The Wicked Wallflower (6 page)

“Suit yourself, Jepson. I shall need a challenge to amuse me at the Fortune Games. Seducing Emma will be just the thing,” the duke said.

That was, of course, the moment that the lock gave way, the door burst open, and she tumbled into his bedchamber, only to land on her hands and knees. In her unfashionable and unflattering white muslin nightdress.

Blake was not wearing a shirt. It had to be noted.

It also had to be noted that his chest was broad, muscled, tanned, and strong. She wanted to touch him.

It also must be noted that she was intent upon refusing him and ensuring that he never knew how he affected her. He could never know that the sight of him shirtless made her heart race and her skin flush.

“Eavesdropping, were you?” Blake inquired as she picked herself off the floor.

“Naturally. I was having trouble sleeping, but your conversation was just the remedy. Not even
The Sights and History of Sussex: Unabridged
put me to sleep so quickly. I must have drifted off while leaning against the door.”

“I thought you were reading
Miss Darling and the Dreadful Duke.
”

“That was two hours ago, Your Grace. Do endeavor to keep up. I began on
The Sights and History of Sussex: Unabridged
because it seemed like an excellent sleeping remedy.”

The duke's lips quirked up in a smile. She adopted
a lofty expression and wished she were taller so she might actually look down upon him.

“Of course you need a remedy,” he said. “You must be exhausted from sitting in the carriage all day.”

“I found maintaining a polite interest in my company sapped my strength,” Emma replied. She added a sigh, to demonstrate her weariness at being plagued by his insufferable (and maddeningly attractive) company.

“Do you find me dull, Lady Emma?” Blake said, taking one, two, three, four easy steps across the room to stand in front of her with all his towering, masculine, naked muscularity. She did not find him dull at all.

He did it to intimidate her. To affect her. To try to seduce her, just for the sake of it. Just because he wanted to win at
everything,
so she had to ensure that he lost at
this.
She would not be a pawn in his quest for glory.

Her heart was racing, but she wasn't intimidated.

“It's safe to say I don't find you as enthralling as most women do,” Emma said. He was handsome, yes, but far too arrogant for her tastes.

“You should see a doctor about that. It can't be normal,” Blake told her, and she laughed.

“Just so we're clear, Your Grace, not only am I
not
the slightest bit interested in you, but my heart belongs to another man,” she said firmly. Yet her heart, which belonged to her beloved Benedict, was currently pounding away at a furious pace, all because of a certain arrogant, maddening duke.

 

Chapter 5

If I do not win the Fortune Games, I'm afraid of what I will have to do to survive.

—­
L
ADY
B
ELLANDE
'S TROUBLED

INNERMOS
T THOUGHTS ON

HER W
AY TO THE GAMES

C
AST
LE
H
ILL CAME
into view after a few miles on the long, winding road shadowed by massive trees. Its namesake was obvious: a large castle perched high on the ridge overlooking the sea. Home.

Emma closed her book and peered out the carriage window.

Blake remembered the first time he'd made this journey as a lad of just eight, already a duke and very much alone.

The gnarled old oak trees still loomed large over the drive. Black and white sheep still dotted the lush green pastures. The sky was still blue, the lands still vast and impressive. The horses slowed as if sensing the end of the journey. He still felt the same mixture of relief to have arrived and dread, for he was not ready for what awaited.

He felt like a violin string, pulled taut and out of tune.

It was all the same except for the dark-­haired girl peering out the window with wide blue eyes. It was all splendor to her. It was all something she might win.

It was everything he stood to lose if he was not victorious in the Fortune Games.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the house, and Jewkes, the butler, stepped out to greet them.

“Your Grace,” he intoned as always, whether Blake was an eight-­year-­old orphan or a man of three and thirty. Whether he was arriving here to stay—­home. Or whether he was here, one of a dozen, to debase himself by competing for Agatha's favor and fortune.

Agatha, the one woman who had ever loved and understood him.

And he was here to compete for what should be given freely. Hell, he hadn't even been invited. And he'd dragged an innocent woman into this mad effort to
not lose
Castle Hill, the one place he'd ever called home, as much as to win the fortune that would enable him to put an end to the tragic Ashbrooke legacy and create something newer, more powerful, more eternal in its place.

Jewkes just stood there, tall and firm, saying, “Your Grace” as if that were the only constant thing in the world.

To Blake's relief, they were shown to bedchambers where they might freshen up after the journey and dress for dinner. After a bath, a shave, and donning formal evening attire, he went to collect Emma.

He passed the stairs up to the fourth floor and thought of visiting the nursery. But memories ought to be left in the past.

That taut violin string pulled tighter, the tension stronger.

Blake knocked on Emma's door. He remembered being just a boy, knocking on Agatha's door, believing it his ducal duty to escort her to supper. Or because he awoke in the night, scared and confused. That was before Agatha had taught him how to analyze and master his emotions.

Emma opened the door, book in hand.

She wore a simple blue dress that made her eyes seem brighter. Her dark hair was done in one of those complicated arrangements with ribbons and pearls and whatnot that ladies favored. He only noticed a few wayward curls brushing against her cheeks, the nape of her neck, all those sensitive spots where a man kissed a woman. Perhaps he might press his lips there . . .

“You look lovely.” He meant it. He'd spent a fair amount of time in the carriage discovering that she wasn't the plain girl he'd sized her up to be upon first sight.

Her lips parted, a slightly crooked smile that was charming and fascinating. He thought of kissing her.

“How kind of you to say so,” she replied. Obviously she did not believe him. His compliments were not usually rebuffed.

He felt the violin string pulled tighter still, so far out of tune, so close to snapping. He exhaled slowly, not wanting to lose his temper or give her any indication that he was overset by nerves.

“What are you reading?” he asked, gesturing toward the book she held.

“
The Exhaustive History of the Ashbrooke Clan and Their Holdings
. A copy was left on my bedside table.”

“Mine, too. But you couldn't offer me anything to read such boring old trivia. Are you ready? Once I introduce you to Agatha as my fiancée, there will be no turning back. We will have to compete. We will probably win—­if you are up for the challenge.”

He had to ask. Because once they stepped amongst the competitors, he would not accept defeat. Blake William Peregrine Auden, the ninth Duke of Ashbrooke, did not lose.

“I've made it all the way to Castle Hill. There is no turning back now,” Emma replied. “Are you ready? Because I have every intention of winning.”

The tension on the violin string lessened, slightly.

Blake led her through the corridor, down the massive staircase, across the pink marble and alabaster foyer, and onto the terrace—­dodging ghosts and memories every step of the way.

In the stupidly pink foyer, he had been left alone with his dusty traveling trunks, just a young boy with a title longer than he was tall.

He had been a violent tempest of emotional turmoil.

Then Agatha arrived. She had coolly and calmly taken him by the hand and led him to the nursery. He still recalled his small, sticky orphan boy hand in her paper-­soft old lady hand.

On a round marble table in the foyer stood the same monstrosity: a large porcelain urn, hand painted with pastoral scenes of Castle Hill and containing the ashes of Lady Agatha's fourth husband, Harold, otherwise known as “the one she liked.” Some poor housemaid was tasked with dusting it each day, her job on the line if it should be anything less than perfectly maintained.

The hallway on the second floor, where she had pointed out her bedroom and said he shouldn't hesitate to disturb her. She was old and no longer had a husband, so he wouldn't interrupt anything, she had told him. He'd been confused then, but he understood: he was always welcome, her fierce little duke.

He hoped this was still true.

He held Emma's hand tightly, grateful for the comfort it afforded. He was troubled by feelings he couldn't have articulated even if he found himself at knifepoint, on the edge of a cliff overlooking a pit of man-­eating crocodiles. Memories of the past haunted him, the warm touch of her hand keeping him grounded in the present.

Notoriously heartless scoundrel he might be, he held on for dear life.

Hand in hand they passed through the French doors leading to the stone terrace, which overlooked the gardens and beyond that the water. One could see the blue line of the horizon, and the air carried the salty scent of the sea.

“The Duke of Ashbrooke and his betrothed, Lady Emma Avery,” Jewkes announced.

The small, select crowd peered at the latecomers. George, knowing the truth about the engagement, grinned wickedly. Blake wondered if he could count on him to keep the information to himself.

The Copleys—­second cousins—­were there, looking peevish, as always. Cousins Archibald Pleshette and Lord Dudley stood off to the side, radiating snobbery. Blake noted the predatory gaze of Lady Bellande, the widow of his long deceased second cousin. It was how women other than Emma usually looked at him.

Emma's hand tightened around his, sending a surge of possessiveness shooting through him.

Then the crowd parted, revealing Aunt Agatha. Her white hair was done in an elaborate, towering arrangement that probably added eight inches to her height. As per her unique style, she appeared to wear the entire collection of Ashbrooke family jewels at once. Dangling ruby ear bobs, diamond necklaces tangled with strands of black pearls, a sparkling rock on every finger, gold and silver bracelets clinking on her thin, bony wrists.

Blake couldn't help it. He squeezed Emma's hand, hard.

Aunt Agatha was older, grayer. It was her eyes that undid him, because they were as blue, keen, intelligent, and sharp as the day he first arrived. She had taken one look at him and said, “Well all right then, come along.” There was no coddling or nonsense with Agatha. After a plethora of clucking, pitying aunties and cousins after the Accident, it was what he had needed. Desperately.

He remembered how she'd stood so tall, her spine so straight.

Though she still carried herself proudly, she no longer stood on her own. A footman held her arm, lightly, as if merely decoration. But Blake suspected that if the man let go, his beloved Aunt Agatha would topple over and shatter on the paving stones.

His heart clenched. Stupid heart.

Emma sighed as the footman approached. He was young, golden, brawny, and would be called handsome by any chit with a pulse. Blake took immense comfort in Agatha's choice of companion. The old broad had life in her yet. If nothing else, she obviously wasn't blind.

“The Duke of Ashbrooke deigns to grace us with his presence. I am beside myself with glee,” Agatha said dryly, by way of greeting.

Blake exhaled with relief. Agatha was still Agatha. He had not been too late. But it had been too long.

“I fancied some extra spending money so I thought I'd drop by,” he said. Beside him, Emma sucked in her breath sharply. She didn't know what he had just said meant
Hello,
and
I have missed you
, and a million other things that could never be put into words.

“As impertinent as ever. How predictable. How dull,” Agatha replied. Then she rolled her eyes, which he knew meant that all was well in the world.

“My sincerest apologies,” Blake said. Then he swept into a deep bow, and upon rising declared, “I forget we are all here for the amusement of a crotchety old dowager.”

“You'll do well to remember it, Duke, lest I recall that you were not actually invited this year,” she stated loudly. “Make a note of that, Angus.”

The handsome footman did just that in the small red leather volume he kept close to his chest. One kept score in the Fortune Games, with Agatha awarding points for small triumphs and removing them at the slightest misstep. But in the end, she picked the winner based upon some formula that even he had never discerned.

The other guests had started to hum and whisper as they began to count their numbers. Emma smiled tightly in a
You'll pay for this, mister
way, so Blake treated her to one of his legendary smiles and kissed her hand.

“An oversight in your old age, and I forgive you for it,” Blake said smoothly. “However, I thought you'd be vexed if I didn't introduce you to my betrothed. Dearest Aunt Agatha, please do meet my fiancée, Lady Emma Avery.”

George started coughing. Blake hoped someone would smack him on the back, hard.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Grey,” Emma said.

“Are you really?” Agatha asked skeptically.

“I am also terrified and intrigued,” Emma confessed.

“I suppose he warned you about the games,” Agatha said, sounding totally bored. “Tell me, are you terrified or intrigued by those?”

“It can't be any more torturous than a wallflower's fourth season on the marriage mart,” Emma replied without skipping a beat. Blake's heartbeat quickened. This had never happened—­a woman who wasn't completely rendered spineless and spiritless in the presence of Aunt Agatha.

“But you are no longer on the marriage mart. You, a wallflower on your fourth season, have managed to snare this prime specimen of manhood,” Agatha said with a dismissive wave of her old hand toward the prime specimen that was his person.

“Physically speaking,” Emma conceded, with a glance that felt like a caress. Then she dropped her voice. “His wits, on the other hand . . .”

Agatha leaned in close, conspiratorially, and said: “Makes one wonder if he was dropped as a child.”

Blake felt Emma lean in farther to whisper to Agatha, but he pulled her back to immediately put an end to a relationship that could only rain down terror upon him.

“While I am just delighted you two are getting along like a village on fire, perhaps Lady Emma would like to meet the other guests,” he suggested, even though the other guests were certainly the twelve most boring ­people who had ever walked the earth.

“I can't imagine she would,” Agatha said. “They're a giant lot of boorish fortune hunters.”

Said batch of boorish fortune hunters had the decency to blush, turn pale, and otherwise act dismayed by such a pronouncement.

But then Blake counted them, each and every one. There were only ten. Which meant that while no invitation had been extended to him—­and his guest—­he had been welcomed. Wanted. Expected.

The Dining Room

The guests—­competitors—­found their places around the long mahogany table in the dining room. Each setting contained numerous china plates, highly polished silver forks, knives, spoons, and crystal glasses. Blake glanced across the table at Emma and saw her pale at the setting. Odds were, a mistake would be made.