The Wallflower’s Midnight Waltz by Collette Cameron #revengeofthewallflowers

The Wallflower’s Midnight Waltz
by Collette Cameron

A masquerade ball sets the stage for an American wallflower’s revenge against an English noble, only to be complicated by unexpected love…

American Eva Westbrook has had enough of English aristocrats looking down their snooty noses at her. Among these elite nobles is her neighbor, Peter Hartigan, a notorious rake she believes played a part in her cousin’s humiliation a few years ago. Disguised as a mysterious masked woman and seeking reprisal, Eva sneaks into a masquerade ball that Peter is hosting.

As Eva spends more time with Peter, she realizes he may not be the heartless blackguard she thought he was. She becomes torn between her duty to avenge the past pain and suffering of her dear cousin and the unexpected feelings for the very man who’d caused it.

As they dance the midnight waltz, Eva and Peter engage in a dangerous game of deception and desire. Eva struggles to maintain her facade while battling her growing attraction to Peter. Meanwhile, Peter is captivated by the enigmatic woman in his arms and is determined to uncover her true identity.

With her blossoming feelings conflicting with a quest for vengeance, will Eva decide to follow through with her vendetta or let go of the past and take a chance on a future with Peter?

Excerpt
As Peter dismounted, he glanced around, half expecting a dozen footmen or stable hands to come charging toward him, prepared to physically and mayhap even violently escort him from the property.
Instead, a maid, her head lowered against the blustery wind and skin-soaking drizzle, hurried toward him. Her dark blue woolen cloak flapped about her slender ankles as she held her hood in place.
She glanced up, her vivid blue eyes widening upon seeing him.
Rather than alarm, inquisitiveness flitted across her pert features, partially concealed by the hood draped over her hair.
Peter did not recognize her, but then he hadn’t visited Hefferwickshire House in years. Servants came and went, though this one did not have a typical domestic’s subservient mien.
“May I help you?” She glanced at his horse, and appreciation lit her eyes.
Not only did she recognize superior horseflesh, but she possessed an odd accent that he couldn’t quite place.
“I have come to deliver an invitation,” he said by way of an explanation.
Something usually delegated to a servant or sent by post.
“To a masked ball,” he added.
“On New Year’s Eve. The invitation is extended to all the Westbrooks.”
Egads, man. Stop blathering.
Peter glanced toward the entrance, which remained firmly shut.
Had Simms recognized him and refused to open the door?
Did someone give the butler instructions of that nature?
“You do not look like a servant.”
The maid’s impertinent comment drew a reluctant chuckle from Peter.
The first in a very long while.
“I am not. I am Peter Hartigan.” He pointed his attention and a finger toward Landford Park’s chimneys, visible amidst the treetops on the horizon. “Hefferwickshire House’s nearest neighbor.”
An odd sound, a mixture of a gasp, a wheeze, and choking, made him jerk his head toward the servant once more.
She’d pulled the hood lower over her face, no doubt against the wind and damp. Only her chin, jutted at a rather mulish angle, remained visible.
“I shall take it inside.” Distinct iciness leached into her voice as she extended her hand.
From her cool reception, Peter would be bound she knew who he was, even if he did not know her. That answered his question about whether the duke had advised his staff to rebuff him.
He had expected as much.
In point of fact, it was no more than he deserved.
He withdrew the thick invitation from his coat pocket.
The breeze buffeted his hat, compelling him to lift a black leather-gloved hand to keep it upon his head. “I had hoped to deliver it myself.”
“The family is not home at present.” The arctic wind held more warmth than the belligerent maid’s frigid tone. “They attended Sunday services in the village this morning.”
Rotten luck, that.
He should have expected their absence. The Westbrooks regularly attended services when in residence at Hefferwickshire House.
Peter hadn’t braved the parish yet, though he had ventured to the village several times.
How could he enter a church where the cleric frequently preached about forgiveness, when he could not even forgive himself, let alone expect such amnesty from anyone else?
“Very well.” He passed her the missive. “Would you also please convey my regards?”
She angled her head and gave the briefest nod. So brief in truth, her behavior bordered on insolent.
Her impudence ought to annoy him, but Peter couldn’t begrudge her loyalty.
He’d have to wait and see if the duke and duchess responded to his invitation. In truth, he held little hope that they would.
There was no point in lingering and becoming further soaked.
“Thank you.” Peter swung back into the saddle, and with a finger to his hat, kicked Legend’s sides.
As he trotted down the drive, a whisper carried to him on the wind.
“Rotten lout.”
However, when he glanced over his shoulder, the maid had already disappeared into the house.
Had he imagined her murmured insult?