Page 35 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Julian’s jaw tightened. His hand gripped the stem of his wine glass so hard Edmund half-expected the crystal to shatter.

“I know,” Julian said finally, his voice breaking on the words. “I know. But knowing does not make it easier. It makes it harder. It makes every moment I spend in her presence feel like a knife twisting in my chest.”

The lively music of the party seemed to fall away. In the silence that remained, Julian set down his glass, turned, and walked off without speaking.

The rest of the evening passed in a grueling blur of forced politeness. Edmund moved through the mechanical motions of the dutiful secretary, fetching drinks and holding coats, but his mind remained entirely consumed by Arabella’s quiet condemnation and Julian’s wounded silence.

Every time he glanced across the room, he found Corinna’s gray eyes fixed directly on him. She wasn’t just looking at him; she was studying him.

She suspects something, he thought, feeling a cold sweat break out along his collar as he held her stare. She is too observant to miss the tension. And when she finally unravels the lie, she will hate me for making her care about a man who did not exist.

It was nearly midnight when the party finally broke up. Edmund managed the formalities of departure with ruthless efficiency, his mind already turning toward the sanctuary of the Mayfair townhouse and the heavy crystal decanter of brandy waiting in his study.

But when they stepped through the front doors of the townhouse, the silver tray in the entrance hall was not empty.

A thick, cream-colored letter rested on the polished metal, sealed with a heavy stamp of deep red wax bearing the Ashwell family crest.

Edmund picked it up. He broke the wax seal with stiff fingers, unfolding the heavy parchment under the glow of the hall lantern.

Dear Lord Ravenswood and family,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. It has been far too long since our families were properly acquainted, and I find myself regretting the distance that time and circumstance have placed between us.

I would be honored if you and your household would consider joining us at our country estate for several days of rest and relaxation. The countryside is particularly beautiful at this time of year, and I believe a change of scenery would benefit us all. My wife and daughters are eager to renew their acquaintance with you, and I confess I am looking forward to the opportunity to know you better myself.

Please let me know if the dates are agreeable to you. I await your response with great anticipation.

Yours sincerely,

Sir Gerald Ashwell

Edmund read the elegant script twice, the silence of the entryway pressing heavily against his ears.

The countryside. The Ashwell estate. Days of forced, inescapable proximity with Corinna, with Vivienne, and with the entire family he was systematically deceiving under their own roof.

This could be salvation, he thought, a desperate flicker of hope rising in his chest as he stared at the parchment. Away from the prying eyes of the London ton. Away from Cecily Vane. Perhaps I can find a quiet moment in the country to tell Corinna the truth before it all collapses.

But as he traced the ink of Sir Gerald’s signature, a much colder reality settled over him.

Or it could be an absolute disaster. A trap. A place where the walls were closer and the secrets were vastly harder to keep hidden. A place where one wrong word over breakfast could destroy everything.

He folded the letter carefully, his hands unsteady as he placed it back on the silver tray.

Salvation or disaster. He did not know which awaited them at the end of the carriage ride, but as he looked down at the Ashwell crest, he knew one thing with terrifying certainty.

He had absolutely no choice. They had to go.

Chapter 13

“To abandon the London Season for Ashwell Park before June is entirely concluded,” Vivienne announced, settling herself against the tufted velvet squabs of the carriage with a sharp, aggrieved sigh, “is an absolute indignity. The dust on this road alone is a calculated assault on my wardrobe. I do not see the possibility of arriving anywhere presentable after such a long and barbaric road. It is a punishment, Mother. A deliberate punishment for some minor crime I have not yet committed.”

Eleanor smoothed the heavy silk of her traveling skirts, her expression set in lines of immovable patience. “Your father requested our return, Vivienne. Furthermore, it is a perfect opportunity to entertain Lord Ravenswood in a more intimate setting, far away from the relentless interference and gossip of the London ton.”

“There is no audience in the country,” Vivienne muttered, her fingers aggressively picking at the delicate lace trim of her traveling gloves as she stared out the small glass window. “We are simply dragging an earl to a house surrounded by sheep and excessive foliage. It is entirely a waste of a new Parisian gown. I shall be forced to converse with livestock before the week is out.”

Corinna kept her face turned toward the opposite window, pressing her lips tightly together to trap a smile. She absorbed the familiar litany of complaints with the enduring patience of someone who had twenty years of practice managing her sister’s theatrical temperaments.

The heavy iron wheels of the carriage rattled over the uneven country road, the rhythmic vibration working its way up through the wooden floorboards. Outside, the gray stone and suffocating coal smoke of the city were slowly giving way to sprawling, vibrant shades of green and gold under the high afternoon sun.