The Wallflower Wager. Tessa Dare

aunt looked doubtful.

      “I do. Several of them.”

      Her aunt glanced at the silver tray in the entrance hall. The one where calling cards and invitations were heaped—or would be, if Penny ever received them, which she didn’t. The tray was empty.

      “Some of my friends are out of Town.” Aware of how absurd she sounded, she added, “And others are mad scientists.”

      Another pitying sigh from her aunt. “We must face the truth, Penelope. It’s time.”

       It’s time.

      Penny didn’t need to ask what her aunt meant by that. The implication was clear.

      Aunt Caroline meant it was time to give up.

      Time for Penny to return to the family home in Cumberland and resign herself to her destiny: spinsterhood. She must take on the role of maiden aunt and stop embarrassing both the family and herself.

      After nine years in Town, she hadn’t married. She hadn’t even entertained any serious suitors. She rarely mingled in society. If she were being honest, she would strike “rarely” and replace it with “never.” She didn’t have any intellectual pursuits like art or science or poetry. No bluestocking salons, no social reform protests. She stayed home with her pets and invited her misfit friends to tea, and . . .

      And outside her tiny sphere, people laughed at her.

      Penny knew they did. She’d been an object of pity and ridicule ever since her disastrous debut. It didn’t bother her, except—well, except for the times that it did.

      As a person who wanted to like everyone, it hurt to know that not everyone liked her in return.

      Society had long given up on her. Now her family, as well.

      But Penny was not giving up on herself. When her aunt moved to leave, she grasped her by the arm.

      “Wait. Is there nothing I can do to change your mind? If you advocated on my behalf, I know Bradford would reconsider.”

      Her aunt was silent.

      “Aunt Caroline, please. I beg you.”

      Penny could not return to Cumberland, back to the house where she’d passed the darkest hours of her life. The house where she’d learned to bottle shame and store it in a dark place, out of view.

       You know how to keep a secret, don’t you?

      Her aunt pursed her lips. “Very well. To begin, you might order a new wardrobe. Fur and feathers are all well and good—but only when they are worn on purpose, and in a fashionable way.”

      “I can order a new wardrobe.” It wouldn’t include fur and feather adornments, but Penny could promise it would be new.

      “And once you have a new wardrobe, you must use it. The opera. A dinner party. A ball would be preferable, but we both know that’s too much to ask.”

      Ouch. Penny would never live down that humiliating scene.

      “Make an appearance somewhere,” her aunt said. “Anywhere. I want to see you in the society column for once.”

      “I can do that, too.” I think.

      Considering how long she’d been out of circulation, invitations to dinner and the theater would be harder to come by than a few up-to-current-fashion gowns. Nevertheless, it could be accomplished.

      “Lastly, and most importantly”—Aunt Caroline paused for effect—“you must do something about all these animals.”

      “What do you mean, ‘do something’ about them?”

      “Be rid of them. All of them.”

      “All of them?” Penny reeled. Impossible. She could find homes for the kittens. That had always been her plan. But Delilah? Bixby? Angus, Marigold, Hubert, and the rest? “I can’t. I simply can’t.”

      “Then you can’t.” Her aunt tugged on her gloves. “I must be going. I have letters to write.”

      “Wait.”

      Surely there was a way to convince her aunt that didn’t involve abandoning her pets. Perhaps she could trick her by hiding them in the attic?

      “I hope you’re not thinking you can hide them in the attic,” her aunt said dryly. “I’ll know.”

       Drat.

      “Aunt Caroline, I’ll . . . I’ll try my best. I just need a little time.”

      “According to your brother, you have a month. Perhaps less. You know as well as I, it takes the mail the better part of a week to arrive from Cumberland.”

      “That leaves only three weeks. But that’s nothing.”

      “It’s what you have.”

      Penny immediately began to pray, very hard, for rain. Come to think of it, considering the amount of rain England typically saw in springtime, she probably ought to pray for something more. Torrential, bridge-flooding, road-rutting downpours. A biblical deluge. A plague of frogs.

      “If, by your brother’s arrival, I am convinced there’s something keeping you in London other than an abundance of animal hair . . . ? Then, and only then, I might be persuaded to intervene.”

      “Very well,” Penny said. “You have a bargain.”

      “A bargain? This isn’t a bargain, my girl. I’ve made you no guarantees, and I’m not convinced you’re up to the challenge at all. If anything, we have a wager—and you’re facing very long odds.”

      Long odds, indeed. After her aunt had gone, Penny closed the door and slumped against it.

       Three weeks.

      Three weeks to save the creatures depending on her.

      Three weeks to save herself.

      Penny had no idea how she would accomplish it, but this was a wager she had to win.

       Chapter Four

      After that miserable encounter with her aunt, Penny could not have dreamed her day could grow any worse. But here worse came, in the form of Mr. Gabriel Duke, walking across the green directly toward her, right in the middle of Marigold’s daily constitutional.

      The Duke of Ruin, they said. Penny didn’t know if the man lived up to his scandal-sheet moniker, but he was certainly the Duke of Ruining Her Afternoon.

      “Lady Penelope.” He inclined his head in the grudging suggestion of a bow.

      Penny needed a few moments before she could look him in the eye. She took in his appearance from the ground up. His fine attire said “gentleman.” The remainder of his appearance subtracted “gentle” and simply said “man.” Though he must have shaved between last night and this afternoon, stubbly whiskers ranged up his throat and over his sharply cut jaw.

      “Well?”

      Drat. He must have asked her a question, and she’d been wandering so deep in the dark forest of his whiskers, she hadn’t heard it.

      She resolved to ignore his effect on her. Her resolution lasted approximately nine seconds.

      When he spoke again, his voice was deliciously deep and intimate. “We need to have a chat.”

      She cringed. She’d been afraid he would say that. ”Can’t we agree to forget last night ever happened?”

      “I’m afraid it was rather unforgettable.”

      With that, she could not argue. “I’m sorry about the parrot. And the trespassing. And