Page 38 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Mr. Ashwell stepped down the stone stairs, his eyes scanning the arriving party with eager anticipation. He stopped completely on the second step.

The warm, polite smile on Mr. Ashwell’s face transformed into an expression of profound, moved recognition. He did not look at the man in the expensive burgundy coat. He looked directly at the tall secretary in the plain brown wool.

Mr. Ashwell stared at Mr. Marsh with the searching, emotional eyes of an old friend’s father.

“Edmund,” Mr. Ashwell said. His voice carried across the quiet drive with complete, devastating simplicity. “You have your father’s face exactly. God bless you for coming home.”

Corinna froze, her hand arrested halfway to her cloak clasp.

Mr. Marsh went completely rigid. The color vanished entirely from his face, leaving his cheekbones stark white in the fading twilight. His jaw locked so tightly that a muscle jumped violently beneath his skin.

Realizing the catastrophic error in an instant, Mr. Marsh took a step forward, his hands flying out in a rare, uncoordinated gesture of frantic denial.

“Sir Gerald, you are mistaken,” Mr. Marsh said, his voice tight and stripped of all its usual calm authority. “I am merely Mr. Marsh. I am his lordship’s secretary. Lord Ravenswood is standing right here.”

Edmund quickly gestured toward Julian, who stood a few paces away.

Sir Gerald blinked, the emotional warmth on his face instantly freezing into stunned confusion. He looked from Edmund to Julian, whose handsome face had gone slack with utter, horrifying panic.

A suffocating silence descended over the gravel drive. The evening breeze rustled the ivy on the stone walls, the sound unnaturally loud in the frozen air.

Julian cleared his throat, his famous charm entirely deserting him. “Indeed, Sir Gerald… Mr. Marsh is quite correct. I am the Earl of Ravenswood.”

Sir Gerald looked back at Edmund, then back at Julian, his mind visibly struggling to reconcile the impossible truth staring him in the face. The polite country welcome evaporated into thin air, replaced by a heavy, jagged wall of absolute awkwardness.

Corinna stood on the carriage step, her heart fluttered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the pale, stricken face of the secretary, and then at her father’s bewildered expression.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The awkward atmosphere hung over them like an executioner’s axe.

Chapter 14

The silence on the gravel drive stretched into something suffocating and heavy, pressing down on Edmund’s chest until his lungs burned.

You have your father’s face exactly.

The words hung in the cool evening air, completely devastating in their simplicity. Sir Gerald Ashwell’s eyes were shining with genuine, moved emotion, staring at a secretary in a cheap brown coat as if he had just seen a ghost walk out of the twilight.

Edmund’s hand remained suspended in the space between them. For one frantic, terrifying second, a reckless urge seized him. He wanted to drop his hand, drop the ridiculous stoop of his shoulders, and confess the entire charade right there on the front steps. He wanted to say, Yes, I am Edmund. I am the son of your old friend, and I am deeply sorry for lying to you.

But the words jammed in his throat, blocked by the sheer, catastrophic weight of what that confession would destroy.

Julian did not hesitate. He moved with the effortless, liquid grace of a man who had spent his entire life improvising his way out of taverns and angry drawing rooms.

“I must say, Sir Gerald, that is a new one,” Julian declared, letting out a rich, booming laugh that immediately shattered the frozen tension in the courtyard. He clapped a heavy, familiar hand on Edmund’s rigid shoulder, shaking him slightly. “Usually, people mistake me for a Spanish count, or perhaps a brooding poet. But Mr. Marsh being mistaken for English nobility? You will give the poor man airs.”

Sir Gerald blinked, physically startled by the sudden noise. He looked from Edmund’s pale, stricken face to Julian’s dazzling, aristocratic smile. The older man shook his head, a flush of embarrassment rising to his cheeks as logic finally overrode his initial shock.

“Good heavens,” Sir Gerald breathed, letting out a shaky, genial laugh as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me, my lord. The light is fading, and my eyes are not what they used to be. It was just… the angle of his jaw. It threw me entirely.”

“Think nothing of it,” Julian said smoothly, stepping forward to clasp Sir Gerald’s hand with the easy warmth of a lifelong peer. “I am deeply honored to be here, sir. My father spoke of Ashwell Park with immense fondness. I have been looking forward to seeing the estate for myself.”

“And we are thrilled to have you.” Sir Gerald beamed, the awkwardness dissolving under Julian’s manufactured charm.

Sir Gerald finally turned his attention back to Edmund, extending his hand. “Welcome to Ashwell Park, Mr. Marsh.”

Edmund forced his hand forward. His fingers closed around the older man’s grip. It was a firm, honest handshake, the kind of greeting his father had always respected.

“Thank you, Sir Gerald,” Edmund said. His voice was low, stripped of the usual servant’s deference. “I am grateful to be here. More grateful than I can properly express.”