Page 3 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

“Do not hide too cleverly,” Phoebe advised, her gaze returning to the chessboard. “You may discover that someone is truly looking for you.”

A sharp knock at the front door echoed through the quiet house, interrupting the moment. Corinna heard the footsteps of the footman, the squeak of the hinges, and the low murmur of voices. A moment later, the footman appeared in the doorway of the study holding a silver tray.

“A card has arrived, madam,” the footman said, extending the tray toward Phoebe. “Delivered by hand.”

Phoebe picked up the thick, cream-colored card. She ran her thumb over the raised gold lettering, and a slow smile spread across her face. “Well. It appears the game has officially begun.”

“What is it?” Eleanor asked, bustling into the study with Vivienne close behind her. Eleanor had apparently recovered from her headache at the sound of the front door knocker.

Phoebe held the card up. “The Earl of Ravenswood requests the honor of the Ashwell family’s company at the Whitmore ball. Three days hence.”

Eleanor gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks. “Three days! Oh, merciful heavens. We must visit the modiste tomorrow morning. Vivienne’s gowns need pressing. We must arrange a carriage.”

Vivienne clasped her hands together, her blue eyes shining with absolute triumph. She looked radiant, every inch the prize she had been raised to believe she was. “I cannot wait to meet my intended,” she declared, breathless with excitement. “He is wealthy, he is titled, and that makes him, directly, for me, by all accounts completely good-looking.”

Corinna remained seated at the chess table. She picked up a black pawn, rolled it smoothly between her fingers, and looked at her sister.

“I am so very glad,” Corinna said drily, “that someone in this family is finally marrying for love.”

Only Phoebe laughed.

Chapter 2

“If you thrust your chest out any further, Julian, you are going to knock over the silver tea service, and I will be forced to explain to the London coroner why I strangled my own secretary before breakfast.”

Julian stopped dead in the center of the Mayfair drawing room. He slowly lowered his chin and dropped the rigidly straight posture he had been holding for the last ten minutes. He turned to face the velvet sofa, a look of profound betrayal on his expressive face.

“I am attempting to look noble,” Julian said. He aggressively brushed a speck of invisible dust from the sleeve of his tailored charcoal coat. “Nobility requires a certain stiffness of the neck. I have studied the oil paintings in your ridiculous ancestral gallery. Every single one of your forefathers looks as though they swallowed a fireplace poker.”

Edmund Ashford leaned back against the plush upholstery of the sofa and took a slow sip of his black coffee. “You look like a man suffering from acute indigestion. The Earls of Ravenswood do not suffer from indigestion. We suffer from an overabundance of duty and a tragic lack of humor.”

Julian laughed loudly. The sound was bright and quick and totally at odds with the stuffy, wood-paneled English room they currently occupied. Julian possessed a lean frame, and his dark eyes were currently dancing with amusement. He looked absolutely nothing like a brooding English peer, but he wore the expensive clothes surprisingly well.

“You are a terrible audience, Edmund,” Julian complained.

He walked over to the mahogany sideboard and poured himself a cup of coffee. He executed the motion with quick, expressive movements. The cuffs of his crisp white shirt pulled back just enough to reveal the faint, permanent ink stains layered into the creases of his knuckles. He was a painter by trade and a rogue by nature.

“I am simply trying on the role,” Julian continued. “One does not become the Earl of Ravenswood without a bit of rehearsal. I must understand the weight of the title.”

“It is not a theatrical production,” Edmund said, his voice flat. The dry amusement he felt did not quite reach his blue eyes.

“Of course it is a theatrical production,” Julian shot back. He turned around and leaned against the sideboard, pointing a stained finger directly at Edmund. “That is exactly what it is. The entire London Season is a massive stage play. It features terrible dialogue, overly expensive costumes, and an audience desperately waiting for someone to forget their lines. You just need to relax and let me handle the performance.”

Before Edmund could reply, the large oak doors of the drawing room swung open. MacAulay, the household butler, marched into the room bearing a massive silver breakfast tray. MacAulay had served the Ashford family for four decades. He was a stout, terrifyingly competent man with a thick head of silver hair and zero patience for foolishness.

“Will you be wanting the kippers this morning, or are the two of you just planning to stand about looking at the walls?” MacAulay asked. He set the silver tray down on the dining table with a loud clatter.

“We are discussing strategy, MacAulay,” Julian said smoothly, offering the butler a charming smile.

MacAulay snorted. “Aye. Strategy. You look like a lad trying to sneak out of a tavern without paying the reckoning, Mr. Marsh. And yet, your lordship,” the butler turned his sharp gaze to Edmund, “you look like you’ve been awake all night staring at the ceiling. Eat your eggs before they go as cold as the devil’s own hearth.”

“Thank you, MacAulay,” Edmund said quietly. “That will be all.”

“I’ll be in the hall if you need me to chase away any stray dogs or debt collectors,” MacAulay muttered, turning on his heel and marching back out of the room. The doors clicked firmly shut behind him.

Julian picked up a silver fork and immediately began stabbing at a pile of roasted potatoes. “I adore that man. He is immune to your wealth.”

Edmund set his coffee cup down on the small table beside him. The delicate porcelain clinked softly in the quiet room. He did not feel relaxed. He had not felt relaxed in a very long time.