CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tuesday, September 21, 1824

Something was wrong. Wren couldn't hazard a guess as to what, though.

For the past three days, she and Drake had barely spoken more than a few sentences to each other as he spent a considerable amount of time with Farrow and Miss Sharpe, laughing and chatting like nothing was amiss.

Like the fact that Drake held a torch for his best friend's betrothed.

Or that he'd apparently ended their arrangement with nary a word to Wren.

Tears built behind her eyes, but she blinked them away, trying to concentrate on the words in front of her. Tonight, the engagement between Mr. Farrow and Miss Sharpe had officially been announced at the house party's closing ball. Tomorrow, guests would leave with packed carriages, and Wren prepared herself to never see Drake again.

To never know his kiss. Feel his touch.

It's what you wanted. You knew the risks.

But she hadn't counted on falling for the man. Or for him to completely abandon her without so much as a fare thee well .

"I should have known better," she muttered quietly. Hadn't he shared his family's legacy of vice and not of happily ever after ? Except for his brother, Simon, whom Drake loved and admired but readily admitted he would not be following in his matrimonial steps.

He'd been honest about the parameters of their relationship from the start. But Wren soaked in his attention like a limp flower thirsty for rain, and she'd bloomed, only to wilt again with his disappearance.

Now, she was left to bury her heart back in the grave it escaped, regret washing through her, despite the promises she'd made to remain guarded.

"Miss Preston, may I have the next dance?" Lord Langley interrupted the pitiful direction of her thoughts. He'd ventured to the outer edges of the room to where she sat alone along the wall—exactly as she was when Drake crashed into her life.

"Oh…" She hesitated a moment then saw Drake leading Miss Sharpe to the dance floor, a handsome half-grin beaming at the young woman—a visual confirmation of his decision to end their agreement. Setting her book aside, Wren rose on unsteady legs. "A dance would be lovely, my lord."

She let Langley lead her out on the floor and tried to keep her attention on him rather than letting it drift toward Drake and Miss Sharpe.

"Have you enjoyed your time in the country, Miss Preston?" he asked as they stepped in time with the music.

"Yes, it's been…" She struggled to find an appropriate description for the past fortnight. "Entertaining."

"What a polite way to put your interactions with Lord Stone."

His comment startled her. "What do you mean?"

"Come now. Stone prides himself on discretion, but it's been no secret to me where his attention has been lately. And you, my dear," his fingers stroked the apple of her cheek, "have positively glowed with feminine knowledge."

Wren swallowed past the lump in her throat. If Lord Langley had figured out she and Drake were involved , then who else knew?

As if reading her mind, Langley chuckled and shook his head. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I only mention it because Stone isn't known for lengthy affairs. And with the party ending, most of us returning to London, I wondered if I might pick up where he leaves off."

Her eyes widened in shock. Lord Langley was propositioning her in the middle of the ballroom floor.

"I beg your pardon, sir. But I will be returning home a respectable lady. I do not intend on becoming a man's mistress."

"Of course, you'll remain outwardly respectable. That's not reason enough to refuse the offer. Do you think Stone is a better lover than me?" he questioned, a brow raising arrogantly. "Because, trust me, Stone has nothing of my vigor."

His hips thrust against hers in the most despicable of ways, the movement shielded from others' gazes by her skirts.

Ripping her hand from his, Wren spluttered, "I do not care about your vigor, my lord. Nor do I appreciate your insinuation."

Abandoning him in the middle of the dance, Wren raced to the open doors leading to Farrow's gardens. Several guests stared in interest at her hasty exit, but she couldn't force her feet to slow.

All that mattered was breathing in fresh air and ridding herself of Langley's indecent proposal.

"Miss Preston. Wren!" A familiar voice called out from behind, but she ignored it. A chill promised the winter ahead, and she shivered, rubbing gloved hands over her exposed arms as the ballroom light faded the deeper she delved into the garden.

"Wren, stop. What happened?" Drake's arm wound around her waist and pulled her to a stop, her bottom nestling into his groin.

"What do you care? We are no longer... together . You've made that perfectly clear. Now, let me go." She struggled in his embrace. Fought the tears that refused to leave her alone.

"No." He dragged her deeper into the shadowy gardens until their footsteps pounded on the wooden planks of a gazebo. "I want you to tell me what Langley said to make you storm out of the ballroom."

Deciding to put on a brave face, Wren tilted her chin higher, fire blazing in her eyes. "He asked me to become his mistress once we returned to London."

"That fucking…" A string of curses left his mouth as his grip tightened on her. "And you refused him, didn't you?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Why would you…?" His growled words trailed off before he yanked her closer, his lips floating just above hers. "You must refuse him because he's not worthy of you."

She scoffed. "Not worthy of a thirty-year-old spinster? I think you have it backwards."

Another rumble of annoyance boomed from his chest and his embrace tightened. "Don't say that about yourself. Have you learned nothing these past few weeks? You deserve to be worshiped, and Langley's not fit to even look at you."

"Pretty words from a notorious rake. Why don't you go inside and dance with Miss Sharpe some more, hmm? It's obvious you don't care what Farrow thinks."

Or what Wren thought.

What she felt.

"Forget Miss Sharpe. Are you even listening to me? You will not let Langley touch you."

"Or what?" she dared.

"Or I will kidnap you back to the Southtree Estate and chain you in the manor until you come to your senses."

"Have you gone mad?" Shock coursed through her veins. Kidnap her? Chain her? It wasn't so much that the threats scared Wren. They thrilled her. Set off a flame in her blood.

But he had no right to do such a thing. Especially when he had abandoned her the past three days.

"Perhaps I have, and you are the reason." His thumb and forefinger cupped her chin, ensuring she read the sincerity in his expression. "I've been in agony the past three days. You have twisted me in knots. Rendered my heart into a beating, bleeding mass, damn you. I was perfectly happy going through society unattached. Free to fuck any woman I wanted."

"Except your best friend's betrothed."

"Forget Philomena fucking Sharpe! It's you I want. You, frustrating little bird. You are the one who has infected my soul." One of his hands trembled as it feathered through his artfully tousled hair in frustration. "I've tried to carve you out of my heart the past seventy-two hours. And the only thing that's happened is that you've burrowed deeper with each slice of a dull knife."

"I don't understand," she stammered, too afraid to believe what he was saying. Could the lonely spinster really get a happy ending with the renowned rake?

"I'm in love with you, Wren Preston," he growled. "You are not going to become Lord Langley's mistress. You are going to become my wife, Viscountess Stone."

She gasped. Surely she hadn't heard correctly. "But you are…"

"Yours, darling. Please say you're mine."

"Yes, I'm yours," she cried out, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing an exuberant kiss to his beloved lips. Throwing all caution and doubts to the wind.

This was what she had dreamed of but never hoped would become reality. Fairy tales didn't come true for thirty-year-old spinsters.

But somehow, Wren was the exception.

She'd captured the hero's heart—one that called to her own—and the future crystallized into a sunny affair full of love and laughter.

She couldn't wait.