The Wicked Wallflower (22 page)

 

Chapter 19

Dear Lady Emma,

It is my pleasure to declare you the winner of the Twentieth Annual Fortune Games and thus the heiress to my enormous fortune. Though you made some missteps, I was impressed by your determination to play the game fairly. Lady Emma, I was witness to the entire disastrous scene involving you, Miss Dawkins, the priceless urn, and the remains of my beloved Harold. That you took sole credit for an accident involving multiple parties, and thus protecting Miss Dawkins, showed me that your kindness and dignity are worth more than my money. That you were obviously the only one to have read the history of the Ashbrookes that I provided showed me you will be a good steward of the family legacy. And to think, I had suspected you a fortune hunter when you arrived on the arm of that rascal. I no longer do. And I am never wrong.

Lady Agatha Grey

E
MMA READ
THE
letter once, twice, thrice, and still could not quite believe the elegantly written words swimming before her eyes. The crisp vellum sheet wavered in her hands.

Blake's gaze confirmed the truth. It was there in the polite nod of acknowledgment and the strained smile that did not reach his eyes. Moments before, she'd felt so connected to him that she had been about to call off her planned elopement with Benedict. He had built her the gazebo! Shown her such pleasure! Saved her from yet another drawing room disaster!

But now, though they had stood a foot apart in her drawing room, she felt worlds of distance between them. Could everyone see the way he withdrew from her?

At the soiree later that evening the truth was undeniable when her arrival was announced. A hush descended over the four hundred guests, when no one had ever marked her arrival in a ballroom before. Now that she was Lady Grey's heiress, the ton took notice of her, and they did so with a vengeance.

Emma slowly pushed through the crowd, hoping to seek refuge with the other wallflowers. The mob followed her; a swarm of silks and satins, a hiss of whispers, and a low hum of fevered conversation.

“Lady Emma, congratulations on winning this year's Fortune Games! You must be thrilled.” This, from Lord Stanton, who had been introduced to her thrice and each time said, “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Tha—­” Emma started to say, but was cut off.

“I daresay, the news was quite a shock,” a orange-­haired matron said, fanning herself vigorously. “In fact, one might say you were London's Least Likely to Win!”

A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd. Emma just smiled tightly. Apparently not even ninety thousand pounds was enough to make one forget her unfortunate pet name.

“Where is your
fiancé?
” someone asked, with such emphasis on the word and such a comically skeptical expression to demonstrate that though she stood to inherit a fortune, it wouldn't quiet the wretched rumors that had surfaced in the newspapers that afternoon.

In fact, many gentlemen seemed to take the rumors as an opportunity to flirt with her, possibly court her. This, of course, was the crux of the matter with Blake's affection and why she couldn't trust anyone: For so long she had been present, just as she was now, and no one noticed her. Thus she knew it was the fortune—­or the possibility of it—­that ­people saw now.

“A lemonade for you, Lady Emma. You must be parched.” A gentleman with whom she was not acquainted bowed deeply and offered her a glass of lemonade. It was the fourth she'd been given this evening.

“Your eyes alone are a fortune,” a dandified buck said, issuing an odd compliment. She was reminded of Blake scoffing at comparisons of her blue eyes to various bodies of water. He said her gaze was intelligent. That was far better.

Beside her, Prudence snorted, and Emma bit back her own laughter amidst a flurry of questions from ­people who'd had every opportunity to converse with her over the years but had not even bid her good evening at a ball.

““However will you spend all that money?”

“Will you live at Grey Manor?”

“What will you do with the fleet of ships?”

“Did you really inherit a fleet of ships?” Olivia asked. “If you did, I hope it's a fleet of pirate ships. With pirates.”

“Aye, matey,” Prudence said under her breath, and they all giggled.

“I have no idea what I stand to inherit,” Emma replied. “In fact, I hope I do not. I am rather fond of Lady Agatha. Here, take this lemonade, I see more coming.”

“Of course, Lady Emma may not come into the fortune,” Mr. Parks reminded the group.

Blake's cousin George was more charming. He smiled, and beside Emma, Prudence sucked in her breath.

“Congratulations, Lady Emma,” George said. “It was a pleasure to compete with you, and I daresay you do deserve to win.”

“It is kind of you to say so. I enjoyed making your acquaintance as well. When you told me about the games, you did not warn me of all this madness.”

“It does get worse every year,” George said with a laugh.

“George, you must have had a hunch that she would win,” Mr. Parks said. “Given that you wagered ten thousand pounds on the outcome and now you're a rich blighter!”

More guests approached and the mob surged forward. Emma, Olivia, and Prudence now stood with their backs against the wall. More young suitors arrived as well, with insipid compliments and tepid lemonade.

Emma regretted ever complaining about not being a diamond of the first water.

“Lady Emma, your gown is so becoming.”

It was from last season, hastily mended this afternoon to appear more fashionable.

“Your curls are perfection.”

They were the result of hours of effort with a hot iron.

“I see the heavens in your eyes.”

“Your nose, Lady Emma, is a dream.”

Emma just sighed.

Prudence and Olivia stood beside her all the while, awed into silence at the dramatic change in their circumstances. Usually they watched the swarm of suitors fawn over other girls. Never had they been so close themselves.

“I have never drunk so much lemonade in my life,” Prudence muttered. “I may be sick, right into this potted palm.”

“I am thinking now of all the balls in which I was parched but not one gentleman brought me a drink,” Olivia replied. “I feared I would perish of thirst.”

“Be careful what we wish for,” Prudence said.

“If only someone would bring us champagne, at least,” Emma said.

“Well, look who has a taste for the finer things, now that she is an heiress!”

“If you prefer this tart, warm lemonade, Olivia . . .”

“Champagne would be lovely,” Olivia replied. “However, my mother says that it is not appropriate for me. I might forget myself. Whatever that means.”

“Nothing fun is appropriate,” Prudence remarked. “Young ladies have such limited options for entertainment.”

“I never thought I'd say this,” Emma said, “but I do miss the quiet of our wallflower days.”

“I don't know why they even bother fawning. You are betrothed,” Prudence pointed out.

“There is that,” Emma said. But was she?

Blake had not
actually
proposed—­and their wedding was to take place in just two days' time! For all she knew, he still planned to jilt her, or be jilted. For all she knew, none of that mattered since
someone
had mentioned to the newspapers that their engagement was a sham. She wasn't surprised, but her curiosity was piqued: who had sent the darned letter? And who else knew about it?

No matter . . . she would escape it all when she eloped with Benedict. Tonight.

E
MMA HAD
WON
the Fortune Games. The declaration was not unexpected, but still Blake felt his equilibrium disturbed by the news. Even hours later, lost in the crowds at the soiree, he felt off balance, though that might be attributed to all the brandy he'd drunk since he read the letter over Emma's shoulder earlier that afternoon.

Given that the fortune he'd sought, the favor he'd craved, and his childhood home were essentially deeded to London's Least Likely to Love Him, a drink had been in order.

The thought of her living in Grey Manor with
Benedict
meant another drink was required. The thought of Emma married to Benedict and making love in the master bedroom, meant a few more brandies were utterly necessary.

Oh, and the rumor mill had exploded because someone had confided their suspicions to A Lady of Distinction that his betrothal with Emma had been a sham all along. Not exactly the sort of news that helped a man woo and seduce a reluctant woman.

Blake was achingly aware that he had fallen in love with her and that her heart was set upon that fool Benedict, and now there was nothing—­
nothing­­—­
stopping her from marrying him, leaving him a heartbroken mess. Unless at some point their fake romance developed into true feelings of love.

If he could only speak to her. If he could only touch her hand. If he could only kiss her.

But the mob of fawning, obsequious fortune hunters thronged around her and it was damn near impossible to get close.

His gut knotted as he watched George bend over Emma's outstretched hand, kissing it. If everyone thought her engagement was fake, it logically followed that they thought her a potential bride. Blake's hands balled into fists as she smiled prettily up at George.

It also logically followed that one of those two was a traitor, for who else knew of the deception?

Had Emma schemed from the start? Who had sent that letter, anyway?

Who had dared to suggest that his love was not real?

Only one thing mattered: that their love would be true. He had explicit instructions on how to woo her, and he would follow them to the letter.

Starting tonight.

E
MMA HAD WON
the Fortune Games, and if all went according to plan, Benedict knew he would ultimately be the one to win. After all, he had fallen in love with Emma
before
she was an heiress,
before
the ton took note of her. Already he missed the days when he could still claim her for a waltz. Tonight an absurd throng of guests surrounded her and he could not get close.

All he wanted was to marry Emma and live happily in their little townhouse with the library, the garden, and the children in the nursery upstairs. The enormous pressure his father had exerted had made Benedict buckle, but not break.

Marry an heiress, marry an heiress . . .

But the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and by God did he luck out when the woman of his heart's desire stood to inherit ninety thousand pounds. Unfortunately, she did so just a few days too late. Inconvenient, that.

He and Emma could still have their dreams come true. He'd planned everything for their elopement: his carriage was refurbished, the horses readied. Bricks would be warmed, soft blankets, a hamper of wine and foodstuffs tucked away. He had determined their route and identified the best inns along the way. He'd packed everything necessary, including his late mother's wedding band.

All he needed was his bride.

Benedict jostled with the mob, trying to get close to London's newest heiress, when suddenly there was a surge as the crowd parted, making way for His Grace, the Duke of Ashbrooke.

Behind him trailed a footman with a tray bearing not one, but three glasses of chilled champagne. Benedict looked over at Emma and her friends—­there was no mistaking the stars in their eyes or the dreamy smiles of women utterly charmed, impressed, and practically seduced.

Tonight. Benedict would claim her tonight. He had loved Emma when no one noticed her. He knew Emma like no one else did. They shared the same dreams. He would be Emma's future happiness, not the duke. And he would prove it. Tonight.

“
I
LOVE HIM,”
Olivia sighed as Blake appeared, with a footman bearing glasses of champagne.

“He has his benefits,” Prudence conceded. “I hope you keep him,” she said to Emma.

“Good evening, ladies,” Blake said with that swoon-­inducing smile of his. Emma was not immune. She thought of how his mouth felt upon her skin. She thought of how he tasted. She thought of how he expertly touched her, taunting and teasing, until he brought her to dizzying heights of pleasure.

“Why are you blushing?” Prudence asked quietly.

“I could not say,” Emma said, immediately taking a sip of her champagne. Truly, she could not put it into words.

“Cheers,” Olivia said cheerily, and the three girls clinked their champagne classes together. The footman, kindly, had removed at least seven glasses of lemonade.

Seeing that they were taken care of, Blake turned to address the mob. They quieted immediately when he set his gaze upon them. Amazing, that.

“The lady is spoken for,” he said calmly, and cool as you please.