Page 19 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

“Of someone actually falling into the Serpentine today,” he replied, his tone perfectly serious. “Given the sheer volume of dropped lace, trailing ribbons, and distracted gentlemen walking backward to offer compliments, I give it another ten minutes before someone takes an ungraceful swim.”

Corinna pressed her lips together to trap a laugh. “That is a very cynical calculation.”

“I prefer to think of it as realistic mathematics,” he countered, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just a fraction. “If it happens, I plan to offer my coat to the victim. It would make me look incredibly heroic, and it would save me from having to wear this particular shade of brown ever again.”

“It is a sturdy coat,” Corinna pointed out, her eyes dancing with amusement.

“It is the color of wet mud, Miss Ashwell. Let us be honest with one another.”

“Perhaps you could strategically bump Lord Fife,” she suggested softly. “He deserves a swim after what he did to my toes at the card party.”

“A highly tactical maneuver,” he agreed. “I shall keep it in mind.”

The gravel path ahead of them narrowed, a large, overgrown flowerbed crowding the walkway. Bright yellow blooms spilled wildly out over the stones, forcing the walking party to compress their ranks to avoid the thorny bushes.

Corinna moved closer to the center of the path to avoid snagging her dark muslin skirts on the reaching branches. The secretary mirrored her movement to avoid a speeding carriage approaching on his left side.

For one brief, unplanned moment, the respectful distance between them vanished entirely.

The back of his hand brushed against the back of hers.

The contact was shockingly warm. It was not a formal handshake through layers of kid leather, nor was it a required social touch during a country dance. It was bare skin grazing bare skin, accidental and entirely electric.

Corinna stopped breathing. She expected him to immediately pull away and apologize for the highly inappropriate contact.

He did not.

He allowed his hand to remain exactly where it was. His rough knuckles rested lightly against her soft skin as they took one step forward, and then a second step.

The entire world around them seemed to be muted. The chaotic noise of the park faded into a dull, distant roar, leaving only the sound of her own racing heartbeat. Corinna felt the callused texture of his skin. It was an undeniable reminder that he was a man who worked with his hands, a man grounded in the real world rather than the frivolous games of society.

Pull away, a sensible voice in her head whispered. You must pull away.

She did not move. She felt a terrifying urge to turn her palm upward and interlock her fingers completely with his.

The secretary recovered first.

He inhaled sharply, his broad shoulders tensing as he pulled his hand away. The gesture was clearly meant to look proper and unaffected, but it came a full beat too late to be convincing.

“My apologies, Miss Ashwell,” he said. His voice sounded unusually hoarse, stripped of its usual calm detachment. “The path is quite narrow.”

“It is perfectly fine, Mr. Marsh,” Corinna replied. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the gravel path ahead. She did not look at him, fearing what he might see in her eyes.

She said nothing further, but she was acutely, overwhelmingly aware of exactly where his hand had been for the entire remainder of the walk. Her skin continued to tingle with the memory of the heat.

As the park promenade began to wind down near the grand iron gates, a loud, breathless voice shattered their quiet moment.

“My dear Mrs. Ashwell! What a delightfully crowded morning we are having!”

Lady Sophronia Quill descended upon their group like a heavily feathered bird of prey. She carried a bright orange parasol and an expression of absolute, unadulterated glee. Aunt Phoebe, who had been walking quietly near the edge of the group, moved closer to listen to the incoming chaos.

“Good morning, Lady Sophronia,” Eleanor said politely, though she looked slightly overwhelmed by the feathers.

“I simply had to find you,” Sophronia announced, fanning herself rapidly despite the crisp morning air. “Have you heard the news? The entire ton is buzzing like a disturbed hive.”

“We have heard nothing, my lady,” Vivienne said. She eagerly stepped forward to receive the gossip, practically pushing the earl aside to get closer to Sophronia. “Do tell us immediately.”

Sophronia leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you hear that Lord Fife purchased a notoriously bad-tempered stallion? Or that Miss Bingley actually wore last season’s lace to the opera? But that is absolutely nothing compared to the real scandal.”