Page 68 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Arabella burst into the room. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing shallow and frantic, her usually neat brown hair slightly disheveled from the wind outside. She stopped short when she saw her mother sitting by the fire, but the urgency in her eyes did not dim.

“Edmund,” Arabella gasped, clutching her silk reticule against her chest. “I had to come find you immediately. I was just walking back from the modiste, and I saw them.”

Edmund straightened, a cold prickle of alarm running down his spine. “Saw who?”

“Vivienne,” Arabella said, stepping further into the room. “And Cecily Vane.”

Lady Margaret stiffened, her eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of the Parisian woman who had caused so much grief.

“They were leaving the tea shop on Bond Street,” Arabella continued, her words rushing out in a breathless torrent. “They were walking together, their heads bent close. Cecily had her hand resting on Vivienne’s arm. They looked entirely thick as thieves, Edmund. Cecily was doing all the talking, and Vivienne was listening to her with this… this utterly absorbed expression. Like a soldier receiving orders from a general. She was drinking in every single word Cecily said.”

Edmund’s blood ran cold. The image of Cecily manipulating Vivienne, feeding her vanity, pulling the strings of her fury, was terrifying. Cecily did not offer comfort; she orchestrated destruction.

“She is building a narrative,” Edmund muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Cecily is using her.”

“Vivienne looked completely certain of whatever Cecily was telling her,” Arabella warned, her voice trembling slightly. “She looked triumphant.”

A demanding knock sounded at the front doors of the townhouse, echoing loudly through the quiet halls.

Edmund exchanged a tense look with Arabella. A moment later, they heard MacAulay’s footsteps crossing the marble foyer, followed by the sound of the door opening. Muffled voices drifted down the corridor: MacAulay’s gruff, confused tone, and a piercing feminine voice that Edmund recognized instantly.

“I do not care if it is irregular,” the voice demanded. “I am here to see the Earl of Ravenswood, and you will announce me immediately.”

The study door was pushed open. MacAulay stood in the threshold, his silver eyebrows drawn together in a deep, highly offended scowl.

“My lord,” the butler began, his tone dripping with disapproval. “Miss Vivienne Ashwell has arrived. She insists—”

He did not get to finish his sentence. Vivienne swept past the imposing butler, completely ignoring the sheer, scandalous impropriety of an unmarried woman calling upon a bachelor’s residence unchaperoned.

She marched into the center of the study, bringing with her a wave of heavy floral perfume and an energy so bright, hard, and brittle it felt as though she might shatter into a thousand jagged pieces at any moment. She wore a walking dress of striking crimson, her golden hair perfectly coiffed, her chin lifted in absolute, unyielding defiance.

She barely glanced at Arabella, dismissing the younger girl entirely. She offered Lady Margaret a shallow, perfunctory curtsy that bordered on insolent, before turning her pale blue eyes directly onto Edmund.

“My lord,” Vivienne said.

Her voice was different. It lacked its usual musical, breathless quality. It was clipped and terrifyingly precise.

“Miss Ashwell,” Edmund replied, maintaining a stiff, formal distance. “This is highly irregular. You should not be here.”

“The time for worrying about irregularities has long passed, do you not agree?” Vivienne countered, her lips curling into a cold, practiced smile that did not reach her eyes.

Edmund watched her carefully. The cadence of her speech, the specific tilt of her head, the icy, unbothered superiority: it was not Vivienne. It was a flawless, terrifying mimicry of Cecily Vane. Cecily had handed her a script in that tea shop, and Vivienne was reciting it word for word.

“I have come to inform you of my father’s decisions,” Vivienne announced, clasping her gloved hands together at her waist. She spoke with the unshakeable authority of someone declaring a royal decree. “My father is currently arranging a special license. We will be married within the fortnight.”

Edmund felt the air leave his lungs. He had known it was coming; he had just agreed to it with his mother, but hearing it spoken aloud, hearing the trap snap shut with such definitive, metallic finality, made him feel physically ill.

“It will be a quiet ceremony,” Vivienne continued, reciting the terms with clinical detachment. “Just the immediate families. It will settle the matter of the broadsheets before the scandal can run any further. Once the ring is on my finger, the ton will have nothing left to whisper about. We will control the narrative.”

“Vivienne,” Edmund started, his voice strained. “Are you entirely certain this is what you want? Given the circumstances?”

“What I want, my lord, is what I was promised,” she snapped, a flash of genuine, jagged fury breaking through the Cecily-inspired veneer. “I was promised an earl. I was promised a title, an estate, and a position in society. You played your ridiculous little games with your servant, you humiliated me in front of the entire city, but you will not steal my future. You owe me this.”

Edmund stared at her, the sheer vanity of her demands leaving him momentarily speechless. She didn’t care about the lie. She didn’t care about his heart, or Corinna, or the devastating emotional wreckage they were standing in. She only cared about herself.

“We understand each other, then,” Vivienne said, taking his silence as absolute submission. She smoothed the front of her crimson pelisse, restoring her icy composure. “I shall expect you to call upon my father tomorrow to finalize the settlements. Good day, my lord. Lady Margaret. Miss Ashford.”

She did not wait for a response. She turned on her heel and marched out of the study, her heavy skirts rustling aggressively against the doorframe.