Page 67 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

“I will see you in the study,” Sir Gerald commanded, his voice ringing with the authority of an injured father.

The door of the study swung open, and then clicked shut, sealing them inside.

Corinna walked slowly down the corridor, but she did not go to her room. She descended the stairs just far enough to reach the bottom landing, sank down onto the cold wooden step, and stared fixedly at the grain of the floorboards. She sat there in the stillness, and she did not move for a very long time.

Chapter 25

The fire in the study grate had burned down to a smoldering, sullen red. Edmund sat in the leather wingback chair, his long legs stretched out toward the dying embers, a glass of untouched brandy resting on the small table beside him.

The house was entirely silent, but the quiet offered absolutely no peace. It pressed against his eardrums, heavy and accusing, a suffocating blanket woven from his own disastrous choices.

He stared into the glowing coals, but all he could see was the hollowed-out face of Sir Gerald Ashwell.

Two hours ago, Edmund had sat across a desk in the Ashwell townhouse, absorbing the quiet, devastating judgment of his father’s oldest friend. Sir Gerald had not shouted. He had not thrown punches or demanded satisfaction on a dueling field. He had simply looked at Edmund with the profound disappointment of a man who had trusted the Ashford name and found it entirely bankrupt.

Sir Gerald had laid out the cold reality of the scandal. The pamphlet had made its rounds. The ton was feasting on the details. The only way to shield the Ashwell family from complete and permanent ruin was for the Earl of Ravenswood to honor the original contract. He had to marry Vivienne.

The door to the study clicked open.

Edmund did not immediately turn his head. He assumed it was Julian, coming to offer another round of dark humor or a poorly timed apology. But the footsteps that crossed the threshold were too light, the rustle of the silk too measured and precise.

He looked over his shoulder and immediately pushed himself out of the leather chair.

Lady Margaret closed the door behind her. Her face was a mask of pale, impenetrable composure. She did not look at the brandy glass, nor did she look at the dying fire. She looked directly at her son.

“Sit down, Edmund,” she said, her voice perfectly level.

“I prefer to stand, Mother,” he replied, his voice rough and scraping against his throat.

“Suit yourself,” she murmured, moving to the chair opposite his and sitting down with immaculate grace. She folded her hands in her lap, her dark eyes resting on him with unyielding pressure.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the silence stretching between them, thick with the weight of the morning’s revelations. Edmund braced himself for the fury, for the reprimand he so richly deserved.

“You will marry Vivienne Ashwell,” Lady Margaret stated.

The words were not a question. They were not a suggestion. They were an absolute, immovable decree, delivered with the calm authority of a monarch issuing a final ruling.

Edmund flinched, the words striking him. He gripped the back of his leather chair. “Mother, I cannot…”

“You can, and you will,” she interrupted, her voice never rising above a conversational murmur. “The promise your father made to Sir Gerald will be honored. The scandal you have so carelessly ignited will be repaired. You have dragged the Ashwell name into the mud, Edmund. You have exposed two innocent women to the vicious mockery of the ton. You will do what is required to fix it.”

“I do not love her,” Edmund said desperately, hating how childish the words sounded the moment they left his mouth. “You know I do not love her. I love Corinna.”

Lady Margaret’s expression did not soften in the slightest. “Whatever you imagine you feel for the younger sister is entirely irrelevant now. It is not a sufficient reason to destroy two families. You do not get to set fire to a house and then complain that the smoke stings your eyes. You built this trap, Edmund. Now you must live in it.”

Her words echoed the same brutal sentiment Sir Gerald had delivered across his desk two hours prior. Differently worded, but the identical conclusion. Duty over desire. Honor over heart.

Edmund looked at his mother. He saw the iron will that had carried her through his father’s death, the unshakeable resolve that defined the Ashford legacy.

He saw the cold, undeniable truth in her eyes. He had lost the right to choose his own fate the moment he decided to play games with the lives of others.

He swallowed hard, the fight draining completely out of his broad shoulders. He slowly bowed his head.

“I understand,” Edmund whispered, staring blindly at the Persian rug. “I agree.”

Lady Margaret kept her eyes on him for a fraction of a second longer, ensuring the surrender was absolute. Satisfied, she gave a curt nod.

Before she could rise from her chair, the study door flew open without a knock.