Page 72 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

His voice was flat, entirely devoid of its usual booming warmth. It carried the absolute, unyielding finality of a judge delivering a death sentence.

“The special license has been fully arranged,” Sir Gerald continued, looking from Phoebe to Corinna. “Vivienne and the Earl of Ravenswood will marry within the week.”

Corinna stopped breathing. The polished floorboards seemed to vanish beneath her feet.

“Father, no,” she whispered, taking a step forward.

“It is done, Corinna,” Sir Gerald said firmly, holding up a hand to silence her. “The contract will be honored. The scandal will be contained. It is the only way to protect our family’s name from further ruin.”

He looked at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears, believing with his entire heart that he was protecting what remained of his family. He did not know he was wrong. He did not know he was locking his eldest daughter in a loveless marriage and breaking his youngest daughter’s heart in the process.

Vivienne smiled, a small, triumphant curve of her lips.

Corinna looked at her father. She looked at the man who had taught her to play chess, who had taught her to see the board, and she realized there was absolutely no move left to make.

Corinna said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

Chapter 27

The black ink of the morning paper was still fresh enough to leave a faint, dark smudge against the pad of Edmund’s thumb. He sat in the deep leather armchair by the window of White’s, the heavy silence of the reading room pressing against his temples. Outside, the London fog rolled through St. James’s Street, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee, expensive tobacco, and the suffocating weight of inevitability.

He stared at the page. The announcement was printed halfway down the society column, nestled between a notice regarding the Duke of Bedford’s new hunting hounds and a tedious paragraph about an upcoming regatta.

A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place, between Edmund Ashford, Earl of Ravenswood, and Miss Vivienne Ashwell, eldest daughter of Sir Gerald Ashwell of Ashwell Park.

There it was. The trap, perfectly typeset and fully sprung.

Edmund felt entirely hollowed out, a ghost occupying a finely tailored coat. He was the Earl of Ravenswood, a man who had approached this courtship as a business deal, determined to not let emotions get in the way. He had constructed an elaborate fortress of deception to protect himself, and now the walls had collapsed, pinning him to the floor.

Across the low mahogany table, Julian sat staring into a cup of black coffee. Julian, the son of a prosperous Bristol cloth merchant with a quick laugh and expressive hands, usually commanded any room he entered without even trying. This morning, he looked exactly like a man attending a very slow, very polite disaster.

“They spelled her name correctly,” Julian noted, his voice completely stripped of its usual vibrant energy. “I suppose that is a comfort.”

Edmund did not look up from the paper. “It is a masterpiece of efficiency. My mother and Sir Gerald orchestrated it before breakfast.”

“A swift execution,” Julian agreed, lifting the porcelain cup to his lips and taking a slow sip.

“Ravenswood!” a booming voice echoed across the quiet reading room.

Edmund gritted his teeth, forcing his facial muscles to arrange themselves into a mask of calm, aristocratic composure. He folded the newspaper neatly and set it on the table just as Lord Fife, a stout man with a florid complexion, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Congratulations are in order, my lord!” Fife declared, his voice easily carrying to the neighboring tables. “I read the morning post. Miss Ashwell is a striking creature. Absolutely magnificent. You have secured the prize of the Season, sir!”

“Thank you, Fife,” Edmund replied. His voice was perfectly even, betraying none of the physical nausea rolling through his stomach. “You are very kind.”

“I must say, you moved with remarkable speed,” Fife continued, leaning in with a conspiratorial wink. “For a few weeks there, half the ton was convinced she had her eye on your secretary, Mr. Marsh, of all people! Such a bizarre rumor, now that we all know the truth of it.I told my wife, ‘The earl is merely taking his time, assessing the field!’ And here we are. A triumph.”

Julian did not say a word. He sat completely still, staring at the dark surface of his coffee.

“Indeed,” Edmund managed to say, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “If you will excuse us, Fife, Mr. Marsh and I have estate matters to discuss before noon.”

“Of course, of course! Duty calls.” Fife chuckled, giving Edmund’s shoulder one last, agonizing pat before waddling away toward the billiard room.

Edmund waited until the man was entirely out of earshot. He picked up his own coffee, found it stone cold, and set it back down with a violent clatter that made several gentlemen across the room look up from their reading.

“I cannot breathe in here,” Edmund muttered, standing up abruptly.

Julian stood immediately, abandoning his cup. “Let us go.”