Page 83 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

Sir Gerald Ashwell stepped into the anteroom, pulling the door shut behind him to cut off the noise.

He wore a dark, impeccably tailored coat, his silver hair brushed back. He looked vastly different from the diminished, broken man who had stood in Lady Sophronia’s drawing room months ago. The heavy, oppressive weight of the scandal had lifted, replaced by a quiet, grounded strength. He took off his top hat, holding it loosely at his side as he looked at his youngest daughter.

Arabella gave Corinna’s hands one last, reassuring squeeze. “I shall go and take my place. I will see you at the altar.”

“Thank you, Arabella,” Corinna whispered.

Arabella smiled, slipped through the side door, and disappeared into the church, leaving Corinna alone with her father.

The silence stretched between them for a long moment. Sir Gerald did not immediately speak. He simply stood there, his eyes moving over the ivory silk, the delicate lace veil, and the steady, determined set of Corinna’s jaw. He was looking at her properly, perhaps for the very first time in her entire life. He was not looking for a marriage prospect, or a quiet daughter to manage the household accounts. He was looking at the woman she had become.

“You look beautiful, Corinna,” Sir Gerald said. His voice was thick, catching slightly on the words.

“Thank you, Father,” Corinna replied, her own throat tightening.

He closed the distance between them, offering his right arm. Corinna reached out and rested her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. His arm was solid, anchored, and entirely present.

“I know I have not always been the father you needed,” Sir Gerald said quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on the doors leading to the nave. “I spent so much time looking at the surface of things, at the titles and the broadsheets, that I entirely missed the board you were playing on.”

“We do not need to speak of that today, Father,” Corinna said gently, squeezing his arm.

“I need to say it,” he insisted, turning his head to meet her gray eyes. “I am proud of you, Corinna. I am overwhelmingly proud of the integrity you showed when this family was falling apart. You are marrying a good man today. A complicated man, certainly, but a good one.”

“He is,” Corinna agreed, a fierce rush of affection for Edmund warming her blood.

“Are you ready?” Sir Gerald asked, his hand coming up to cover hers, patting her knuckles firmly.

Corinna took a deep breath. The scent of beeswax and cold stone filled her lungs. She thought of the chessboard in Aunt Phoebe’s study, the long, quiet conversations they had shared over the last few months, and the absolute, undeniable truth of what waited for her on the other side of the wood.

“I am ready,” Corinna said.

Sir Gerald nodded. He turned toward the usher standing near the latch and gave a sharp nod.

The doors swung open.

The low murmur of the congregation vanished instantly, replaced by the rising, triumphant chord of the church organ. The sheer scale of the noise and the sea of faces turning toward the back of the church hit Corinna like a physical wave. She kept her chin lifted, her spine perfectly straight, and stepped forward into the light.

The small country church was bathed in the crisp, pale sunlight of late autumn. The light cut through the high, arched windows in long, dust-filled strips, laying golden bars across the stone floor and the dark wooden pews.

Corinna and her father began the measured walk down the central aisle.

She felt the eyes of the ton tracking her progress. She saw Lady Danbury leaning close to whisper something behind her fan. She saw Lord Fife adjusting his cravat, looking entirely bewildered by the lack of theatrical scandal. Corinna ignored all of them. She utilized the exact same focus she used during a difficult middle game, tuning out the noise of the room and fixing her attention solely on the objective ahead.

In the very front row, Aunt Phoebe was sitting bolt upright. The formidable, sharp-tongued woman was already dabbing aggressively at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Phoebe caught Corinna’s eye, gave a watery nod of approval, and promptly blew her nose.

Standing on the altar steps, Julian shifted his weight. He was indeed wearing his finest Parisian coat, and just as Arabella had predicted, there were unmistakable smudges of dark charcoal ink staining the cuffs of his white shirt. He offered Corinna a wide, brilliant, devastatingly charming smile, a silent promise of lifelong friendship and endless, exhausting banter.

But Corinna’s gaze did not linger on Julian for more than a second.

Her eyes locked onto Edmund.

He was standing at the center of the altar. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored coat that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, his dark hair brushed back, his jaw locked in a hard line.

But it was his face that completely unraveled her.

The Earl of Ravenswood, the man who had spent an entire Season hiding behind an impenetrable, icy mask of subservience and polite indifference, was making absolutely no effort whatsoever to compose his expression.

He was entirely unguarded.