Page 37 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Corinna stiffened, her fingers curling tightly into the heavy fabric of her cloak. “There is nothing to watch.”

“There is something between you that words do not seem adequate to describe,” Arabella continued, her gentle voice completely unyielding. “I only wanted you to know that I have seen it. And that I think you should not let fear decide what happens next.”

Corinna looked out the window at the passing fields and said nothing. The tight knot in her stomach shifted into something else entirely—something far more complicated, and infinitely less comfortable. It felt dangerously close to hope, tangled up with a paralyzing fear of the unknown.

She sees it, Corinna thought, her pulse hammering in her throat. She sees the way I look at him. She sees the way he looks at me. And she is telling me not to run from it.

They stopped at a posting inn mid-afternoon to rest the horses and take refreshment.

Vivienne descended from the carriage with a loud, theatrical sigh and immediately redirected her considerable grievance at the man in the velvet coat waiting on the cobblestones.

“The road has been an absolute trial,” she complained, glaring at the dusty courtyard. “The dust has ruined the hem of this pelisse, and the carriage suspension is entirely inadequate for a journey of this length. I feel as though my bones have been rearranged.”

Julian and Mr. Marsh had already swung down from their horses by the time the carriage rolled to a stop, the two of them stamping the road dust from their boots near the inn’s entrance.

Julian stepped forward, managing her with practiced, flawless patience. “I shall ensure a private parlor and a fresh pot of tea are secured immediately,” he said smoothly, offering Vivienne his arm and steering her toward the inn’s entrance.

Corinna waited for her turn to descend. The heavy carriage door swung open wider, and Mr. Marsh stepped up to the wooden block.

He reached up, offering his large, gloved hand.

Corinna placed her hand in his. His grip was firm and steady, his broad shoulders blocking out the harsh afternoon sun. As her boots hit the cobblestones, she looked up, and her eyes met his.

His piercing blue gaze locked onto hers, heavy and entirely focused. Arabella’s quiet words seemed to sit vividly in the narrow space between them, hanging heavily in the warm air without either of them having spoken a single syllable.

They said nothing. He did not let go of her hand for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He simply held her gaze, a silent, charged current passing between them, before they finally turned and went inside.

Inside the small, whitewashed parlor, the air was warm and smelled of hearth smoke and dried herbs. While Julian tended to Vivienne’s endless demands regarding the temperature of the tea, Corinna stood near the small window, watching the stable hands water the horses.

A quiet step sounded behind her.

“The tea here is remarkably bitter, Miss Ashwell,” a deep, low voice observed.

Corinna turned slightly to find Mr. Marsh standing just a pace away, holding a steaming cup of tea in his large hand. He looked entirely out of place in the rustic inn, yet possessed an immovable gravity that dwarfed the small room.

“Bitter tea is a standard feature of posting inns, Mr. Marsh,” Corinna replied softly, keeping her voice low to avoid drawing her sister’s attention. “It builds character, or so my father always claimed.”

“Character must have a very sour taste, then,” he murmured, a dry twitch of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. His blue eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “I trust the remainder of the journey will not test your character too severely.”

“I am remarkably resilient,” Corinna countered, tilting her chin up. “Though I suspect the real test begins once we arrive at the park.”

“Resilience is a useful trait,” he answered quietly. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. “You will need it.”

He did not explain what he meant, and before she could press him, Julian called out across the room, breaking the spell. Mr. Marsh stepped back instantly, slipping once again into the neutral, obedient posture of a secretary. But the heat of the exchange lingered on her skin long after he turned away.

The second day of travel was significantly quieter.

The landscape opened into something wider, greener, and deeply familiar. The oppressive weight of the London Season finally began to lift from Corinna’s shoulders as the rolling hills and dense woodlands of her childhood home came into view. The tense energy that had gripped the party in the city seemed to dissipate with every mile that separated them from Mayfair.

At dusk, the carriage finally turned through the towering wrought-iron gates of Ashwell Park.

The light was fading rapidly, casting long, dramatic shadows across the winding gravel drive. The great house rose before them at the end of the avenue, its pale stone façade glowing warmly in the twilight. Thick green ivy climbed the ancient walls, and smoke curled lazily from the tall brick chimneys, welcoming them home.

The carriage drew to a halt before the wide stone steps of the main entrance. The heavy front doors swung open immediately.

Mr. Ashwell strode out onto the portico. He was a tall, lean man with silvering hair, dressed in a comfortable country coat. Her father possessed a warm, open face and a cheerful, deeply moved smile that carried across the gravel drive.

The carriage door opened. Mr. Marsh descended first to assist the ladies, followed by Julian.