Page 52 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Before he could calculate an excuse to cross the floor, a murmur rippled through the vestibule.

Lady Margaret Ashford, the Countess of Ravenswood, stepped into the ballroom.

She was fifty-two years old, her dark hair streaked with elegant silver, and she carried herself with a composed, quiet dignity that commanded absolute respect. She leaned lightly on Arabella’s arm, who looked beautiful but terribly pale in a gown of soft lavender, the muted shade of half-mourning she had worn since her father’s passing.

It was his mother’s first proper public evening since the funeral, and the ton immediately parted to let her through.

Edmund moved instantly. He abandoned his post behind Julian and cut through the crowd, appearing at his mother’s elbow just as the first wave of well-wishers descended. He intended to see her settled, but his true purpose was to act as a physical shield, keeping himself firmly between her and anyone inclined to talk too long or ask too many questions.

He had barely secured a chair for Lady Margaret near the edge of the dance floor when a horrific rustling of emerald feathers announced the arrival of their hostess.

“My dear countess!” Lady Sophronia Quill gasped, descending upon them with a level of breathlessness usually reserved for a crisis. Her turban bobbed aggressively. “What a tremendous amount of bravery it must take to face this great room so soon! I said to Lord Fife just yesterday, ‘How will the poor countess bear the noise?’ It is a great deal to face, is it not? The sheer volume of society!”

Lady Margaret offered a serene, perfectly polite smile that gave absolutely nothing away. “I find the music quite soothing, Lady Sophronia. The noise is merely a reminder that the world continues.”

Sophronia opened her mouth, her eyes darting eagerly as she prepared to dig deeper into the countess’s grief.

Edmund stepped directly into her line of sight. “Lady Sophronia, we were just admiring the floral arrangements. The lilies are extraordinary.”

“Oh! Well, yes, my gardener is…”

Julian materialized on Sophronia’s left side, flashing a brilliant, white smile. “I was just saying to Mr. Marsh, the scale of this ballroom puts the French courts to shame. Truly, you have outdone yourself, madam.”

Sophronia blinked, her feathered turban swiveling toward the dark-haired man playing the earl. “You are too kind, my lord. I merely strive for comfort.”

“Comfort and unmatched elegance,” Arabella interjected smoothly, stepping to Sophronia’s right, effectively boxing the gossiping woman in. “Did you oversee the draperies yourself, Lady Sophronia? They are magnificent.”

“I did! The velvet was imported from—”

“Italy, surely?” Julian guessed, leaning in with devastating focus.

“Why, yes, my lord, but—”

“I recognized the weave instantly,” Edmund said, picking up the thread seamlessly from the other side, leaning down just enough to force Sophronia to turn back to him. “It requires a very sophisticated eye.”

“Indeed,” Arabella agreed, pointing toward the far side of the room. “And speaking of sophisticated eyes, I believe Lady Danbury is attempting to catch your attention regarding the punch bowl. It looks terribly urgent.”

Sophronia spun around, thoroughly scrambled. She looked at Julian, then at Edmund, her brow furrowing as she tried to track which identical dark blue coat had just complimented her fabric. “The punch? Oh, heavens, I must go. Forgive me, Countess!”

She bustled away in a flurry of green feathers, completely unaware that she had just been expertly managed by a coordinated strike.

Julian caught Edmund’s eye, a brief, wicked spark of shared amusement flashing between them. Arabella let out a disguised exhale of relief. For a fleeting second, the terrible tension of the evening broke, giving way to the easy rhythm they had shared before the lies had spiraled out of control.

Then the orchestra struck up a waltz.

Julian turned toward Arabella. The careless amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a quiet, earnest intensity that made Edmund’s stomach clench.

“Miss Ashford,” Julian said, offering a flawless bow. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”

Arabella hesitated, her brown eyes darting nervously toward her mother.

Edmund leaned down instantly, placing his hand gently on the back of Lady Margaret’s chair. He kept his voice pitched low, meant for her ears alone. “I promised Julian months ago, Mother. I told him I would see my sister properly partnered at least once this Season. It is an old debt between friends. Nothing more.”

Lady Margaret watched the dark-haired man lead her daughter onto the floor. She smiled, entirely undisturbed by the arrangement. “He is a graceful dancer,” she murmured, turning back to Edmund. “Do you think they will play a reel next? I have always preferred the faster tempo.”

Edmund let out a tight breath, stepping back before she could ask which specific debt he was referring to. “I believe they might.”

He stood by her chair, folding his hands tightly behind his back. Out on the floor, Julian and Arabella swept into the waltz. Edmund watched his sister. Arabella was laughing at something Julian said, her steps light and perfectly in time with his.