Page 71 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Corinna’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage. She kept her chin lifted, forcing her feet to carry her toward the main counter, even as the blood turned to ice in her veins. She could feel the stares burning into the side of her face, hot and judgmental. They had all read it. They all believed it. To them, she was the treacherous sister, the jealous wallflower who had seduced a nobleman in the shadows to ruin her own blood.

Phoebe stood close beside her, picking up a spool of blue velvet ribbon and inspecting it as if it were the most fascinating object in the entire world.

“The quality of this velvet is entirely unacceptable,” Phoebe announced loudly, her voice cutting through the toxic silence of the shop. “It feels like cheap burlap. Do you have nothing imported from Lyon?”

Before the nervous shopkeeper could stutter an apology, the front door chimed again.

A massive, quivering arrangement of bright purple ostrich feathers pushed through the narrow doorway, followed immediately by the formidable, booming presence of Lady Sophronia Quill.

Sophronia stopped dead in the center of the shop. She took in the frozen, judgmental posture of Lady Danbury, the terrified shopkeeper, and finally, Corinna and Phoebe standing stiffly at the counter. The oppressive tension in the room thickened into something completely unbreathable.

Sophronia adjusted her velvet reticule. She did not whisper. She did not avert her eyes politely. She marched directly across the floorboards, her heavy purple skirts swishing aggressively.

“Miss Ashwell,” Sophronia declared, her voice echoing off the glass display cabinets. “Mrs. Cavendish.”

Corinna braced herself for the inevitable public dressing-down. She squeezed her eyes shut for a fraction of a second, expecting the final, fatal blow to her reputation to be delivered right here, among the hats and ribbons.

“Lady Sophronia,” Phoebe replied coolly, entirely unbothered.

“I have read the pamphlet,” Sophronia announced. She said it loudly enough that the three women on the opposite side of the shop physically jumped in surprise. “Have you?”

“We have,” Phoebe said, her tone guarded and careful.

“I found it to be a piece of vicious, cowardly fiction,” Sophronia boomed, turning her head slightly to ensure Lady Danbury was receiving every single syllable of her assessment. “It was entirely unconvincing and, frankly, poorly written.”

Corinna stared at the feathered woman, completely stunned.

Sophronia took a large step closer, her voice vibrating with genuine, righteous indignation. “I have known you, Corinna Ashwell, for an entire Season. I have watched you navigate drawing rooms with more grace and quiet dignity than half the girls in this miserable city combined. You are not capable of what is being described in that trash.”

“Lady Sophronia…” Corinna started, her voice breaking slightly.

“You do not possess the malice for it,” Sophronia continued, her gaze sweeping the shop like a lighthouse beam searching for enemies. “It is an absolute outrage. I will not stand by and watch a good girl be ruined by cheap ink and anonymous cowardice. And neither should anyone else.”

Phoebe reached out, her fingers closing tightly around Corinna’s arm, giving a fierce, reassuring squeeze. The shock of finding an ally in the loudest, most prolific gossip in London was entirely overwhelming. Corinna swallowed hard, fighting the burning prickle of tears threatening to spill over her lashes.

“Thank you, Lady Sophronia,” Corinna managed to say, her voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic hammering of her heart. “Your confidence is deeply appreciated.”

“It is not confidence, my dear, it is common sense,” Sophronia sniffed, turning her formidable glare upon Lady Danbury, who was suddenly pretending to be fascinated by a display of lace. “Though I suppose common sense is in terribly short supply this Season. Come, let us look at the lace together. I am told they have a new shipment from Brussels.”

The unbearable tension in the shop shattered. Lady Danbury, thoroughly chastised by a woman who vastly outranked her in social capital, hastily purchased her ribbons and fled the establishment.

The carriage ride back to the townhouse was silent, but the crushing, suffocating weight had lifted slightly from Corinna’s chest. Sophronia’s unexpected, brazen defense had proven the board was not entirely lost. There were still pieces in play. People who actually knew her character were willing to fight for it.

But the moment the footman opened the yellow front door of the townhouse, the atmosphere shifted back into something dark and intensely heavy.

MacAulay stood in the hallway, his face grim and pale. “Sir Gerald is waiting in the study, madam,” the butler murmured to Phoebe.

Corinna exchanged a terrified look with her aunt. The final reckoning was here. They handed their damp walking coats to the footman and walked slowly down the corridor.

The doors to the study were open.

Sir Gerald Ashwell stood by the roaring fireplace, staring blankly into the flames.

Vivienne sat in the leather wingback chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her expression was a mask of pristine, victorious composure. Eleanor stood directly behind her, pale, drawn, and completely silent.

Sir Gerald turned as Corinna and Phoebe entered the room. He did not smile. He did not offer his younger daughter a warm embrace. He just looked completely, thoroughly broken.

“I have made a decision,” Sir Gerald said.