The Wicked Wallflower (9 page)

“You cannot write that,” she said, aghast. “A gentleman shouldn't mention a woman's . . .”

His gaze slid leisurely to hers. She inhaled sharply. He grinned.

“Darling, men don't wax poetic over a woman's eyes,” Blake explained. “They ogle their breasts, and that's just to start.”

“Some do,” she said defensively. Blake set down the pen, suddenly intrigued over which gentleman of her admittedly small acquaintance was in the habit of blathering about a woman's eyes. Probably the one to whom “her heart was already engaged.”

“Is this your secret beau for whom you require the fortune? Tell me, has he written poetry praising the beauty of your eyes, like deep pools of woodland springs, or the ocean or some other body of water?”

She scowled mightily at him, revealing that he had guessed exactly.

“I think my eyes are my finest feature,” she said. They were fine: cool, blue, dangerously aware. And they saw right through him.

“They're nice, but your lips are far more alluring,” Blake told her. “Your smile is slightly crooked, and my attention is drawn to it. Which means I have spent an inordinate amount of time focused completely on your mouth. Then my thoughts wander to what I could do with, and to, your mouth. I promise you'll like it. As will I.”

“I don't think a gentleman has ever said anything about me was alluring,” Emma remarked.

Men were such idiots. But then again, had he ever noticed Emma's mouth before she uttered the most devastating things to him? No.

He hadn't noticed her at all. And now he couldn't stop looking.

“There's a first time for everything,” he said. He returned his focus to this ridiculous love letter. “Now where was I . . . ‘I have been haunted by fantasies, wishing to claim you, to ravish you, to possess you, to show you such pleasures you have never even imagined.' ”

He glanced up from the page to see her shocked expression: eyes wide, brows arched, her lips parted in shock. Very well, it was more erotic than romantic. But that was his kind of romance: the kind of pleasure that left both ­people calling to God and gasping for breath.

The clock ticked away the seconds, reminding them the hour was late. They were alone. On her bed. She was an innocent. And he was composing a love letter about pleasure and possession.

His brain knew it was fake. Other parts of him did not.

“What have you written, Emma?”

“ ‘Dear duke . . . you shock me,' ” she said slowly as she wrote.

“ ‘I tempt you.' Write that down,” he urged, peering over her shoulder. His gaze strayed from the page to her breasts. They'd fit perfectly in his hands, he reckoned.

“ ‘You shock me. You tempt me. You drive me mad—­' ” Her voice had become breathless.

“ ‘You desire me,' ” he murmured. There was an infinitesimal pause in which she did not deny him, and he experienced an undeniable surge of triumph.

“ ‘I count the minutes . . .' ” she said, still writing.

“ ‘Until we kiss again.' ”

“ ‘Until this farce is complete,' ” she said firmly. She finished the sentence with a flourish. “ ‘Never yours, Emma.' ”

“Charming,” he said dryly. She gave a little shrug and started composing a new letter on a fresh sheet of paper.

“For this letter, why don't you imagine writing to your lover boy,” Blake suggested. “Since I obviously do not inspire your romantic thoughts. Oddly annoying, that. But the important thing is that we convince everyone this is for real.”

“Lover boy, really?” she drawled.

“Beau. Suitor. Gentleman caller,” he said dismissively. “You have declared your affection for him. Furthermore, one doesn't participate in the Fortune Games for a spot of fun. No, they must have a reason. Also—­”

“You're simply vexed that there is one woman in the world who is immune to your charms and would prefer to save herself for another man. A better man.” Emma's delight and marvel at perceiving these rarities was undisguised. She treated him to that crooked smile of hers.

Vexed wasn't exactly the word for what he felt. Perhaps intrigued. Or perplexed. Or maddened.

He refused to believe it. And it would be easy enough to disprove it.

He leaned in close enough to whisper in her ear. “Immune to my charms? Are you certain, Emma?”

Blake let his lips lightly caress the soft skin just near her earlobe and breathed her in. He never could resist the touch or the scent or the taste of a woman. He was always deeply pleased when they shivered from a feather light caress. She proved to be no exception.

“Quite sure, thank you,” she said briskly. “Now let's return to our correspondence.”

With her head bowed and her attentions firmly fixed upon the letter, she did not see the firm line of his mouth—­she had refused him, again. His expression devolved into a scowl, for he was Ashbrooke and he was never refused.

Especially by a wallflower who shivered under his touch, proving that she did feel a spark of attraction for him even if her heart was otherwise engaged.

Maddening, that.

Blake did not know heads or tails in a world where a woman refused him, or, for that matter, a world where Agatha did not invite him home. A world where he had to compete for a fortune and favor with that lot of “boorish fortune hunters.”

A world where his roguish antics had finally caught up with him.

“You aren't writing, Ashbrooke. You ought to be writing about your everlasting love for me.”

“ ‘Dear Emma, I live for our every stolen moment,' ” he said, writing. “ ‘I thank God there is a sturdy trellis leading directly to your bedroom window, as if our midnight rendezvous were meant to be blessed by God himself.' ”

“You cannot write that! I will be completely compromised if anyone were to see that! Also, I do not have a trellis outside of my window.”

“We're betrothed, so it will be fine. And no one will check.”

“It's bad enough that you are in my bedchamber at a house party when it is past midnight. We could be caught at any moment.”

“Good. That will make our story more believable,” Blake replied. “Perhaps I'll ring for a servant or give a shout.”

Emma closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Her lips were moving as if she were counting backward from ten.

“What are you doing?”

“I am thinking of my lover boy,” she replied, eyes still closed. “And the fortune. And how you are insufferable.”

“But not without a certain charm,” he said, and then he leaned in close and pressed a kiss at that exquisitely sensitive spot just near her earlobe. He took his time about it, too, reveling in the warmth of her skin on his lips and that particular scent of a woman that never failed to entrance him.

He wanted her to want him. And not just in an “everyone wants me” sort of way. He wanted the pleasure of surrender—­and he wanted her to experience it, too.

So he pressed another delicate kiss upon her sensitive skin. It was a kiss that was just a hint and a promise of more.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

“Testing your resolve,” Blake murmured, enjoying the wickedness of it all. The only problem was that it tested his restraint, too.

“Oh dear God,” she huffed.

“Ashbrooke will be fine. Or Blake.”

“You damned rogue,” she murmured.

“You're not the first woman to call me that,” he replied, voice low. He thought about kissing her full on the mouth. Or perhaps just a gentle caress from her wrist, higher . . .

“And surely not the last,” she added. “Here, write a response to this letter.”

Blake took the sheet and pretended to read. Instead, he did some simple arithmetic and concluded that this was the longest amount of time he'd ever spent in bed with a woman in which nothing had happened.

Nothing like his usual bed activities, at any rate.

But something tremendous had occurred. He had taken one long, thorough look at her and really seen Emma. Now he couldn't unsee her. Thus he was achingly aware of his proximity to a beautiful woman.

One who was utterly unmoved by his every overture, be it a look, a wicked suggestion, or an occasional brush of his hand against hers, his thigh adjacent to hers where they sat side by side on the bed.

Never yours. My heart is otherwise engaged.
She did not want him. It was a challenge. He always rose to the challenge.

But now I want you.
This revelation was not a shock. Of course he wanted her, and that wanting was intensified because she was playing hard to get, which was a novelty for him. Also, they were in bed, the hours were late, and they were both cloaked in shadows from moonlight and candles. It was elementary mathematics and it all added up to one thing: desire.

The after-­midnight hours passed in silence as they traded letters and composed replies. An entire courtship took place in one night.

She described fondly their first meeting at the ruins of an ancient gazebo in Hyde Park during a sudden summer thunderstorm. She wrote of waltzes where she felt swept off her feet and light-­headed with delight. She alluded to kisses in the moonlight and soft laughter during calling hours and long chats before the fire in the library, with windows overlooking the garden.

Blake easily—­far too easily—­penned replies that were much less sweet and far more erotic. He imagined the way her gown, damp from that sudden summer thunderstorm, had clung to the luscious curve of her hips and the perfect swells of her breasts, and then he wrote it as if it were a treasured memory. In these letters, he waltzed her right out onto the terrace and into the secluded corners of the garden, where they indulged in stolen moments and passionate kisses. He composed odes to her blue eyes—­whatever the lady wished—­but also to her smile, the soft skin he had tasted, and he wrote not untruthfully about his burning desire to know more of her. All of her.

He handed her the letter and watched with satisfaction as her cheeks flushed pink.

E
MMA HAD BARELY
recovered from the shock of having the
Duke of Ashbrooke in her bedchamber
when to her great surprise the
Duke of Ashbrooke was on her bed.

And then, unfathomably, the
Duke of Ashbrooke was writing her love letters.

And then, defying all expectations, the
Duke of Ashbrooke kissed her.

Gently. Barely. Not a proper kiss. But his lips—­upon which legions of women had sighed over—­had caressed her intimately as no one ever had. Not even Benedict.

These letters . . . she had to concentrate on these letters. But the duke was near, impossibly handsome and doing ridiculous things like describing her as beautiful and alluring.

If that was true, why hadn't anyone ever noticed?

He must not be right in the head. Yet when he looked at her, she felt as if she was truly being seen—­for the first time in her life. As if she was alluring and beautiful and interesting. Not the buxom and batty girl who read too many books.

Thank God she had, for it informed the contents of the love letters she wrote. She wrote of waltzes and balls and romantic moments—­all stolen from novels and tangled up with her daydreams of Benedict.

The duke wrote of passionate kisses that left her breathless just reading about them. His letters hinted of an erotic love she'd never imagined and suddenly had an outrageously strong craving to know. What would it be like to have him gaze upon her lustily? What would it be like to frantically kiss him in a moonlit garden?

She was London's Least Likely to have a duke in her bed. And yet . . .

Emma glanced up at Blake.

He was focused upon whatever delightfully wicked things he was writing.

He really was handsome.

“What is it, Emma?”

“Nothing. It's nothing.” She just thought . . . what if? Perhaps they would never meet in an abandoned gazebo in Hyde Park where he would be riveted by her beauty. Perhaps he would never climb a trellis into her bedroom window at midnight because he could not bear to be apart from her. But what if they did kiss, just once?

“Nothing?” He turned to face her. Lifted one brow, as all the best rakes did.

She was aware that mere inches of air separated them.

She was aware of his lips pressing lightly against hers. She closed her eyes. She was aware of her heart pounding. And Blake deepening the kiss, slowly but deliberately. He tasted her; she tasted him. She was aware of a surge of heat within and an urgent need to be touched, everywhere.

Oh, how she wanted to reach out and thread her fingers through the dark locks of his hair. Oh, how she ached to feel the warmth of his chest and his heartbeat under her bare palm. Oh, how she wanted to know the feeling of being desperately desired and thoroughly loved.

But she was aware—­too aware—­of the stupid wager he had made. She was aware that this wasn't true desire, it was just the Ashbrooke Effect, and legions of women had been similarly afflicted. It wasn't special.

She was painfully aware that this man was the Duke of Ashbrooke. He could have anyone. And she was London's Least Likely.

She put her palm on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

“You should go,” she whispered.

“Emma . . .“ He whispered her name. If she didn't know better, she might have heard longing in his tone. But her imagination had run wild enough tonight. All this talk of love and beauty, gazebos and rainstorms, waltzes and passionate kisses, had gone to her head. But truly, none of it was real. It was all just pretend.

 

Chapter 7

The Fortune Games Scores:

Lord Dudley: –2

Lady Emma: –6

Everyone else: 0

L
ADY
A
GATHA DID
nothing by halves. While everyone else strolled along the pea gravel paths of the house's manicured gardens, Her Ladyship was carried on a litter by four footmen best described as strapping young lads.

Their breeches were exceedingly fitted. Their gray jackets clung perfectly to their wide, strong shoulders. Crimson waistcoats highlighted their broad chests, which tapered to narrow waists. Each one stood at least six feet tall and possessed golden blond hair and chiseled features.

Families of the haute ton vied to have the tallest, most handsome footmen. Lady Grey won.

Emma, Miss Dawkins, and Lady Bellande, who had been amiably chatting together, fell silent when they appeared. They took a good long look. They heaved the most heartfelt sighs. It was too much perfect male beauty to pretend not to notice.

Lady Agatha just smiled like a cat in cream. She waved to her guests, bejeweled bracelets jangling and all the diamonds and gems glittering in the sun.

“Oh for God's sake,” Blake muttered, bringing a smile to Emma's lips. While he was the only man in the group who compared to the lot of brawny young men, she caught him stand straighter and thrust his chest forward.

It was almost as if the duke felt competitive with these footmen. In Emma's mind, there was no competition.

Another brawny servant joined the group, and it soon became clear that his sole task was to hold a pink parasol trimmed with lace above Lady Agatha, shielding her from the mid-­morning sun.

The group's progress through the grounds was not fast. They stopped, first, at the famous heirloom rose gardens, which had been effusively praised in Emma's book,
Sussex: The Quiet County
. There were over two dozen varieties planted, in varying shades of deep crimson, plump buds in bright pink, sunbursts of gold deepening into rusty orange, and feather white blossoms.

Butterflies flitted from flower to flower. Bees hummed. Birds chirped. All blissfully unaware that the group of ­people strolling in their midst were deep in the throes of competition for one of England's largest fortunes.

“Your gardens are lovely, Lady Grey. I particularly love these roses,” Miss Dawkins said sweetly.

“That is a particular variety bred for the first Duchess of Ashbrooke,” Lady Agatha replied. “While the flower is beautiful, the stems possess an uncommon number of thorns. Much like the lady herself.”

“Duchess Mary. Daughter of Marquis of Blandford,” Emma said.

“You have read your Debrett's,” Lady Agatha remarked.

“From cover to cover, under pain of death by my mother,” Emma replied, drawing an approving smile from Agatha. She'd also read more of
The Exhaustive History of the Ashbrooke Clan and Their Holdings
this morning whilst her maid did her hair. The family was wealthy, and full of fascinating characters who were forever crossing the line of propriety. In that, Blake was no exception.

“Me, too,” Miss Dawkins said. “Unfortunately, suitors do not seem impressed with a young lady's knowledge of the genealogies of all the great families in England.”

“I believe this particular rose was for the second duchess?” Lady Bellande called out.

“That is a daisy, Lady Bellande,” Lady Agatha said dryly.

“I must have spent too much time studying our family history instead of my botany,” Lady Bellande replied with a tittering laugh. No one else joined in.

“She's probably spent too much time shopping instead of reading anything,” Miss Dawkins said under her breath.

“Indeed,” Emma replied, “but I would trade my encyclopedic knowledge of Debrett's for one of her dresses any time.”

Miss Dawkins wholeheartedly agreed.

“Your variety is beautiful, Lady Grey,” Emma said as she paused before a particularly stunning rose. It was large with snow-­white petals tipped in red. The scent was strong and wonderful.

A patch of shade fell over her. It was Blake, and he expertly plucked a rose and separated the thorns from the stem with a knife that disappeared into his pocket as quickly as it had emerged.

“For you, darling
Emma
,” he murmured, presenting it to her. There was just a hint of a smile on his lips. All it took was an instant for Emma to be swept up in the feeling of being wanted and wooed by this charming rogue.

Then she remembered this wasn't real. It was just a game.

She closed her eyes, deeply inhaled the flower's fragrance and pretended she wasn't disappointed.

“You could make a fortune selling these,” Blake remarked.

“I already have a fortune,” Agatha replied. “Besides, I would never stoop to engage in trade.”

“Times are changing,” Blake remarked. “One day the aristocracy will cease to matter.”

The other guests ceased their chattering and peered curiously at Blake after he uttered such heresy.

“That may well be, but I am not changing. And I needn't encourage it,” his aunt said dismissively.

Emma watched, intrigued, as Blake's features hardened.

She was struck with curiosity and the urge to console him. As if the tall, devastatingly handsome, charming Duke of Ashbrooke needed consoling about anything, ever. She couldn't quite imagine it, and yet there was an air of distance around him suddenly, and she wanted it to go away.

“Let's carry on with our walk,” Agatha declared. “I would like to get to the ruins for lunch.”

Blake and Emma fell in step together and he linked his arm with hers.

She was aware of everyone's watchful eyes, hoping they would make a mistake. The whispers didn't escape her notice either. She knew they puzzled over the shocking sight of London's Least Likely with the duke—­except for Pleshette, who lamented the wear to his boots.

“What is it that you would like to change?” Emma asked when they had walked far enough ahead to be out of earshot from the group.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You looked peevish when Lady Agatha said she did not want to encourage change,” Emma explained.

“I did not look peevish. Men do not look peevish. It's a natural law.”

“You're right,” Emma said obligingly. “Your expression darkened considerably, causing many a young maiden to tremble.”

“Have you been reading more rubbish novels, Lady Emma?”

“Yes, in addition to the history of the Ashbrooke family. Riveting stuff.”

Blake scoffed. “Hardly riveting. I haven't bothered to read it. The lot of it was drilled into me during my lessons as a child by Lady Agatha herself,” he said.

“What of your parents?” Emma dared to ask. Was that too personal? He was her fiancé. In a way. He had spent most of the previous night in her bed, writing love letters to her. She could ask him about his parents.

“Ah, I see you haven't read up to chapter ten yet,” he remarked.

“I'm only up to the third duke. But I will skip ahead to it upon our return,” Emma said. “And you are avoiding the question of why your expression altered, indicating strong thought and feeling.”

“Agatha won't like what I want to use the money for,” Blake said with an affectionate smile. “Granted, she won't like what you intend to do with the money either.”

T
HE RUINS A
T
Castle Hill had once been a fortress overlooking the water. These days naught remained but a pile of moss-­covered stones alluding to walls and towers that once were. A terraced area and been reinforced to provide a lovely picnic spot with stunning views of rolling hills and the ocean below.

A long table had been set for a formal luncheon. Footmen poured wine, though at Emma's place there was a small glass of sherry in addition to a glass of chilled rosé wine.

The menu consisted entirely of pink foods: poached salmon, slices of ham, heirloom tomato salad, and roasted beets. For dessert, strawberries and cream. The men seemed resigned to the girlishly colored food, though someone grumbled about such light fare after such a long and taxing walk. That prompted Agatha to make a comment to Angus, who made a note in his book, and everyone effusively praised the meal after that.

“As we partake of this delicious luncheon, I should like you all to tell me what you would do with my fortune if you were to possess it,” Lady Agatha began.

Emma shrank down in her seat.
Do not pick me. Do not pick me.

“Let's hope she doesn't ask you,” Blake leaned in and whispered in her ear.

“Indeed,” Emma remarked dryly. She could never explain to Lady Agatha—­terrifying, bejeweled, perspicacious—­that she wished to jilt her favorite family member for another man.

If she could just make it through this meal without being asked, then she might still have a chance at happily-­ever-­after.

“Lady Bellande, you begin,” Lady Agatha declared, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. Beside her, Blake did, too.

“I would like to do good in this world,” Lady Bellande said earnestly while leaning forward to better display her bosom to Blake. This rankled Emma tremendously. “Which is why I would give all the money to various charities.”

“You mean throw charity balls,” Lady Agatha interpreted. Lady Bellande had the decency—­or the acting skills—­to look affronted by the accusation that she wished for all of London to drink and dance away Lady Agatha's fortune. For ­charity.

“That is one way of supporting a variety of institutions,” she answered diplomatically.

“Tell us which charities you would host parties for,” Lady Copley challenged. “I mean, support.”

Lady Bellande's mouth curved into an approximation of a smile, but her eyes shot daggers. Discrediting each other in front of Agatha could help a competitor be sent home, or at the very least get another black mark in Angus's book.

A long silence ensued in which the table waited to learn which charity would first spring to Lady Bellande's mind.

“War Widows and Orphans,” she finally said. “And other unfortunate women. It is a plight near and dear to my heart, as a widow myself.”

“I wonder how much of it would be spent on champagne and ball gowns?” Lady Copley mused, sipping her wine and whittling away at her competitor's chance of winning.

“Probably the same amount as if you won the fortune, my dear,” Lord Copley said, patting his wife's hand as if the affectionate gesture would disguise his cutting remark.

“Your snuff box collection is an investment, I suppose,” his wife retorted. “Never mind all the money you spend on something you stick up your nose.”

“Lord and Lady Copley: a cautionary tale for the marriage minded,” Blake muttered under his breath so that only Emma might hear.

“Shhh.
We
will live happily ever after.”

“You, with your lover boy. Me, with my lovers,” he murmured.

“Something like that,” she whispered, glancing nervously at Lady Agatha to see if she'd heard.

“Jewkes, do keep the wine flowing,” Lady Agatha said. ­“People always say the most truthful things after a few glasses of wine, especially in the afternoon. Lady Emma, how is your sherry? Miss Dawkins, what would you do with the money?”

“Honestly?” she echoed in a small voice.

“Honestly,” Lady Agatha said.

“I would use it to attract a suitor,” Miss Dawkins said. “Failing that, it would keep me in funds until my old age. Perhaps I would buy a cottage by the sea.”

“That's a lovely and sensible plan, my dear,” Miss Montgomery said kindly.

Emma paused in lifting the sherry glass to her lips, struck by the realization that if she won the fortune it would be at the expense of Miss Dawkins or the sweet Miss Montgomery, who had thoughtfully reminded her to fetch her bonnet before setting out on the walk this morning.

Did she really deserve it more than Miss Dawkins or Miss Montgomery, whose prospects had dried up long ago?

Miss Dawkins was a sweet girl, a fellow wallflower. It was like stealing from Olivia, or Prudence, and it felt wrong. How would Miss Montgomery survive, forever dependent upon her relations? A feeling of unease crept over Emma. Could she enjoy her happily-­ever-­after knowing at what cost she had obtained it?

She sipped her wine, hoping that it would soothe her nerves and conscience.

“A cottage by the sea sounds just lovely,” Lady Copley said. “Brighton is lovely and fashionable. I should love to have a cottage there as well.”

“Yes, one just like the King's,” Lord Copley remarked.

“Perhaps in a more traditional style,” Lady Copley conceded. “The King's Brighton Pavilion is certainly . . . original.”

“Blake, I'm sure we'd all love to hear what you'd spend my fortune upon,” Agatha drawled.

“Gifts for his mistresses, for wagers and the latest carriages,” Dudley jested. Seeing Emma's cheeks redden, he added, “I beg your pardon, Lady Emma.”