Page 43 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Corinna glanced at Mr. Marsh. The tall secretary let out a quiet sigh and gave a single, consenting nod.

By dusk, the village green was a chaotic, brilliant tapestry of noise and light. Dozens of paper lanterns hung between the twisting branches of the great oak trees, casting a warm glow over the trampled grass. A trio of local musicians stood on a wooden cart, scraping out a lively country jig on two fiddles and a drum.

The four of them walked into the crowd together, immediately swallowed by the joyous, unpretentious noise. Something loosened in all of them within the first half hour.

Lord Ravenswood stepped toward a vendor’s cart, returning a moment later with two steaming cups of spiced cider. He handed one to Arabella, his fingers brushing hers. Corinna watched Arabella look up at the earl and laugh, a genuine, open, unguarded sound that carried over the fiddles. She did not remember to stop herself.

Corinna smiled, turning away, and found Mr. Marsh standing directly beside her.

He was watching the earl and Arabella as well. As Lord Ravenswood gestured animatedly, the lantern light caught the edge of his white cuff. Corinna’s eyes narrowed slightly. Faint, permanent smudges of dark ink were layered into the creases of the earl’s knuckles.

“His lordship has ink on his hands,” Corinna observed softly, stepping a fraction closer to Mr. Marsh.

The secretary stiffened slightly. “His lordship writes a great deal of correspondence.”

“I thought he was a painter,” Corinna countered.

Lord Ravenswood, catching the drift of their conversation, turned toward them with an easy grin. “I am a man of many talents, Miss Ashwell. Oils, charcoal, ink. Creating something with one’s own hands is the only way to truly understand the world.”

Arabella looked at the earl, her brown eyes filled with admiration. “It must be a wonderful thing, to be able to capture beauty on a canvas.”

“It is,” Lord Ravenswood said, his gaze fixed entirely on Arabella.

Corinna felt a sudden need for quiet. She walked toward the dark edge of the green where the lantern light faded into the shadows of the trees.

She heard the heavy crunch of boots on the grass behind her. Mr. Marsh fell into step beside her as they reached the shadow of a large elm tree.

“You do not care for the music, Miss Ashwell?” the secretary asked, his deep voice a quiet rumble.

“I love the music,” Corinna corrected, turning to look at him. “I simply needed to breathe. The countryside always makes me feel free. In London, I feel as though I am constantly holding my breath. I feel like I am pretending to be someone else entirely.”

Mr. Marsh stopped walking. He looked down at her, the usual guarded vigilance completely stripped from his blue eyes.

“I feel the same,” he said gently.

They looked at each other, and something vital, warm, and entirely private passed between them in the dark. The air grew impossibly thick. Corinna could smell the clean scent of his soap, mixed with the woodsmoke from the fair.

Mr. Marsh’s chest rose and fell in a sharp breath. His usual carefulness slipped. He opened his mouth, the words forming on his lips. Corinna found herself leaning very slightly toward him, waiting for it.

“Corinna!”

The spell shattered instantly. Mr. Marsh took a quick step backward. Corinna turned to see Thomas Briggs walking toward them through the grass.

Thomas smiled easily, greeting a passing farmer by name before stopping in front of them. His dark eyes flicked from Mr. Marsh’s rigid posture to Corinna’s flushed face. He gave Corinna a knowing look. He had seen something, and he had filed it away for later.

“Thomas,” Corinna managed to say, her voice trembling slightly.

Thomas nodded and walked back toward the lights.

Mr. Marsh watched the estate manager walk away. “He seems remarkably familiar with you.”

Corinna looked at him, surprised by the slightly defensive edge in his tone. “Thomas and I have known each other since we were children. We share common interests. We are very good friends, and I love him dearly.”

Mr. Marsh’s expression shifted from jealousy to concern. They fell into a conversation about the nature of true friendship.

“I owe his lordship my life,” Mr. Marsh said quietly, the truth bleeding into his voice as he looked toward the earl and Arabella. “He is fiercely loyal. But sometimes I fear that loyalty will cost him his own happiness. He deserves a life of his own.”

Corinna stared at him, captivated by his honesty. “You are a very good friend, Mr. Marsh.”