Page 1 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Chapter 1

London, 1796.

“Mother,” Vivienne announced to the velvet carriage roof, “if we strike one more rut in this miserable road, my spine will splinter, and the Earl of Ravenswood will be forced to marry a pile of fashionable dust.”

Eleanor patted her chest and adjusted the high collar of her traveling cloak. “Do try to be patient, Vivienne. We are well within London now. The driver is simply navigating the cobblestones. The letter from your aunt assured us that her street is quite respectable.”

Corinna kept her eyes fixed on the window as the carriage rattled past a row of tall brick townhouses.

Fashionable dust would probably make a far less demanding countess, she thought.

She shifted on the rigid leather seat and leaned her head against the cool glass. Her own reflection stared back at her in the fading afternoon light. She pushed a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Her pale skin looked even more washed out from the three days of travel, and her gray eyes felt heavy with exhaustion. She was slight in frame, completely lacking the physical presence that seemed to burst naturally from her elder sister.

Beside her, Vivienne looked as though she had just stepped out of a fresh oil portrait. Not a single strand of her golden hair had dared to fall out of place. Her blue eyes were bright with anticipation.

She was tall, graceful, and possessed the kind of classical beauty that made people stop and stare in church. Vivienne knew this, of course. She had spent the last twenty years acting accordingly.

The carriage finally shuddered to a halt outside a door painted a rather shocking shade of yellow.

“Good heavens,” Eleanor murmured. “I had forgotten how bold Phoebe’s tastes are.”

Corinna stepped down onto the pavement first. The London air smelled immediately of coal smoke, damp earth, and horse manure. It was loud, chaotic, and different from the quiet green isolation of their country estate. She liked it immediately.

The bright yellow door swung open before the footman could even reach for the knocker. Aunt Phoebe stood in the entryway. She wore a deep green silk gown that was hopelessly out of current fashion, and she held a stained wooden palette in her left hand. A smudge of burnt sienna rested carelessly on her left cheek.

At forty-four, Phoebe Cavendish looked exactly like a woman who had been widowed young, inherited a modest income, and decided never to ask for anyone’s permission again.

“Eleanor,” Phoebe declared, waving the hand that did not hold wet paint. “You look exactly as tense as you did when you were fifteen. Come inside before the damp ruins those cloaks entirely.”

Eleanor stepped into the hallway and immediately froze. “Phoebe, my word. It smells like an apothecary in here.”

“Turpentine and linseed oil,” Phoebe replied cheerfully. “You will cease to notice it by tomorrow. Leave the trunks for the servants, girls, and come into the sitting room.”

Corinna followed her mother and sister down the hall. The contrast to their country home was immediate. Where Eleanor kept everything meticulously ordered and symmetrical, Phoebe’s townhouse was a chaotic gallery of creative freedom.

Canvases were propped against the floral wallpaper in various states of completion. Stacks of books sat haphazardly on side tables. There was no rigid formality here, only warmth and clutter.

They settled into the sitting room. Eleanor perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, trying to smooth out the creases in her skirt. Vivienne walked directly to the large mirror above the mantelpiece and began pinching her cheeks to restore their color. Corinna took a seat in the corner, pressing herself into the deep cushions of a sofa, and watched them all.

“I am surprised Gerald did not make the journey,” Phoebe said. She set her palette down on a side table without a protective cloth, a move that made Eleanor wince visibly.

“You know how Gerald is about the estate,” Eleanor replied. She accepted a cup of tea from a maid who had appeared as silently as a ghost. “He insisted on staying behind to manage the planting. But we are here for Vivienne’s Season, and we have much to prepare. I must admit, I am nervous, Phoebe. The pace of London is already draining.”

“You only just arrived, Mother,” Vivienne said. She turned away from the mirror and claimed a chair near the fire. “There is nothing to be nervous about. We know exactly why we are here.”

“Yes,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice slightly. “The arrangement. It is a relief that Gerald’s baronetcy is finally secure. That dreadful business with the inheritance took two years to settle in his favor. Two years! It is a blessing that Vivienne’s debut was delayed until now, really. The old school friendship between Gerald and the late Earl of Ravenswood is the only thing that makes this match possible at all. We could not have arrived in London looking like disputed paupers and expected the new earl to honor his father’s gentlemanly promise.”

Phoebe took a sip of her own tea and looked at Vivienne over the rim of her cup. She did not display any particular reverence for the grand plan. “And you, Vivienne? Are you prepared to marry a man you have never met simply because your fathers shared a dorm room thirty years ago?”

Vivienne lifted her chin. “He is an earl, Aunt Phoebe. He is incredibly wealthy. His estate in the neighboring shire is said to be magnificent. Why should I object to taking my rightful place?”

Because he might have the personality of a wet boot, Corinna thought. Because he might be cruel, or boring, or despise the sight of you. She kept her mouth firmly shut.

Phoebe simply hummed and turned her attention to the corner of the room. “And Corinna. Have you brought your books? I fear you will find the endless parade of drawing rooms frightfully dull.”

“I brought a few,” Corinna said quietly. “I am mostly looking forward to the libraries.”