Page 4 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

He ran a large, callused hand through his blond hair. He kept it cropped short now. It was easier to manage, and it served as a physical severing from the wild, curling locks he had worn in his youth. His jaw felt permanently locked in place.

“I am perfectly relaxed,” Edmund lied.

Julian swallowed a bite of potato and rolled his eyes. “You look as though you are preparing to walk barefoot to the gallows. It is a simple masquerade. I shall be you. You shall be me. We assess the situation, we make sure you are not chaining yourself to a monster, and then we switch back.”

“Simple,” Edmund repeated.

Julian stepped away from the breakfast tray and took the leather armchair opposite the sofa. His expression sobered slightly. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Edmund. Look at me.” Julian waited until Edmund met his gaze. “You pulled three massive men off me in a filthy Naples alleyway. They were prepared to break every bone in my hands. You paid a gambling debt to an art dealer who would have gladly slit my throat for the copper in my pockets—a debt that was not yours to pay. You brought me into your home. The absolute least I can do is wear your name for a single Season to ensure you do not ruin the rest of your life.”

Edmund looked down at his own hands. They were broad and strong from years spent riding and traveling across Europe. “Pulling three thugs off you in an alleyway was considerably simpler than this plan. I only had to hit them. I did not have to marry them.”

“All in, you said,” Julian reminded him softly. “When we drafted this lunacy last night over three bottles of claret, you said we were all in.”

Edmund let out a long breath. He nodded once. “All in. Very well. Let us review the facts so you do not immediately expose us as frauds. What precisely do we know of the Ashwell family?”

Julian leaned back and began ticking items off on his fingers. “We know they have two daughters. We know the father is a country baronet who was remarkably close friends with your late father. We know they are arriving in London for the express purpose of fulfilling this arranged courtship.”

“And the girl I am to marry?” Edmund asked.

“She is the elder sister,” Julian said, reaching into his interior pocket and pulling out a folded piece of thick parchment. “Miss Vivienne Ashwell. According to the letters your solicitor provided, she is twenty-three years of age. Her debut was delayed due to a complicated dispute over her father’s inheritance. This is her first official Season in London.”

“And her temperament? Her character? Does the solicitor mention if she actually reads books, or if she simply collects them to press flowers?”

Julian shrugged his shoulders and tossed the letter onto the low table between them. “We know absolutely nothing else. She could be a living saint. She could be a shrieking shrew. She could have a passionate interest in collecting taxidermy mice for all we know. That is precisely why we are executing this plan. You need to see her without the shiny, polite veneer people put on when they are speaking to an incredibly wealthy earl.”

Edmund looked away from Julian and stared into the cold, empty fireplace. The truth was heavy and unyielding in his chest. He had to marry this woman. Whoever she was, whatever she enjoyed, he was going to surrender the last remaining shreds of his freedom to a contract his father had drafted decades ago.

It was a transaction. He approached it with the same clinical detachment he used when reviewing the Ravenswood estate ledgers.

It was technically indecent haste. His father was not yet a year in the ground. The black mourning bands had barely been put away into the wardrobes. The ton would surely whisper about the shocking speed of the courtship. They would gossip in their drawing rooms and write speculative letters to their cousins in the country. But his mother had been the one to insist.

Lady Margaret had sat in the vast library of their country estate three weeks ago. She had been dressed in stark black silk. Her voice had been quiet, even, and completely immovable. She had told him that his father’s last coherent wish deserved to be honored while it could still mean something to both families. She did not want the arrangement delayed until duty curdled into resentment.

Edmund had not argued with her. He rarely argued with anyone anymore.

He did not want to meet the Ashwell family. He did not want to meet anyone in London. Most of all, he did not want to feel anything. He had tried that once, and the result had nearly destroyed him. He had offered his whole heart to a woman in Paris.

Cecily Vane had taken it, examined it, and then handed it back the very moment the endless adventure had stopped. When Edmund had returned to England, broken by the sudden death of his father and with the terrifying weight of the earldom, Cecily had simply vanished.

She had broken the engagement because the carefree version of him she wanted no longer existed. She did not love him. She loved the adventure with him. She had thoroughly cured him of the desire to love completely.

Business and family. That was all that was left for him now. He would secure his lineage, please his mother, and protect his gentle younger sister Arabella. Love was a foolish game for naïve boys in foreign cities.

“Are you listening to me?” Julian asked, snapping his fingers in the air to break the silence.

Edmund blinked and dragged his attention back to the bright drawing room. “I am listening. Taxidermy mice. Yes. I shall keep an eye out for any unusual taxidermy.”

“I was asking about the risk of discovery,” Julian said. He crossed his legs and looked genuinely concerned. “What if someone recognizes you? London is a small pond, Edmund. People talk. People remember faces.”

Edmund shook his head firmly. “There is absolutely no worry of that. My father sent me away to France when I was eighteen years old. He was terrified I would earn a rake’s reputation before I even reached my majority. I spent a decade abroad, only communicating with my family all these years through letters. I did not return to English soil until the week of the funeral.”

“Still,” Julian pressed, tapping his foot against the rug. “Surely some old aunt or school friend remembers your face.”

“They remember a wild, impulsive boy with too much hair and a fondness for breaking horses,” Edmund stated. He gestured to his own broad shoulders and the hard, unsmiling lines of his face. “They do not know the man sitting in this room. The ton has no true recollection of the current Earl of Ravenswood. To them, I am a stranger. When I stand beside you, dressed simply in plain wool coats, playing the role of your quiet companion, no one will look twice at me.”

Julian studied him for a long, silent moment. Then a slow, familiar grin spread across his Italian features. “A quiet companion. Yes. I imagine it will take immense physical effort for you to stop issuing orders and actually let me command the room.”