Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series by Vivienne Lorret Page A

focus. Ribbon spools filled the far wall, trays of embroidery thread covered tables, and towers of perfectly creased handkerchiefs stood on either side of the counter. From behind copper-rimmed spectacles, the aproned clerk stared at her as he held a length of ribbon in each hand. His stance shifted, indicating he’d been waiting for her response for some time.
    Her world was usually in color, some bright and vibrant, others in shades of pastels. Yet today, everything she saw was silver and gray, shadow and light. How many times had she noticed a coal black top hat or coat, or a silver pin winking from beneath the folds of a cravat? Everywhere she looked, her eyes sought comparisons to Lord Knightswold’s hair and eyes, while all the colors she normally noticed went dim.
    “Well? Which do you think?” Delaney exhaled her impatience, making Merribeth wonder how many times she’d repeated the question.
    “The silver lamé . . .” The words at the forefront of her mind spilled out, unheeded. Too late, she realized that hadn’t been one of the choices. “I mean, the chartreuse, of course.”
    Delaney turned her head, the motion setting free several wildly curling auburn tendrils from beneath her stylishly askew periwinkle hat. Her pale violet eyes squinted in disapproval. “For my coloring?”
    It was Merribeth’s turn to exhale her impatience. She felt her notorious brow lift. “The amaranthine, then.”
    “Ah. There you are,” her friend whispered and tossed a cheeky wink. “I’d wondered where you’d gone.”
    Her comment drew Emma and Penelope’s attention away from the selection of new threads. They both looked at Merribeth curiously, as if they’d also noticed her absence of mind on this afternoon’s outing.
    Since last night, Merribeth realized, her mind had gone on holiday. That could be the only explanation for what she’d done. She’d lain awake, replaying every aspect of her folly. She didn’t know the woman who’d brazenly pressed her mouth to Lord Knightswold’s, but she certainly wasn’t the same woman standing here today.
    She was changed. “I am out of sorts.”
    “Then we shall do our very best to put you back in,” Emma said as she sidled up beside Merribeth and linked arms with her. She grinned in her usual friendly manner, yet there was a certain glow about her ever since she’d married Lord Rathburn only a month ago. It was obvious to anyone who saw her that she was quite splendidly happy.
    A brief, unwelcome image of Mr. Clairmore flashed in Merribeth’s mind, where she recalled his expression of supreme joy— or madness. She still wasn’t certain which. Perhaps love was a combination of both. Strange . Although she’d been nearly engaged since she was eighteen, she didn’t know the answer. Lately, her primary feeling was the bitterness over losing five years of plans.
    Penelope joined their trio, holding three variations of blue embroidery thread, amusement lighting her eyes. “Back into sorts? I’m not certain anyone would want that either.”
    “Yes, I quite agree. Back into sorts sounds much worse than being out,” Delaney said and then turned her attention back to the clerk. “This chartreuse is far too yellow green, as opposed to a greener yellow.”
    The clerk blinked at her logic and then looked past Delaney to their trio. After a mere glance to Emma and Merribeth, his gaze settled on Penelope as if seeking commiseration.
    “Seems perfectly sensible to me,” Penelope said with a slight shrug that caused her shawl to droop.
    Grateful for the distraction her friends provided, ridiculous though the change in conversation may be, Merribeth felt relaxed for the first time all day.
    From the moment they’d first met, they’d become the best of friends. It had all started here at Haversham’s. A clerk had mixed up their orders, sending the wrong packages to each of their Danbury Lane addresses. By the time they’d set matters aright and discovered their common