Page 30 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

“Mr. Marsh, surely a gentleman of your practical experience must appreciate the finer points of moral navigation,” Lady Sophronia demanded. She turned her formidable attention across the low table, her feathers quivering with righteous energy.

Corinna let her gaze drift across the table to where the secretary sat. Mr. Marsh looked profoundly bored by the proceedings. He held his printed dilemma card lightly between his long fingers, looking at the expensive parchment as though it were a mildly offensive piece of laundry that someone had carelessly left on his chair.

“I have always found, Lady Sophronia, that moral navigation is vastly overrated,” Mr. Marsh replied smoothly. His deep voice carried a dry, wicked edge that made Corinna’s pulse jump in a highly inconvenient manner.

“Then how does a man survive the complexities of the modern world?” Lady Sophronia asked. She clutched the velvet reticule in her lap as if she were actively shielding it from his low morals.

“One only needs to know when to leave a room, and when to stay quietly hidden behind the nearest potted plant,” he answered.

He lifted his eyes from the game card and caught Corinna’s gaze directly.

Corinna bit the inside of her cheek to trap a laugh. He is mocking the entire room, she thought, a warm rush of affection blooming unexpectedly in her chest. He thinks this entire spectacle is completely ridiculous, and no one else is clever enough to notice.

“Wisdom,” Phoebe noted drily from behind her painted silk fan, “is rarely found printed on a parlor game card.”

“Wisdom is merely the polite term for accumulated failures,” Mr. Marsh countered instantly. He refused to look away from Corinna, holding her gaze with a steady, grounding focus that made the crowded room seem to fade away.

“Then you must be the wisest man in Mayfair,” Corinna teased. She let her voice drop into a quieter register, creating a private bubble of conversation meant only for him.

“I have certainly accumulated enough failures to earn the title, Miss Ashwell,” he answered. A flicker of amusement danced in his blue eyes.

“A deeply practical lesson,” Phoebe observed. She tapped her wooden tally piece against the polished mahogany. “Most gentlemen merely throw tantrums when they are frustrated by their own failures.”

“Tantrums require far too much energy, Mrs. Cavendish,” he said. He leaned back in his fragile gilt-edged chair, making the delicate piece of furniture look entirely too small for his broad frame.

“You are not taking this game seriously at all, are you, Mr. Marsh?” Corinna whispered. Her gray eyes narrowed with amused insight as she studied the relaxed slope of his shoulders.

“Does anyone truly take hypothetical scandal seriously, Miss Ashwell, when the real thing is constantly walking around the room offering us tea?” he replied. The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying the severe line of his jaw.

He is playing along with a terrifying sort of ease, Corinna realized, watching the subtle way his eyes tracked the movements of the crowd. He trades answers that are far too quick and far too pointed to be about a silly game. He finds this society just as suffocating as I do, perhaps even more so.

“It is your turn to draw a card, Mr. Marsh,” Lady Sophronia insisted. She tapped her fingernail against the silver bowl sitting in the center of the table. “You must read the dilemma aloud and provide your solution to the group for judgment. Lady Winthrop is watching our table very closely.”

“Very well,” he agreed. He reached into the silver bowl with his large, callused hand to retrieve a folded slip of parchment.

“Do read it with some theatrical flair, Mr. Marsh,” Corinna prompted. She rested her chin on her hand, completely captivated by the simple, economic grace of his movements.

“You are presented with a locked chest containing the one thing you desire most in this world, but the only key is held by a person you utterly despise,” he read aloud. His voice dropped into a rich, solemn cadence that commanded absolute attention. “How do you open it?”

“Oh, that is a terribly difficult one,” Lady Sophronia breathed. She fluttered her fan rapidly in front of her flushed face. “One would have to negotiate, I suppose, or offer a substantial bribe to the despicable person.”

“I would simply steal the key while they were sleeping,” Phoebe suggested with ruthless practicality. “There is no sense in negotiating with terrible people.”

“And you, Mr. Marsh?” Corinna asked softly. Her heartbeat quickened as his dark blue eyes lifted from the parchment and met hers again. “What is your solution?”

“I do not bother with the key at all,” he stated. His gaze burned with an unmasked intensity that made Corinna’s breath hitch. “I simply break the lock.”

“That lacks a certain finesse, Mr. Marsh,” Corinna noted. The air in their quiet corner of the room felt entirely too warm, too close. She found her gaze dropping to the strong line of his throat above his plain cravat, unable to look away from the uncompromising authority in his expression.

“Finesse is often just a polite excuse for hesitation, Miss Ashwell,” he countered. He leaned slightly forward over the table, bridging the physical distance between them.

“And you never hesitate?” Corinna challenged.

“Only when I am calculating the precise amount of force required to shatter the wood,” he replied.

He maintained his absolute seriousness for one second longer. Then the severe corners of his eyes crinkled.

He let out a real, genuine laugh. It was a low, rich, resonant sound that vibrated straight through the floorboards and warmed the cool air around them. It was a sound completely stripped of his usual guarded vigilance, entirely free and wonderfully alive.