Page 11 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

The heavy mahogany door clicked firmly shut. The latch fell into place with a loud, final thud.

Arabella waited for three long seconds to ensure they were truly alone. Reaching up, she shoved Julian’s hands off her shoulders with surprising force and took two large steps backward.

She turned slowly, looking directly at Edmund. Her gentle brown eyes were filled with absolute fury and deep confusion.

“Will someone,” Arabella demanded, her voice shaking with controlled anger, “please tell me what in God’s name is going on in this house?”

Chapter 5

Phoebe attacked her breakfast toast with such ferocity that one might have assumed a butter famine was imminent in London. Corinna sat on the opposite side of the table, nursing her tea, watching the butter-laden tower on her aunt’s plate rise to precarious heights.

Phoebe was not actually eating. She was simply holding her silver knife suspended in midair, her gaze resting heavily on Corinna.

Corinna shifted in her chair, the fine hair on the back of her neck prickling under the intense scrutiny. She felt as though she were a painting being evaluated for forgery. Why is she looking at me as if I am a puzzle missing a crucial piece?

“Phoebe,” Eleanor murmured, setting down her teacup with a delicate, nervous clatter. “If you scrape any more butter onto that slice, I fear the plate shall collapse under the weight entirely. Your appetite is quite frightening this morning.”

“I am fortifying myself, Eleanor,” Phoebe replied, her eyes never leaving Corinna. “London requires a great deal of fortitude. And bread. Do you not agree, Corinna? Does the city not demand a certain resilience?”

Corinna lowered her gaze, acutely aware of the heavy silence stretching across the table.

“I imagine any place with so many people requires a sturdy pair of shoes and excellent hearing,” she answered, choosing her words carefully.

“And patience,” Phoebe added, her tone sharpening just a fraction. “Or perhaps the ability to discern who is wearing a mask and who is merely hiding their face.”

“I cannot imagine why you need such fortitude, Aunt Phoebe,” Vivienne chirped. She smoothed the pristine lace of her pale pink morning gown, completely oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around the toast rack. “The Season is a triumph. Lord Ravenswood was entirely captivated by me in the park yesterday. He hung upon my every word. He actually looked devastated when a carriage passed between us. It is quite clear that the arrangement our fathers made is going to be the most successful match in the history of the ton.”

“I am certain he found your opinions on the weather absolutely revolutionary,” Corinna noted into her teacup, her voice barely a whisper.

Vivienne glared, her blue eyes snapping toward Corinna with the speed of a striking snake. “You are merely jealous. You spent the entire ride yesterday walking in the dust with his secretary, a man who barely spoke a single word to you. It must be exhausting to be so thoroughly ignored by the help. Perhaps you should try wearing a brighter color. Navy blue is so terribly depressing.”

“I find silence to be quite restful,” Corinna answered mildly. “It saves one from having to apologize for nonsense later.”

Before Vivienne could launch a proper, full-volume counterattack, the heavy mahogany doors of the breakfast room opened.

“The Earl of Ravenswood and Mr. Julian Marsh have arrived for their morning call, madam,” the butler announced, his face perfectly impassive.

Eleanor immediately stood, knocking her knee against the table and smoothing the front of her gown with frantic, fluttering hands. “Oh, goodness. Show them into the drawing room at once. Vivienne, pinch your cheeks. Corinna, pray, look as if you have slept.”

They gathered in the grand drawing room just as the two gentlemen were escorted inside. Julian stepped forward first. He wore a brilliant plum coat, his dark eyes sparkling as he offered a sweeping, flawless bow. He commanded the center of the room immediately, greeting Eleanor and Vivienne with a shower of practiced, poetic compliments that made Vivienne giggle like a schoolgirl.

Edmund followed a few paces behind.

Corinna watched him step over the threshold. He wore a plain, remarkably subdued dark brown coat that pulled tightly across his broad shoulders, as if the fabric were actively trying to contain him. He looked entirely out of place in the delicate, gilded drawing room.

His cropped blond hair caught the morning light from the windows, and his blue eyes immediately swept the corners of the space. He cataloged the exits, the furniture, and the occupants before he finally allowed himself to stand still.

He looked like a large, dangerous wolf forced into a decorative birdcage. He took a seat on a small, uncomfortable chair slightly apart from the main gathering. He kept his large hands firmly over his knees, his jaw tight and hard, staring at a floral pattern on the rug with an expression of profound suffering.

Vivienne immediately claimed the center sofa, patting the cushion beside her to ensure Julian sat exactly where she wanted him. She directed her entire performance toward the wealthy earl.

“My lord, we were just discussing the upcoming theatre,” Vivienne said loudly. “Do you have a fondness for the stage?”

Julian leaned forward, his smile radiant. “I find the stage absolutely delightful, Miss Ashwell. Though I confess, the actors rarely hold my attention when there is far more compelling beauty sitting right in the audience.”

Vivienne let out a high, musical laugh. Eleanor beamed with the unmistakable expression of a mother already planning the wedding breakfast.

Corinna deliberately chose a chair near the edge of the room, positioning herself directly opposite the silent secretary. The room was effectively split into two distinct spheres. There was the loud, flirtatious center occupied by her sister, and the quiet, observant periphery.