Page 76 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Corinna stepped closer to the hearth. Her father looked up, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with exhaustion.

“Aunt Phoebe insisted we attend,” Corinna said softly.

“Phoebe is a fool,” Sir Gerald muttered, keeping his voice hushed so the passing waiters would not hear. “Look at them staring. Look at what he has reduced us to.”

“We have done nothing wrong, Father,” Corinna said, her voice shaking slightly.

“It does not matter what we have done,” Eleanor whispered, her eyes remaining fixed firmly on the edge of the rug. “It matters what is printed. I cannot bear the whispers, Gerald. I simply cannot bear them.”

“We will return to the country the moment Vivienne is married,” Sir Gerald said flatly, his jaw locking. “We will not remain in London a day longer.”

“Father, I am so sorry.”

“It is not your fault, Corinna,” he said, though he did not look at her. He stared back into the fire. “It is the earl’s. And now, he will pay for it by honoring his word to this family.”

Corinna turned away, unable to bear their diminished posture for another second. She scanned the crowd again and found Phoebe standing near the tall, velvet-draped windows.

And standing directly beside Phoebe was Vivienne.

For the first time since their arrival in London, Vivienne was entirely subdued. She was not holding court. She was not performing her radiant, breathless joy for a circle of admiring gentlemen.

She stood alone, staring out into the dark, foggy street, her hands gripping her closed fan with white-knuckled intensity. Her expression was something Corinna could not immediately read. It was tight, guarded, and stripped of its usual victorious glow.

Corinna drifted closer, using the cover of a large potted fern to listen as Phoebe spoke in low, cutting tones to her niece.

“I hope you are satisfied, Vivienne,” Phoebe said, her voice laced with quiet venom.

“I am to be a countess, Aunt,” Vivienne replied, her chin tilting high, though the movement lacked its usual conviction. “I am perfectly satisfied.”

“Are you?” Phoebe asked, not raising her voice. “Look at your parents, Vivienne. Look at your father. He looks like a completely broken man.”

“He will recover once the ring is on my finger.”

“And your sister? What of the vicious lies printed about her this morning?”

“I did not write the pamphlet,” Vivienne said, her voice tightening defensively. She gripped the ivory sticks of her fan tighter.

“No,” Phoebe agreed. “Your new friend Cecily wrote it. And you stood by and allowed it to be distributed.”

“Cecily understands what is required to secure a position in this world. She is helping me.”

“She is using you,” Phoebe said sharply, stepping a fraction of an inch closer. “She is using your vanity to force a man who despises her into a corner. You are nothing but an instrument, Vivienne. And when she is finished playing you, you will be left entirely alone.”

Vivienne did not offer a sharp, biting retort. She did not haughtily defend her actions. Instead, something crossed her face. It was a minute, fragile shift in her pristine features. It was not guilt, exactly, but it was the first hairline fracture of it. The mask of the triumphant future countess cracked, and for a brief flash, she seemed to realize the devastation she had unleashed upon her own blood.

Vivienne swallowed hard, her throat working, and looked away from Phoebe, staring blindly out the window.

Corinna stepped backward. The heat of the room, the suffocating stares, the sight of her broken parents, and the bitter reality of her sister’s impending marriage suddenly pressed down on her lungs with unbearable force. She could not do this. She had shown her face. She had defied the broadsheets. But she could not stand in this room for another second.

She turned and slipped through the crowd, moving quickly and expertly dodging the clusters of aristocrats. She reached the hallway, requested her cloak from a highly confused footman, and stepped out into the freezing, damp night before anyone could stop her.

She did not wait for the family carriage. She hailed a passing hackney cab, climbed inside the dark, smelling interior, and rode back to the townhouse in absolute silence.

When Corinna unlocked the bright yellow door, the house was entirely silent. She did not light a single lamp. She walked down the corridor, her dark gown rustling against the floorboards, and stepped into Phoebe’s study.

The room was pitch black, save for the faint, silvery light of the moon spilling through the uncurtained windows. Corinna walked over to the small, circular table in the corner and sat down in the wooden chair. Before her sat the chessboard. The pieces were exactly where she and Thomas had left them.

Corinna sat in the dark, staring at the black and white squares. She felt entirely empty.