Page 40 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

He turned onto his side, burying his face in the feather pillow, and prayed for sleep. It did not come until the small hours of the morning, and when it did, it was restless and fraught with dreams of gray eyes and locked doors.

When Edmund finally woke, the bright morning sun was streaming aggressively through the curtains. Julian was already awake and in his room, standing before the washstand and carefully adjusting the pristine white folds of his cravat.

“You look absolutely terrible,” Julian observed cheerfully, glancing at Edmund’s reflection in the mirror. “I sincerely hope you intend to do something about the dark circles under your eyes before we go down to breakfast. You look like a man who has been haunted by a particularly vengeful ghost.”

Edmund groaned, pushing himself up against the headboard and rubbing his face. “I did not sleep well. The country is too quiet.”

“Neither did I,” Julian said dryly, turning around to lean against the washstand. “You were muttering in your sleep for half the night; I could hear you through the wall. You kept repeating the word ‘impossible’ and arguing with someone who was not there. It was deeply unsettling. I nearly came in here to throw a boot at your head.”

Edmund went perfectly still, a flush of heat rising to the tips of his ears.

“I was dreaming about the estate ledgers,” he lied gruffly, throwing the quilt aside and swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress.

Julian let out a warm, booming laugh that filled the room. “Of course you were. The Ravenswood estate accounts, truly the most romantic and distressing subject in the known world. Save your lies for the Ashwells, Edmund. I know exactly what is keeping you awake, and she is currently downstairs eating toast.”

“Get out,” Edmund growled, pointing at the door.

“Gladly,” Julian said, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Hurry up and dress. Sir Gerald has invited me on a grand tour of the estate, and as my dutiful secretary, you are required to trail behind me and look suitably impressed by the sheep.”

By mid-morning, the household had settled into the easy, unhurried rhythms of a country visit. The air was crisp and smelled of damp earth and blooming hawthorn.

Sir Gerald led them out across the sprawling grounds, walking with the vigorous, energetic stride of a man who loved his land. He pointed out property lines, discussed crop yields, and explained the intricate workings of the tenant farms with pride.

Julian walked beside him, playing the role of the interested peer flawlessly. He nodded at the right intervals and asked polite, superficial questions about soil drainage.

Edmund trailed a respectful three paces behind them, feeling a bitter, twisting irony burning in his throat.

I should be walking beside him, he thought, looking out over the rolling green fields his father’s oldest friend had maintained. I know exactly how to manage crop rotations. I know the cost of repairing a tenant’s roof. I should be the one receiving this knowledge.

Instead, he was forced to walk in silence, a ghost on his own inherited territory, while his best friend received the explanations intended for the Earl of Ravenswood.

They were approaching a large, well-kept stone barn near the edge of the home woods when a man rode out to meet them.

He was mounted on a sturdy bay gelding, riding with the relaxed, effortless posture of a man who spent half his life in the saddle. He brought the horse to a halt, dismounted smoothly, and tossed the reins to a passing stable boy before turning to face the approaching party.

He was tall—nearly as tall as Edmund—and lean, with dark, windswept hair and an intelligent face. He wore practical riding clothes, dusted with the reality of actual work, but he carried himself with an unshakeable, quiet competence.

“Ah, Thomas,” Sir Gerald called out warmly, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Excellent timing. Come and meet our guests.”

Sir Gerald turned to Julian. “My lord, allow me to introduce my estate manager, Mr. Thomas Briggs. He keeps Ashwell Park from falling into total ruin.”

Thomas stepped forward, wiping a smudge of dirt from his leather glove before offering a respectful, measured nod. “My lord. Welcome to Ashwell Park.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Briggs,” Julian said smoothly, offering a polite smile.

“And this is his lordship’s secretary, Mr. Marsh,” Sir Gerald added, gesturing vaguely backward.

Thomas shifted his gaze to Edmund.

The estate manager did not offer a polite smile. His dark eyes swept over Edmund’s plain brown coat, taking in the broad set of his shoulders, the aggressive stance, and the hard line of his jaw.

It was a calm, unhurried assessment. Thomas Briggs had clearly grown up reading people from the margins, observing the nobility from the outside looking in, and he had learned to do it exceptionally well.

“Mr. Marsh,” Thomas said, his voice neutral.

“Mr. Briggs,” Edmund replied. He kept his tone flat, but his muscles tightened instinctively under the man’s scrutinizing stare. “The property is magnificent. It is clearly managed with a very skilled hand.”

“I do my best to maintain what was built before me,” Thomas answered simply.