Page 16 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

A quiet gasp sounded in the shadows, followed by the dangerous clatter of porcelain.

Edmund stepped back quickly, his hands coming up to steady the person he had just barreled into. Corinna Ashwell was standing pressed against the floral wallpaper, desperately balancing a small plate stacked absurdly high with tiny, bright yellow lemon cakes.

“I sincerely apologize, Miss Ashwell,” Edmund said, keeping his voice low as he helped her steady the precarious tower of pastries. “I did not realize this foliage was already occupied.”

Corinna looked at him, and then she looked down at her plate. “It is the only strategic position in the room with a clear view of the main exits and direct, unhindered access to the dessert table.”

Edmund felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward, entirely charmed by her blunt assessment of the room. “A vital combination.”

“I make a habit of being prepared,” Corinna said, offering the plate toward him. “Would you care for a cake, Mr. Marsh? I find that chewing is the only polite excuse to avoid dancing with Lord Fife. He steps on toes with the ruthless precision of a trained assassin.”

She is entirely too wonderful, Edmund thought, taking a small cake from the edge of the plate. “Thank you. Shall we find a card table? Or do you prefer to stand behind the plants and watch your sister devour my employer?”

Corinna let out a quiet breath of laughter that warmed the small space between them. “A card table sounds infinitely safer.”

Navigating the crowded room together, they managed to claim two empty seats at a green baize table near the corner. Circumstances kept arranging their proximity, and Edmund felt the undeniable, physical pull of her presence the moment he sat down across from her.

“Do you prefer whist or loo, Mr. Marsh?” Corinna asked as she arranged her skirts.

“Whist,” Edmund answered without hesitation. “It requires far less luck and far more strategy.”

“A man after my own heart,” she murmured, her gray eyes glinting in the candlelight. “I find games of pure chance to be incredibly tedious. If I am going to lose, I prefer it to be because my opponent outsmarted me, not because the wind blew in the wrong direction.”

“A very pragmatic approach,” Edmund observed, picking up the deck to deal.

“It is the only logical approach,” Corinna replied, watching his hands carefully as he shuffled. “You have very quick hands, Mr. Marsh. One might think you spent your youth in gaming hells rather than a Parisian art studio.”

Edmund paused for a fraction of a second, his thumb resting heavily on the top card, before he forced his features into a blank, unreadable expression. “A secretary must be quick with his hands, Miss Ashwell. There are always letters to write and ledgers to balance.”

“Of course,” Corinna said, her tone perfectly even. “Ledgers.”

Once the game commenced, Edmund surveyed his hand, playing with a measured caution that felt uncomfortably close to a confession. He deliberately held back his best cards, maneuvering the deck carefully to ensure their win without ever appearing to dominate the table. Letting Corinna take the final trick, he watched satisfaction bloom across her features as she gathered the cards.

“You sacrificed your queen of hearts so I could take the trick with my king,” Corinna noted, laying her remaining cards down on the green baize.

Edmund blinked, genuinely surprised she had tracked the discards so perfectly. “It seemed the most efficient path to victory.”

“It was entirely unnecessary,” Corinna countered, leaning slightly forward. “You could have taken the trick yourself. You held the ace of spades. I saw it when you organized your hand.”

A spike of genuine alarm shot through his chest. She misses absolutely nothing. “I was merely supporting my partner,” he lied smoothly.

“You play as though you have done this before, Mr. Marsh,” Corinna observed, keeping her voice light but probing. “Your technique is quite disciplined.”

“Most people have played cards, Miss Ashwell.”

“Not like that,” she murmured, leaning closer across the table so her scent of lavender and soap drifted toward him. Her eyes were bright with a terrifying curiosity. “You do not just play the hand. You hide the intent until the very moment of capture. It is a master’s method, and one does not learn that in a secretary’s office.”

Edmund felt the air thin in his lungs, meeting her gaze squarely despite the panic rising in his throat. “Sometimes, the best way to win is to ensure no one sees your moves until the game is over.”

“But what are you guarding?” she pressed softly, her voice a challenging whisper. “A player only hides his position if he fears his pieces will be taken.”

Before he could attempt an answer, Lady Sophronia Quill leaned heavily across their table, her purple feathers shaking with every movement and sending a small cloud of heavy powder into the air between them.

“I must say,” Lady Sophronia declared, her booming voice echoing across the crowded room and drawing several pairs of curious eyes toward their table. “Mr. Marsh, you have the most remarkable bearing. You hold your cards with the authority of an earl. I daresay, were I not told you were the companion, I would have sworn you were the peer himself! Such good taste on the part of Lord Ravenswood, to keep such a high-caliber companion by his side.”

The room erupted into polite, hollow laughter.

Edmund went dangerously still, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles ached as he fixed his gaze entirely on the green baize, refusing to look at Julian or the laughing crowd. One wrong move and it all falls apart, he reminded himself, praying the moment would pass.