Page 24 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

“You would not be swayed by a grand romantic gesture?” Corinna pressed, highly entertained by her aunt’s ruthless pragmatism.

“If a gentleman stood beneath my window and made that much noise, I should throw a bucket of soapy water on his head and lock the shutters,” Phoebe stated flatly.

“That would certainly cut the third act short,” a deep, quiet voice observed from the shadows just behind them.

Corinna turned slightly, her breath catching in a highly inconvenient, embarrassing flutter against her ribs. Mr. Marsh stepped into the soft glow of the gas sconces, moving with that silent, predatory grace she was beginning to recognize.

He looked broad, dark, and entirely out of place in his plain secretary coat amid the sea of glittering diamonds and embroidered waistcoats. Yet, as always, he carried himself with an effortless, undeniable authority that made the rest of the room seem remarkably small and frivolous.

He looks like a hardened soldier who has accidentally stumbled into a pastry shop, Corinna thought, her eyes lingering on the sharp, unyielding line of his jaw. And he is clearly trying to decide which dessert poses the greatest tactical threat.

“Do you disagree with my aunt’s practical advice, Mr. Marsh?” Corinna asked, keeping her voice light to mask the sudden, racing rhythm of her heart.

“I believe soapy water is a highly practical solution to most social grievances, Miss Ashwell,” the secretary replied smoothly.

“You do not find it overly harsh?” Corinna challenged, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer to him.

“It is remarkably effective, immediate, and leaves very little room for misinterpretation,” he countered.

“How wonderfully unromantic of you,” Corinna murmured, tilting her chin up to maintain eye contact.

“I am a secretary, Miss Ashwell,” he reminded her, a dry warmth lacing his deep voice.

“And secretaries are immune to romance?” she asked. Her pulse jumped as his gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes.

“We deal strictly in facts, ledgers, and cold water.” His broad shoulders shifted slightly under the cheap wool of his coat.

“That sounds like a terribly dreary existence,” Corinna noted softly.

“Romance is an expensive luxury reserved for gentlemen who do not have to manage estate accounts,” he finished, and the tight line of his mouth softened just a fraction.

Phoebe stopped fanning herself. She lowered her glass of punch very slowly, her gaze sliding from the secretary’s rigid posture to the undeniable flush blooming on Corinna’s cheeks. She did not say a word, simply tilting her head as she watched the charged space crackling between them.

“Yet even practical secretaries must have an opinion on the drama, Mr. Marsh,” Phoebe finally interjected, her tone perfectly even.

“I am merely an observer, Mrs. Cavendish,” he replied, turning his attention to the older woman with deferential politeness.

“What do you make of the hero’s questionable choices in the first act?” Corinna pressed, refusing to let him retreat behind his servant’s mask.

“I find the hero to be a remarkably foolish man,” the secretary said, his gaze shifting heavily back to Corinna.

“Because he hid his true identity?” Her curiosity was genuinely piqued by the sudden hardness in his tone.

“He spends three whole scenes pretending to be a penniless scholar merely to test the lady’s character,” he explained, his jaw tightening.

“Is it so wrong to want to be loved for oneself, rather than one’s title?” Corinna challenged quietly.

“He is entirely oblivious to the fact that deception is a terribly fragile foundation for anything permanent,” he countered, his voice dropping into a rougher, lower register.

“Perhaps he was simply afraid,” Corinna suggested, leaning closer to the cool stone of the window frame.

“Afraid of what, Miss Ashwell?” He stepped into her space so the faint, clean scent of soap and wool washed over her.

“Perhaps he worried that if she saw his title first, she would never bother to look for the man hidden beneath the gold lace,” Corinna whispered, looking up into his handsome face.

“A man who chooses to hide behind a false coat surrenders his right to complain when people mistake him for a servant,” the secretary said, the words vibrating with a raw, unguarded edge that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

“You speak as though you know the feeling,” Corinna observed, her gray eyes searching his face for a crack in his armor.