The Wallflowers' Revolt Trilogy (EBOOKS)

London, April 1820, The Willoughbys’ Ball

Lady Georgiana Chadwick flung open the door to the
ladies’ retiring room, slipped inside, and leaned back against it as though she’d just narrowly escaped the jaws of a lion. In truth, she might have preferred a lion. Lions, she suspected, did not leer quite so openly, nor leave
one feeling quite so much like a horse being bid upon at Tattersall’s.

Her pulse hammered in her ears as she pressed her
back harder against the door. Her hands trembled against the soft violet-papered panel, and she took a deep breath of the cool air. The scent here was mercifully subdued, lavender water and lemon polish, unlike the crush
of rosewater and beeswax in the ballroom beyond. No footsteps followed her, no sound of a cane tapping the marble. At least not yet.

Safe. For now. She exhaled a long breath.

One would think that a young lady engaged to be
married should be smiling prettily at her betrothed, not crouching in a corner, plotting her escape. But then one would also think an engaged young lady’s betrothed might be less than forty years her senior.

Georgie pushed herself off the door and let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The retiring room was smaller than she remembered, though perhaps that was because of its other occupant.

A young woman sat primly on the chaise, stiff-backed, her blond hair gleaming in the soft glow of the single candle on the side table. Her chin was tilted at a rather impressive angle of disdain. Her gown cost more than Georgie’s entire wardrobe.

“Oh,” Georgie blurted before she could stop herself. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize—”

“It’s quite all right,” the young, blond lady
replied, her voice as dry as last week’s toast. “And now that you’re here, you may as well take a seat.”

Georgie complied at once, moving farther into the
room and lowering herself onto the end of the settee. Silence stretched for a beat before the other young lady turned her gaze back to the pad of paper in her lap, muttering something under her breath as she scribbled furiously with a stub of pencil.

Georgie tilted her head curiously. “Are you…drawing?”

“No,” the young woman said without looking up.

Georgie frowned. “Yes. You are.”

“I’m not.”

Georgie caught a glimpse of the paper—sharp, dark
lines forming the unmistakable silhouette of a gentleman with a great many embellishments that did not flatter him in the least. One eyebrow arched as she dared to inquire, “Is that…Lord Nicholas Archer?”

The pencil froze. The blond woman’s gaze snapped
to hers. “You know him?”

“Well,” Georgie hedged, “it does resemble him.
That brow is rather…unmistakable.”

The young woman sniffed and snapped her small
sketchbook shut before tucking it discreetly under her arm with more force than strictly necessary. “It is none of your concern. I have every right to…record my observations. If my drawing happens to resemble a pompous hypocrite, that is hardly my fault.”

“I see,” Georgie murmured, though she didn’t. Not
entirely. “Well, don’t worry. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to hide.”

The blond woman lifted her chin, an unmistakable
spark of interest flared in her green eyes. “Hide?”

Georgie blinked, unsure how to reply. Before she
could decide, the door burst open again, banging against the wall and admitting a third young woman who skidded to a stop, skirts askew, cheeks flushed.

“For heaven’s sake,” the newcomer moaned, “she
nearly climbed atop the refreshment table again.”

Both Georgie and the blond woman turned to stare
at her. The new young lady slammed the door shut and leaned heavily against it, her pretty red hair slightly mussed from her flight.

“Oh. Oh no,” the newest woman said, throwing an
arm across her face. “You saw, didn’t you? Everyone
saw her antics.”

Georgie pressed her lips together as though trying
not to laugh, while the blond woman simply raised an imperious brow.

“I saw nothing,” Georgie finally said, sensing the
poor redhead was already at her wits’ end. She did not want to upset her further.

The red-haired woman groaned. She moved away from
the door to sink deeply into a chair. “It was dreadful, wasn’t it? Was it as appalling as I think it was?”

The blond woman set down her pencil. “If you’re
referring to your mother’s impromptu…display earlier, then yes, I saw it. And it was appalling.”

The red-haired woman sighed heavily. “Well then.
Perhaps if I never leave this room, I can die in obscurity rather than infamy.”

“An admirable plan,” the blond woman replied, her
tone still dry as dust.

Georgie cocked her head and stared intently at the
red-haired woman. Mention of her mother? Antics? Embarrassment? Oh, yes, this young woman had to be the offspring of none other than Lady Viva Montfort, the
widowed Viscountess Montague. She was infamous for her scandalous foibles. She caused a scene everywhere she went.

“She does seem…quite spirited,” Georgie said, her
voice tinged with sympathy.

“She’s a menace,” Miss Montfort said flatly. “And
she’s determined to drag me down with her.” She straightened suddenly, realizing she hadn’t introduced herself. “I’m Poppy, by the by. Poppy Montfort.
Daughter of the Viscountess of Chaos, I mean Montague. And you are?”

Georgie bit her lip. “Georgiana Chadwick.”

“Lady Georgiana, are you not?” the blond woman
added.

Georgie tucked a strand of her dark hair behind
her ear. “Yes, but at the moment I’d give my eyeteeth to sink into oblivion.”

“I’m Beatrix Winslow,” the blonde continued after
a beat. “Lady Beatrix, if you prefer.”

Oh, yes. How did Georgie not recognize her before?
Of course the beautiful blond young lady was Beatrix Winslow, the daughter of the powerful Duke of Winston. The Diamond of the Season. The Diamond of every Season. She’d received more marriage offers than one could count, yet she curiously remained unattached.
What was she doing in here?

Poppy nodded. “Lovely. Now that we’re all properly
acquainted, at least tell me I’m not the only one in disgrace tonight. You”—she gestured to Georgiana—“look as if you’ve just escaped a firing squad. And
you”—she waved at Beatrix—“are far too wealthy and beautiful to be hiding in here.” She gave both of them a narrowed-eyed stare. “What are you two hiding from?”

Both Georgie and Beatrix snapped up their heads to
look at her.

Georgie was on the verge of making something up.
Something simple. Something that didn’t beg questions. But a feeling told her that she could speak
the truth in front of these young ladies, both of them. “I’m hiding from my fiancé,” she admitted in a whisper. “The
Marquess of Henderville.”

Ooh, saying it aloud felt better than she’d
expected.

Beatrix gasped. Then she promptly clapped a gloved
hand over her mouth and straightened her shoulders, as if trying to regain her equilibrium after having displayed a less than ladylike reaction to what must have been shocking news. “Pardon me, but did you say…the Marquess of Henderville?”

Georgie nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Poppy said, frowning. “That’s rather…unfortunate.”

“It is,” Georgie agreed. “Quite unfortunate.” She
swallowed hard. “He’s…old. And not in the distinguished way. More in the ‘has a collection of questionable canes and an unsettling fondness for rubbing my
elbow’ sort of way.”

Beatrix made a sound suspiciously like a strangled
laugh but covered it with a cough. “I am sorry,” she murmured.

“And you?” Georgie countered, leveling her gaze at
Beatrix. “What brings you to the retiring room?”

Beatrix’s chin lifted another imperious notch. “Lord Nicholas Archer.”

This time, Georgie frowned. “You’re hiding from him?”

“You could say that.” Beatrix shrugged one shoulder.

Poppy perked up, her own troubles seemingly
forgotten for the moment. “But why? He’s quite…handsome.”

“And he knows it,” Beatrix snapped, rolling her
eyes. “He’s also a libertine, a scoundrel, and the most infuriating man alive. My father insists on throwing us together at every opportunity, convinced it’s
a brilliant match. Never mind that our politics are diametrically opposed, and I’d sooner marry a goat. Honestly, a satyr at least.”

“Ah,” Georgie said delicately. “Well. That does
sound…unpleasant. Marrying a goat, I mean. Or a satyr. One might expect they have similar scents.” Though she secretly thought she’d expire from glee if her
father had matched her with the young, handsome Nicholas Archer, Marquess of Vanover, instead of old, crusty Henderville.

“I’m entirely serious,” Beatrix muttered.
“Nicholas Archer may not be an old man, but he is an insufferable one, I assure you.”

“Well,” Poppy interjected, “at least neither of
you has a mother who’s managed to upstage the orchestra, the refreshments, and Lady Cranberry all in the span of half an hour. I shall die a wallflower, trying to live down my mother’s scandalous reputation.”

All three fell silent, the air heavy with their
collective grievances. Then, almost simultaneously, they began to laugh. Softly at first, then with growing amusement, their laughter filling the small room.

It was Georgie who finally broke the mirth with a
sigh. “We are quite the pathetic lot, aren’t we?”

“I prefer to think of us as resourceful,” Beatrix
countered.

“Resourceful?” Poppy repeated with a faint smile.

“Yes,” Beatrix insisted. “We’ve each found the one
quiet place in this entire house where no one dares follow.”

Poppy straightened in her chair, her blue eyes
bright with mischief. “We have, haven’t we?” She sighed. “Perhaps we ought to start our own society. For Resourceful Young Ladies Who’ve Had Quite Enough.”

“Oh, yes.” Georgie grinned. “I would join straightaway.”

Beatrix regarded them both with a considering
expression before finally conceding, “If we’re forming a society, I should like to be prime minister.”

“Very well,” Georgie agreed, “then I shall be your
Lady Chancellor.”

“And I suppose I can be the Chancellor of the
Exchequer,” said Poppy. “Heaven knows I have plenty of experience managing the deplorable state of Mother’s coffers. Or trying to, at least.”

They all laughed again, the sound less brittle this time, more genuine.

Georgie felt a warmth in her chest that hadn’t
been there earlier in the evening. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

Then…footsteps coming closer.

The laughter died instantly. All three froze, eyes
darting to the door. Georgie’s heart leapt into her throat as she listened for the unmistakable sound of a cane tapping against the marble floor outside. She shuddered. Was it Henderville?

Beatrix’s gaze narrowed, her lips pressing into a
thin line. “That better not be Nicholas Archer,” she nearly growled under her breath.

Poppy groaned, burying her face in her hands
again. “Oh no. What if it’s Mama, looking for me in order to introduce me to the footman she was flirting with earlier? She has no regard for propriety whatsoever.”

Georgie swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. Her
reprieve was over. Any moment now, the door could open, and she’d have to paste that polite smile back on her face and endure Henderville’s clammy hand on her elbow.

But when she glanced at the other two young
ladies, she found herself squaring her shoulders instead. Something about their presence, about knowing she wasn’t the only one trapped in this glittering prison, made her a little braver.

She adjusted her gloves, lifted her chin, and
turned to them with a faint smile. Suddenly, the idea they’d laughed about seconds earlier seemed like quite a fine idea instead. “Are we not the Resourceful Young Ladies Who’ve Had Quite Enough?” she intoned.

Poppy raised her gloved hand high in the air. “I’m
in.”

Beatrix nodded as she lifted her hand too. “So am
I.”

“I am as well,” Georgie said, lifting her hand to
mimic theirs. And then they all lowered their hands into a circle and touched them one atop the other, palms down.

“We hereby institute the official Society of
Resourceful Young Ladies Who’ve Had Quite Enough,” Beatrix said in a firm voice.

“Very well. Ladies?” Georgie asked, swallowing and
steeling herself against what lay on the other side of the door. “Shall we?”

Beatrix nodded, her expression one of unshakable
determination. Poppy looked a bit nervous but straightened nonetheless, smoothing her yellow skirts.

Together, they marched to the door one after another.

Georgie paused with her hand on the knob, feeling
their shared strength like a spark between them. Whatever waited on the other side—lecherous fiancés, smug MPs,
scandalous mothers—they would face it.

But not alone.

She pushed the door open, and the three of them stepped out into the guest-filled corridor, their heads high, their hearts steeled, and the faintest hint of rebellion glinting
in their eyes.