Page 80 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

“Corinna,” Edmund asked quietly, his voice pitched just for her, though the silence ensured everyone heard. “I am not asking you for the sake of your family. I am not asking you to satisfy the ton, or to repair a scandal.”

He reached out and took her trembling hands in his.

“I am asking,” Edmund whispered, his blue eyes burning with absolute devotion, “because I cannot imagine a single morning for the rest of my life that would not be infinitely improved by your presence in it. I want your hand on the opposite side of a chessboard, every day, until I die. Corinna Ashwell, will you marry me?”

Corinna looked up at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Yes,” she said.

The room erupted into a deafening roar of applause and shocked, delighted gasps. Lady Sophronia burst into emotional commentary, aggressively fanning herself. Lady Margaret closed her eyes briefly, her face settling into an expression of profound relief and love. Phoebe raised her champagne glass high into the air.

And on the edge of the dance floor, Julian stepped closer to Arabella, taking her hand. She looked up at him and smiled, letting him hold it.

Chapter 30

The morning after the ball was preternaturally quiet. London seemed to hold its collective breath, exhausted by the sheer volume of scandal and revelation it had consumed over the past forty-eight hours.

Corinna sat in Aunt Phoebe’s study, her fingers tracing the smooth, polished wood of a white pawn. Across the circular table sat Edmund.

The heavy gold signet ring was gone from his hand, replaced by the simple, familiar look of the man who had walked through the Ashwell woods in a plain brown coat. The only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmic purr of a sleeping ginger cat curled up on the rug near the hearth, and the comforting knowledge that the study door stood wide open.

“You are setting the board up incorrectly,” Corinna observed, her lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.

“Am I?” Edmund asked, pausing with a black knight suspended between his fingers. “I thought I was being quite methodical.”

“You have placed the rook on the bishop’s square. For a man who fancies himself a grand strategist, your opening layout leaves much to be desired.”

“I am entirely distracted,” Edmund murmured, setting the knight down and resting his elbows on the table. He looked across the board at her, his blue eyes dark, warm, and unshielded. “You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The look that says you are currently calculating three different ways to destroy me before I even make my first move.”

Corinna looked down at the carved wooden pieces, then back up into his face. The lingering tension of the Season, the fear, the performance, the suffocating lies, seemed to have evaporated into the morning air.

“I would like to play the real game now, Edmund,” she said softly.

“The real game?”

“No strategies. No hidden positions. No pretending to be someone we are not.”

Edmund smiled, a slow, effortless expression that completely transformed his face. “I have been waiting for that since Paris.”

Corinna narrowed her eyes. “You were not in Paris. Not with me.”

“Correction,” he corrected smoothly, leaning closer across the table. “I have been waiting for that since a pond in the dark.”

“Better,” Corinna whispered.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against his as she moved her first pawn forward.

They were interrupted only once, halfway through the opening moves. The front door clicked open, followed by the sound of measured footsteps approaching the study.

Lady Margaret Ashford and Sir Gerald Ashwell appeared in the open doorway, arriving together with the terrifying, synchronized efficiency of two parents who had clearly spent the morning in private conference and decided to present a united front.

Edmund stood up immediately, pulling Corinna to her feet beside him.

Lady Margaret looked over her son with a critical, appraising eye, before her gaze shifted to Corinna. A slow, genuine softening touched the older woman’s severe features.