Page 82 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

“Write to me,” Vivienne said softly.

“I will,” Corinna promised.

The door closed behind Vivienne as she stepped out into the carriage, leaving the townhouse to the peace that followed a storm.

***

That evening, the lamps in Aunt Phoebe’s study burned low.

Corinna and Edmund sat across from each other once more, the polished wooden chessboard positioned precisely between them. The opening moves were abandoned entirely. They were deep into the middle game, pieces shifting with deliberate intent.

Corinna reached out, her fingers wrapping around her rook, and slid it across the board with a crisp, decisive click.

“Checkmate,” Corinna announced, a triumphant smile lighting up her face.

Edmund stared at the board. He looked at his trapped king, completely boxed in by his own pieces, stripped of all maneuverability. He did not argue. He did not invent a tactical excuse.

He reached out, placed two fingers against his royal piece, and tipped his king over onto its side. It rolled a fraction of an inch before coming to rest against a pawn.

Edmund lifted his head, looking across the board at her with an expression of unconditional surrender.

“I concede everything,” he said.

Corinna leaned back in her chair, raising an eyebrow in amused disbelief. “That is a terrible chess strategy, my lord.”

Edmund smiled, standing up from his chair and walking around the table to drop to one knee beside her. He reached out, taking her hands in his, his blue eyes burning with warmth.

“I am entirely aware,” Edmund whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of her knuckles. “And I do not care even slightly.”

Epilogue

The door of the small parish church was closed, muffling the low, steady murmur of the gathered congregation waiting in the nave. Inside the small stone vestibule, the air was remarkably cool, carrying the crisp scent of late autumn leaves and old beeswax candles.

Corinna stood in the center of the flagstone floor, staring blankly at the iron hinges of the door. She wore a gown of ivory silk, completely devoid of the excessive frills and heavy embroidery that Vivienne would have undoubtedly demanded. It was simple, elegant, and entirely her own.

“If you do not stop fidgeting, Corinna, I am going to accidentally pin this lace directly to your scalp,” Arabella said, stepping around to Corinna’s left side with a silver hairpin gripped firmly between her teeth.

“I am not fidgeting,” Corinna lied, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her silk gloves. “I am merely testing the structural integrity of the dress.”

“You are vibrating,” Arabella corrected, removing the pin from her mouth and securing a stray lock of dark hair behind Corinna’s ear. “You look as though you are preparing to face a firing squad rather than walk down an aisle.”

“It feels remarkably similar,” Corinna muttered, forcing her hands to drop to her sides. “Half the ton is sitting on those wooden pews out there, Arabella. They have come to gawk at the country spinster who somehow managed to trap an earl. They are waiting for me to trip over my own hem.”

Arabella stepped back, her brown eyes scanning the veil and the dress with a critical, approving assessment. She smoothed the tulle over Corinna’s shoulders. Arabella’s hands were perfectly steady.

“Let them gawk,” Arabella said, her voice carrying an unshakeable confidence that she had not possessed three months ago. “They are entirely irrelevant. The only person in that church whose opinion matters is currently standing at the altar, driving Julian completely mad with his pacing.”

Corinna finally smiled, the tense, icy knot in her stomach loosening slightly. She looked at Arabella. The younger girl was wearing a beautiful gown of soft sage green, looking radiant and utterly at peace. On Arabella’s left hand rested a modest sapphire ring, a formal declaration that she was officially spoken for. Julian had wasted absolutely no time making good on his promise in the garden.

“Is Julian behaving himself?” Corinna asked, grateful for the distraction.

“He is trying.” Arabella laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the small stone room. There was nothing performed in it. “He insisted on wearing his very best Parisian coat, but he spent the entire morning drafting a sketch of the church exterior. He has ink on his cuffs already. I told him Edmund would likely throw him into the baptismal font, but Julian said a man must have his art.”

“He will need his art when Edmund realizes he is stained with charcoal,” Corinna said, shaking her head.

“Edmund will not notice a single thing Julian is doing today,” Arabella said softly, reaching out to take Corinna’s hands. “He will only be looking at you.”

The door connecting the vestibule to the main church creaked open a fraction of an inch, letting in a swell of organ music.