Liz Tyner

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

The Governess Tales

The Runaway Governess

English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses

Safe in the Earl’s Arms

A Captain and a Rogue

Forbidden to the Duke

Stand-Alone Novels

The Notorious Countess

The Wallflower Duchess

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk.

Dedicated to my cousins.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The future Duke of Edgeworth stretched his chin, and felt the nick he’d made on his first attempt with shaving. When he’d told his father how he received the cut, he’d been told never to touch the razor again. But some day he’d be Edgeworth—and no one would dare tell him what to do.

His parents’ voices blended into the background as he worked with the mathematics. He liked mathematics and he liked that his parents singled him out when preparing him for his future.

His father sat at the other desk, and his mother read over his shoulder, but then returned to her sewing stand.

The Duke’s voice broke into the quiet. ‘The younger Miss Hightower?’

‘She’s a lovely little girl.’ His mother nestled into her chair, picked up her sewing and studied it.

‘Not the older one,’ his father added. ‘She scowls.’

‘The older one is Lily.’ His mother returned to her embroidery, grumbling at a stitch as she picked it loose with her needle. ‘And she’s not scowling. She’s figuring things out.’

‘That girl is quite well mannered, but not a duchess,’ the Duke said.

‘She is too serious.’ His mother never looked up from her threads, needle again moving in and out through the fabric. ‘But I’m sure she’ll grow into a beauty. The least attractive babies make the most beautiful people, and frankly, I’d never seen such an ugly baby as Lily was. Her eyes were huge and her little arms so scrawny. Reminded me of a starved mouse. But she’s more human looking now and one can do wonders with cosmetics.’

The Duke tapped his fingertips together. ‘With her father living next door, it would be easy to keep up with the young one’s upbringing. But I’m not sure... Their mother is such a...’

‘But that doesn’t mean the children will be. The small one is an obedient girl. Did exactly as her older sister instructed.’

‘Obedient.’ His father nodded and Edge had looked up in time to see the wink his father gave his mother. ‘I’ve never heard you say a duke needs an obedient wife.’

‘Oh, most certainly,’ she’d added, turning to leave the room. ‘Sad your mother didn’t tell you that.’

His father chuckled, patted the papers on the desk and said, ‘It’s settled, then.’ He looked at his son. ‘What do you think about the younger Miss Hightower?’

‘She’s a baby.’ Lord Lionel continued with his sums. ‘Babies can’t marry.’

‘She’ll grow,’ his father said. ‘If we choose while she’s young, we can see that she is educated and trained just as a duchess should be. Just as you want her to be. Once I inform her father that you’re interested in her, he’ll be certain she is raised exactly as she should be. The man understands the value of society even if he has only half a boot in it.’

Lionel shrugged. Perhaps he would wed Miss Hightower some day, but not the little one. After all, only old people married. They were twenty-five at least. Perhaps thirty. Yes, at thirty he could ask the older Miss Hightower to wed, because by then he’d be too old for it to matter.

And he didn’t think she looked like a mouse, but even if she did, it was fine with him.

Last Wednesday, he’d been studying in the gardens when Miss Lily had called out to him and she’d curtsied. No one had ever done that before and he had nodded to her, just as his father did when people curtsied to him. Then she’d asked him to play dolls. He’d said no, even though it sounded better than studying. Then she’d called him Lord Booby-head. The governess had walked out and reprimanded her and Miss Lily had scrambled to her house.

He felt sorry for her. He’d overheard what his parents said about her and it was much worse than booby-head could be.

He didn’t know what a booby-head was, but he was not it. After all, he was going to be a duke, just like his father, and everyone always spoke nicely to the Duke. It was a rule or law or something like that.

His younger brothers said they would never call him Edgeworth because that was their father’s title and when he became a duke they would call him Edgeworthless. But their mother had overheard and shamed them. She’d told him they would have to be well behaved or it would reflect badly on the whole family. They were of the peerage. They must always remember that.

Chapter One

‘Your Grace.’ The valet’s voice had all the bounce of a rock falling into a well.

The Duke of Edgeworth did not want to wake up. He’d worked too late into the night trying to pull his mind back into the ledgers he’d neglected.

‘Your Grace,’ Gaunt repeated. ‘Your Grace.’ The voice broke just a bit.

Edgeworth opened his eyes, mainly to assure Gaunt that he still lived.

‘Yes,’ Edgeworth muttered, half-rising. The wobbliness in his head nearly threw him back to the bed. The pain had almost taken him.

Gaunt’s voice barely rose loud enough to be heard, as if he feared that the sound of it might damage Edgeworth in some way. Edgeworth clamped his teeth together. He was alive. Alive. He’d survived twice. The first time he’d nearly drowned and then he’d been burned. The year had not started out well.

‘The reason I woke you—’

‘Yes?’ Edge just wished the man would speak quickly. Gaunt’s delicateness grated and only served to remind him how close he’d been to death.

‘There’s a woman who wishes to see you. That—we are sure of.’ Gaunt’s hands were clasped.

Edge pushed himself to sit against the headboard, ignoring the pain, then he put his feet on the floor and stood. The sulphur-scented poultice Gaunt had tried to suffocate him with still lay by the wash basin. He pointed to it and with a sharp jerk of his hand indicated it should be removed.

Gaunt snatched up the cloth by two fingers and held it at his side, away from his body.

‘The housekeeper is with the guest now. The butler insisted,’ Gaunt explained.

The housekeeper never saw to guests and for the butler to have someone stay with a visitor was unheard of.

‘We thought it best,’ Gaunt added, ‘that the woman not be left alone. But we could not exactly escort her out as she claims to have news of a friend of yours from the country who has passed on to a greater reward.’

‘Claims?’

‘She does know your relative’s name.’ Gaunt’s face remained immobile as he spoke.

Edge strode to the basin, splashing water on his face. The burns had left him weak, but not feeble minded. And Gaunt knew the family tree far better than Edge himself did. On one occasion he’d even helped Edge sort out just how a cousin came to be related.

‘Why was she not asked to leave a card and sent on her way?’

‘I will dismiss her.’ His pause had a cough in it. ‘She’s dressed in black. Head to toe. Face covered. Handkerchief. Sobbed pitifully. I thought it best you decide. Something about her is...familiar.’

‘I’ll see to her,’ Edge said, wondering if the illness had affected his mind.

‘No carriage with her,’ Gaunt added. ‘Not even a hackney.’

‘Maid?’

‘She’s alone.’

Edge shook his head. This sounded like a jest his cousin Foxworthy would try. Sending some lightskirt on a mission of seduction and then waiting outside with a group of friends who’d wagered on how long before the woman left. Fox had done something similar in the past—more than once—but he should know better than to try such a thing on Edge.

Edge would give Fox a chance to gauge his own recovery skills.

* * *

When Edge stepped into the sitting room, the housekeeper’s eyes darted from the sombre handkerchief-clasping form to him.

Pausing to think back to the mourning attire he’d seen, he didn’t remember seeing anyone dressed so completely in black, although the veil over the bonnet did have a bit of yellow ribbon peeking through.

The woman’s clothing wasn’t dashed together and had no frayed edges or worn seams, and yet he didn’t think it entirely new. She held a wadded handkerchief in each hand and moved the one in her right clasp beneath the veil to daub at her face.

‘Someone has passed from this life?’ he asked the grim form.

‘Yes. Might I speak with you about it privately?’ The soft, velvety smooth words fluttered the veil. A lightskirt’s voice if he’d ever heard one. Foxworthy would pay.

At Edge’s side, the housekeeper’s arms tightened.

‘No,’ he answered.

Her fingers reached up, grasping an edge of the veil to lift it. But she paused.

‘Tell me your news,’ he said. ‘I would hate to keep a grieving person about on an errand when she could be finding solace in her home with loved ones around her.’

He heard her exhale and her arms tightened.

She stood, one sweeping movement. ‘Your Grace, I regret to inform you that your mother’s fifth cousin, Lady Cumberson, has passed on.’

Edge remained motionless, sorting out something, but he couldn’t quite place it. Lady Cumberson had died some months back. Then he let out a breath. ‘Lady Cumberson passed on? For a moment I had forgotten her. A dear, sweet woman. About so high.’ He moved his arm out to his side, indicating just below his shoulder. ‘Sainted woman. Grey hair.’

Lady Cumberson had stood taller than any woman he’d ever seen, had a vulgar sense of humour and coal-black hair.

‘No. Quite stately. Dark hair. And I suppose you could call her a saint, but I didn’t see her that way.’

He paused, recognising the voice. He forced himself not to react.

Lily? Lily Hightower? Fox would never dare send her. He had nothing to do with women like Lily. And when did Lily get such a sultry voice?

‘Could you spare a moment to tell me about her last days?’ he asked, turning to dismiss the housekeeper. The older woman scurried out.

‘What is going on causing you to attempt a masquerade?’ Edge asked.

She raised her veil just enough so that he could see a chin, a well-shaped mouth that caused him to take note and then two brown eyes peered out from under the edge of the veil. He swallowed.

‘I can’t visit you openly without my father knowing. I can’t wait until your mother returns from the country so I can pretend to visit her and hope you might walk by and we might chance a few moments to talk privately...’ She shook her head as if trying to remove unsure thoughts. ‘I suppose I didn’t think anyone else could help. And I had no idea what to do if you didn’t recover—soon.’

‘Thank you for your concern about my health.’

‘Of course.’ The words burst out. Her voice tightened and she lowered the veil over her face. ‘I heard of your accident—goodness, another one—but then the next thing I knew you were back in London, brought home in a wagon, and we didn’t know if you were going to live or die. My family would have been so distraught if you’d...’

‘Your...family...would have been distraught?’ He managed to inflect the words with just enough emphasis to point the question her way.

‘Of course, all of us would have been.’

The veil popped up again. The handkerchief bundled so that she could use two fingers to raise the covering and the dark eyes studied him. Then the fabric fluttered down again. ‘I feared for the worst, but then your mother took me to your bedside.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘You looked... But you recovered quickly after that.’

He waved her words away. ‘I only had two choices and I thought this one the best.’

‘It was horrible to see you so ill.’

A fogged memory of hearing his mother begging him not to die on his birthday surfaced, but he batted it away. Dwelling on those thoughts would do him no good.

‘Your Grace,’ she said. He leaned forward to hear her. ‘I am very relieved you are yourself again.’

‘If I had awoke to find that I was my cousin Foxworthy, I would not have recovered.’ He had to lighten Lily’s words.

He waited, watching for reaction. Blasted veil.

‘It would be a shame to die after you finally grew into your boots.’ Her voice regained strength.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Your boots. I remember looking at them years ago when you studied outside. It was as if someone had taken you by your ears and just stretched you right up from the boot-tops to the chin. You fit yourself now.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I did rather think you were quite handsome until that day you made me fall out of the tree.’

‘I kept you from killing yourself.’ And it hadn’t been easy. He’d realised she was going after the kite which was tangled in a small, half-broken branch near the top of the tree. He’d shouted for her to stop. She’d moved faster.

He’d darted forward, getting to the trunk in time to grab her by the ankle, but she’d had a firm grip on a tree limb. She’d tried to kick free of his grasp. He’d explained, methodically, that he should get the kite by another method. She was going to break the kite’s limb if she put her weight on it.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, looking up, eyes squinted.

He’d released her ankle, thinking she understood, and she’d lunged for the next higher limb. He’d caught her bootlace and she’d lost her grip, tumbling backwards on to him. He’d landed on his back, cushioning her. Spindly as she was, she’d plopped like a boulder on to his stomach. He’d laid on the ground, struggling for air while looking up at the kite fluttering happily overhead.

She’d screeched and jumped up, staring down at him. Apparently she’d bumped her face against the tree on her way down. He’d seen a split lip before, but not on a little girl.

‘You booby-head,’ she’d called out, eyes blazing into him.

Booby-head? He’d stared at her. Booby-head? Apparently little girls swore differently from other people.

‘You booby-head. You made me fall.’

‘You—’

He’d been planning to explain again how she’d been going to fall from a much higher limb and he wouldn’t have been able to catch her, but the blood on her face stopped his words.

At that moment, she put her hand to her lip, lowered her fingers so she could see the crimson liquid and wailed out a terrifying sound. She’d raced into her house before he could stand.

Later, he’d seen the thread-like scar, resting a finger-width from the bow of her mouth. Lip stain covered it when she grew older, but he always checked for it. Only now her mouth was hidden behind a gauzy screen. It irked him.

‘Your governess should have been punished,’ he said.

‘Mrs Smith was a dear, dear governess. Not like the next one.’ The bonnet tilted back and the veil dusted against the outline of her chin. ‘I think I turned out quite well.’

‘Of course.’ He’d known she would. ‘You don’t have to hide from me.’ He stared at the black cloth.

‘I’m not. I’m being discreet.’ Her tone rose.

‘Then keep your voice down.’ He moved closer and carefully reached out, lifting the cloth, holding it up like a tent between them.

He looked at the uncovered blemish on the challenging lips, then up at the brown eyes, and he felt like a youth—which was odd because even when he was a child, he’d never felt like one. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked and fought to keep his voice distant. He waited for her to say she’d wanted to see him.

‘Edge,’ she reprimanded and tilted her head back. The cloth slid from his touch.

She’d called him by the nickname his brothers and cousins had begun using right after the old Duke had passed on. Much better than being called a booby-head, he supposed.

‘I’d hoped to catch you in the gardens for a word, but—’ A prim sentence.

He nodded, frowning. The gardens. He’d not been into the sun since he’d been burned. He’d barely been able to move and he’d had no care about anything else. He’d put off leaving town for the summer, deciding he’d wait to see if he lived or died. If he died, he’d let someone else see to carting him to the family crypt.

She turned away. Inwardly, he smiled. She turned to hide her expression—as if he could see it under the gauzy fabric covering it.

He stared at her shoulders and his eyes drifted downward. At that second, he realised Lily had become Lillian. He took in a breath and turned his gaze to the wall.

‘You are a determined person. You’ve always done exactly as you should and you have a considerable amount of duties to keep up with...’ She cleared her throat. ‘One in particular.’

‘To what particular one might you be referring?’

‘You really are the only person who can answer the question I have.’

His gaze washed over her. ‘You are here to ask a question?’

She turned and lifted the veil again, staring straight into his face. ‘I don’t know exactly how I would word this and I would hate for a note to fall into the wrong hands, so I had to arrive myself. It’s far easier to deny a spoken word than a written one.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I suppose I did want to see for myself that you’re up and about,’ she added.

He kept perfectly still, his mind’s eye seeing the little girl who would stare at him when he studied out of doors. He soon discovered he could look at her, grumble a growl and she’d laugh and run back into her house, leaving him alone with his books the rest of the day.

‘What question could you have for me?’ he asked.

‘Are you going to propose to my sister?’

The feeling of a boulder landing on his stomach returned. He leaned forward, staring. ‘Pardon?’ Confusion—then irritation—flooded him.

‘Soon?’ she asked.

‘I’ve not given it any thought,’ he said, snapping out the words.

‘You nearly died,’ she accused. ‘Twice. And where would that leave her? She’s not getting any younger.’

‘None of us is.’

Brown sparked in her eyes. ‘I would hope our connection of knowing each other years and years and years would allow you to appreciate my honesty and understand my concern for my sister,’ she said. ‘I would think we have a bond.’

‘We do.’ His gaze dropped to her lips, again. That tiny vertical scar, hardly bigger than a thread and only visible at close distance, ran upwards from her top lip.

Her attention wavered and her black gloved hand touched the mark. ‘Makes me look like a pirate,’ she said.

‘No. I can only see the scar because I know where—to look.’

Her eyes became solemn. ‘Are you going to court my sister? I need to know.’

‘Why?’ He shook his head. He’d thought that nonsense of his interest in her sister had died long before. It had been his father’s talk and he’d never encouraged it. Never. In fact, he’d thought it long forgotten.

He knew that on occasion when he’d planned a day at home, his mother had arranged things so the Hightower sisters would arrive for tea. But his mother planned a lot of teas with young, unmarried women when he was at home.

Her words about him marrying her sister slid in under his ribs and irritation bit into him. He didn’t mind so much when his mother dangled the names of young women in front of him, but Lily—she should know better. ‘You realise I nearly died,’ he said, chin forward. ‘Marriage has not been foremost on my mind.’

‘You are all recovered now. Aren’t you?’ Her eyes locked with his.

‘I’m alive, at least.’ Not that it appeared to make a great deal of difference to her, except where her sister was concerned.

‘Another reason for a marriage, I’d say.’ Hopeful eyes stared at him.

‘But if I die, it wouldn’t matter to me whether I have a wife or not.’ Well, it might. Lily should not wear black.

‘But it might matter very much to your lineage and to a woman wanting a family. A duke needs an heir. Simple fact. But I don’t expect you to die, however, I expect you to live a long and healthy life.’ Her eyes sparkled in jest. ‘You’ve no choice. Duty.’