The Wicked Wallflower (14 page)

 

Chapter 12

Can you hear that rustling? It's the sound of the haute ton frantically opening their invitations to the unexpected wedding between the Duke of Ashbrooke and Lady “Buxom Bluestocking” Emma Avery. While the duke and his intended vie for Lady Grey's fortune at her annual games, the bride's mother has begun planning the wedding of the season.

—­“
F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE,”

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

The last night of the Fortune Games

T
HE COLLECTIONS
FROM
the day's romantically themed scavenger hunt were artfully displayed on tables lining the drawing room. For beauty, there were Lady Grey roses, mirrors, and paintings portraying the beautiful Sussex landscape. Blake and Emma's collection of butterflies in a jar fluttered as love at first sight. Candles flickered. Blake's matches were dismissed as “more newfangled trouble.”

Agatha had slowly examined them all, with her Angus offering his arm for support. At her direction, he made notes in that red leather book he carried everywhere. To everyone's surprise, she did not send anyone home. While she seemed intrigued and pleased by the assortment of items, the group tensed in expectation of swift and sudden dismissals. Blake and Emma had pleased Agatha with most of their selections, thus earning back some points they had lost.

They were surprised again when Agatha announced there would be dancing and that the local gentry had been invited. Angelica Scarlatti and her players remained to play beautiful music. There was flirting and dancing. Young marriageable women sighed over Blake and lamented the news of his betrothal.

As she always did at balls, Emma sought refuge in the corner. Instead of fellow wallflowers for company, she had Lady Agatha.

Emma did not see Blake and she imagined all manner of trouble for him. There were quite a number of pretty young daughters of country squires. Lady Bellande was still on the prowl. He could be with any of them.

The world was returning to rights. Emma Avery, wallflower. The Duke of Ashbrooke, off to some debauchery.

“Did you enjoy the Fortune Games, Lady Emma?”

“Honestly, Lady Agatha, I did,” Emma replied. “However, my expectations were quite low.” Agatha gave a bark of laughter. “I had a marvelous time during today's scavenger hunt.”

By marvelous she meant: wonderful, wicked, tempting, maddening, and utterly lovely. It far surpassed her usual day's activity of sitting in her drawing room, without callers, feeling so very
not quite.

“You would never have so much time alone with your betrothed in London,” Agatha said, as if she could read Emma's mind as to
why
she had enjoyed the games so much. All those stolen moments when Blake made Emma dare to believe she was beautiful and desirable. Oh, she wasn't
convinced,
but she had considered it for the very first time.

“I've had very little time with Blake in London,” she said, “and I expect we shall return to that.” It was the truth, but she still felt like a liar.

“If the gossip is to be believed, you two only just became betrothed immediately before the party,” Agatha said. Was there suspicion in her eyes? An accusation in her tone? Or was her guilty conscience just imagining it?

“Whirlwind courtship,” she whispered, because it hurt to lie but she could not bring herself to confess the truth. Not on the last night of the Fortune Games.

“So tell me, Emma, what you would do with my fortune, should you win it? I never did get to hear your answer.”

“Hopefully nothing, for I realize what must transpire for me to possess it,” Emma said, and the moments the words were spoken, she knew them to be the truth.

Usually nothing extraordinary occurred in the wallflower-­spinster-­dowager corners of the ballroom, but tonight something quietly remarkable happened. Emma realized that while she desperately wanted to win the games, possess the fortune, and live happily ever after, she did not want to pay the price.

Not when the price was Agatha's life, Harriet's possibly dowry, Blake's Difference Engine and all the ­people who would benefit from it, or even Lady Bellande's charity balls. Not when the price was her pride and decency.

“Hmmph. I won't live forever, you know,” Lady Agatha said. “How would you spend ninety thousand pounds?”

“Like Miss Dawkins, I would use it to marry. And, honestly, some new dresses,” Emma added, thinking of the critical glances she'd received at her plain and unfashionable gowns.

“And yet you have betrothed yourself to Blake, who has no need of my fortune. If I give the fortune to you, I am in effect giving it to him. Technically speaking.”

“What if you didn't? That is to say, what if we didn't marry?” The words tumbled out.

“I would roll over in my grave and haunt you until the ends of the earth,” Lady Agatha said. Emma laughed nervously.

“I'm not joking,” Lady Agatha said flatly.

“I am aware,” Emma said with a sigh.

“In truth, Emma, I shall be dead and won't care one whit about anything. But I shall give you this piece of advice, as someone who has been married more than a few times:
the heart wants what the heart wants.
”

Startled, Emma's gaze flew to Agatha, and noted her expression was at once kind, shrewd, wise, and sharp. Emma could not make sense of it. Did she know? Was that permission to marry Benedict? Is that what she still wanted?

Out of the corner of her eye Emma saw Blake approaching. Rather, she saw the crowd melt apart, leaving a clear path for to him walk directly to her.

“Emma, darling, I have come to rescue you from Aunt Agatha's evil clutches,” he said smoothly.

“I do not need rescuing,” Emma protested.

“How kind of Your Rakishness to grace the wallflower and dowager corner with your charming presence,” Agatha drawled. “Our hearts are all aflutter.”

“I have recently discovered what treasures there are to be found in the darkest, most remote and uninviting corner of the ballroom,” Blake said, and not in his usual, cavalier way. He looked not at Agatha, but at Emma.

“I think there is nothing more tragic than two young lovers in the first blush of romance spending time conversing with a chaperone looking on,” Agatha declared. “Off with you both. Waltz at least thrice, and scandalously close together, if for no other reason than because you can.”

“Would you care to waltz, darling Emma?” Blake offered his hand. Emma hesitated, stricken in an attack of her nerves. She'd hardly done much dancing during her seasons and had never danced with a duke. For all the intimacies she had shared with Blake today, he hadn't held her in his arms, swept her off her feet, whirled her around the room until she was dizzy from the thrill of it.

She'd never been the girl singled out to waltz with the most handsome man in the ballroom. She imagined that Prudence and Olivia were with her, whispering encouragement and nudging her in the back.

“Apparently, I would like nothing more,” she replied, and it was the truth.

W
AL
TZING IN
B
LAKE'S
arms was everything she had dreamed it would be. Everything she, Prudence, and Olivia had discussed and imagined—­all while pretending not to care, really. It was just a waltz. It was just a man. It was just another ball.

Except when it wasn't.

In Blake's arm she felt so petite and weightless. He was so sure in his every step, and she felt his certainty in the way he held her hand and whirled her around the ballroom. She breathed him in. Savored the warm pressure of his palm, scandalously low on her back. Dangerous as it was, she started to surrender and to trust him.

What if she really could trust him?

If they were to marry—­which was ridiculous, because he hadn't asked and never would—­would she be able to trust such a renowned rake to return home to her and only her? No, of course not. The reason he could waltz her around so perfectly and seduce her so expertly wasn't just because of all the practice he'd had, but because it was what he did.

Not that it was even worth considering.

“We won't win,” Emma said, breaking the silence. A reminder that she oughtn't get swept away in this one, fleeting moment was definitely in order.

“Why do you say that?” Blake asked softly.

“Lady Agatha pointed out a legality that I had overlooked. What is mine becomes yours. And she despises your matches, your Difference Engine, your desire to change the whole world order. We won't win.”

“I'm sorry,” he said finally. He sounded genuine.

“Here we are waltzing and pretending to be in love when there is no point to this charade any longer,” she mused. Emma caught
sadness
in her voice, as if she wanted this game to last longer, even though she had spent much of it steadying her nerves until the world returned to normal.

“Don't say that, Emma. Can we not just enjoy this for what it is? A perfect summer evening, fine music, a beautiful woman in my arms, although she is a deplorable dancer who keeps stepping on my toes.”

“Well I haven't much practice,” she protested. “And I can't imagine it hurts you very much to have me stepping on your boots.”

“Emma,” he said, his voice urgent as he pulled her closer. Ducking his head to murmur in her ear, he asked, “What would it take to make you truly surrender, Emma?”

“I couldn't say,” she whispered. Her heart beat,
bump, bump, Benedict, Benedict
. But her gaze was drawn to Blake. Every nerve attuned to Blake.

“You don't seem to care for pretty compliments, though you do like when I kiss you.”

She blushed and looked away. She saw Agatha watching them. Agatha would say the truth.

“I just can't believe you, Blake. I suspect all the romantic affections are part of the ruse. As for your compliments—­if my eyes were so pretty, if I weren't so plain, wouldn't someone else have noticed by now? No one has. I am a wallflower of the first order.”

“Was,”
Blake corrected. “After this you will be sought after. Men will praise your eyes, your crooked smile, and the adorable way you crinkle your nose when sherry is placed before you. They will notice because I shined the light on you,” he said, and she opened her mouth to protest his vanity. Even though she had to admit there was truth to his words. Then he continued, taking her breath away, “But they will compliment you because it's true.”

He saw her.
Really saw her.

Blake saw beyond the horrid nicknames or her reputation. He saw the real girl who lived and breathed and loved. The girl who wasn't perfect, and he waltzed with her anyway.

He believed in her. The question was, could she believe in herself? As if Blake had lifted the veil over her eyes, Emma dared to consider
everything
in a new light. Had she perhaps put too much stock in the talk of the ton and started to believe that she wasn't remarkable or special? To even consider that was such a dramatic reversal of everything she'd ever thought and felt, Emma didn't think she could quite process it. Certainly not while Blake held her closer than was proper and slid his hand lower that he ought to.

Was it madness to put her heart and hopes in the hands of a known rogue? Probably.

In spite of all the thoughts and feelings jumbling within her, she couldn't think of a word to say, so she said, “I am speechless.”

“Good. I was afraid I had lost my touch with the ladies,” Blake said with his infamous heart-­melting grin. It was the Ashbrooke Effect in full force—­from his charming smile to his seductive touch to his masculine scent, which she inhaled deeply, only to crave more.

She was not immune. Not at all.

But she was Emma Wallflower, the one woman who didn't tumble right into his bed, and thus the one he was intent upon seducing. For the moment. She was not quite ready to surrender completely and risk losing him. She wasn't about to be just another one of his women either. Nor was she about to let him win his own wager.

“How endearing. How romantic,” she said. “I am just another one of your ladies, to be seduced and discarded. To be notches on your bedpost or trophies on your wall. What a great honor. I cannot describe how special I feel.”

“You overheard me at the inn,” he said plainly.

“Yes, I did. But even if I hadn't, I still wouldn't have fallen for your efforts at seduction,” Emma said. She took great pleasure in them, surely. But she didn't believe he meant them—­not in any serious, lasting way.
But
he thinks your crooked smile is charming.
He adored something she'd always been teased for.

“Because of your lover boy?” Blake asked with a questioning lift of his brow.