Once Upon a Wallflower Read Online Free PDF

kept.
    As he opened the study door, a voice from the shadows startled him. “You’re awake,” his father commented.
    “As are you,” Nicholas replied. He poured himself a glass of port and joined his father in the pair of leather chairs set before the low-burning fire.
    “This whole endeavor has been a disaster. I should have called George Fitzhenry to account that first night in the Farley ballroom. As it is, we have allowed the charade of this engagement to last too long.”
    True, Mira had not yet cried off as he had expected, as he had hoped. Of course, nothing about Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry was as he had expected. Unlike the pale, vapid girls who were the darlings of the ton , Mira Fitzhenry intrigued him, unsettled him. At the Farley ball, her dress had not flattered her, and her wildly, shamelessly red hair looked as though she had been attacked by a bat. Yet the juxtaposition of her soft, feminine curves with her intense scarlet locks bespoke a raw, vibrant sensuality.
    Nicholas smiled.
    Before the Farley ball, Blackwell had said with a satisfied smile that Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry was rumored to be a lovely young thing, the perfect Society miss, but Mirabelle Fitzhenry, his Mirabelle Fitzhenry, was neither cloying nor compliant.
    No, his Mirabelle Fitzhenry was a clever girl. Clever and passionate. Such a range of emotions swept over her expressive face when she spoke, and Nicholas vividly recalled the way she had melted beneath his touch as they danced, her body soft and warm and yielding as she utterly gave herself up to the moment.
    As for being a biddable wife, Nicholas could not imagine Mira in that role. Beneath her tongue-tangling self-consciousness and her burning blushes, Nicholas sensed a strong spirit. She did not kowtow to Blackwell, did not follow meekly on the heels of Kitty and George Fitzhenry, did not shy away from Nicholas himself. No, she might be unsure of herself, but that did not mean she would simply do as she was told.
    “Tomorrow,” his father said, “you shall return to Blackwell, and I shall break the news that the engagement is over. If Fitzhenry wants his debt forgiven, he must offer up what was promised: his daughter.”
    Rationally, Nicholas knew his father’s plan would best serve Mira. His life was one of isolation and some degree of danger. The young women in his environs tended to die with startling regularity.
    Yet every time he closed his eyes, he saw her smile. It shone with a bright purity, an unbearable honesty that eclipsed the stain on his own soul. It was irresistible.
    Nicholas took a deep pull of the port, allowing the warmth of the liquor to seep through his aching muscles.
    “No,” he said aloud. “You know I have no wish to marry, but if I must wed a Mirabelle Fitzhenry, I prefer the one I have. And I would not tarnish her name with the scandal of a broken engagement.”
    “Are you certain?” his father asked.
    “I am certain of little,” Nicholas said, offering his father a rare moment of honesty. “But for the moment this is how I should prefer to proceed.”
    He downed the last of his port, bid his father a good night, and returned to his bedchamber.
    With the echo of Mira’s compassionate touch burning in his memory, Nicholas made his way to the writing desk tucked in the corner of his room. From a narrow drawer he withdrew a small red box, one that had sat collecting dust for years. A gift awaiting a recipient. At that moment, Nicholas decided that the promise of Mira’s touch was worth a bit of risk.
    Perhaps she would come to her senses and flee his presence. Or perhaps he would change his mind and end the engagement eventually, remove her from his life, but not just yet. For now, he would simply have to protect Miss Fitzhenry from the dangers of the world, the greatest danger being her own inquisitive self.
    …
    Mira sat on the faded blue velvet settee in the family’s drawing room, attempting—and failing—to embroider a string of flowers