The Wicked Wallflower (10 page)

Which only made things worse, as it drew everyone's attention to her and the sad truth that it was unbelievable she should have made a match with the duke. She knew that. Yet it still stung, like a slap across the face, to hear conformation of it. In public.

After the events of last night, she'd had fleeting moments of believing that maybe, just maybe, the duke might find her beautiful and alluring and want to do all the wickedly pleasurable things he had described in their letters. For a moment she dared to believe that perhaps she was lovely and had only been overlooked.

Back to earth she fell. Thanks to Dudley.

Then Blake's hand closed over hers protectively. That little kindness melted her heart toward him.

“I think you meant to say gifts for my beloved wife,” Blake said smoothly, with a hint of a lethal threat in his tone.
The Duke of Ashbrooke championing her!
Emma never imagined it. Never imagined she would feel it in the triple time beat of her heart. Never imagined how warm and lovely and protected it would make her feel.

“I beg your pardon,” Dudley said, chastised. “I think I did mean that.”

“In addition to showering her with jewels and whatever feminine frippery Emma wants, I would also use the funds to construct my Difference Engine,” Blake said.

A hush fell over the table—­what a queer thing for him to say!

“
A
RE YOU STILL
going on about your ridiculous engine?” Dudley sneered. Blake felt every muscle in his body tense. He willed his voice to be calm, his demeanor cool.

“Yes, Dudley, I'm still going on about a machine that would revolutionize nearly every industry in England.”

“I just don't see a need for it. We have the ready reckoners,” Dudley replied.

“Calculating all the sums does keep many men employed,” Edmund added.

“Men who make errors that have devastating consequences,” Blake countered. His own parents had been victim to a stupid miscalculation in architectural plans that had been drawn up from erroneous figures in the ready reckoner. They'd been buried alive, practically. “Those men could construct the engines instead.”

“Oh, now you want to build more than one? You haven't even built the first one,” Dudley scoffed, accompanied by an incredulous laugh.

“I have a working prototype,” Blake said firmly. “I have plans, designs, and calculations for a full working machine. I need only the funds to hire someone to draw up construction plans and build the engine.”

Blake said all of that, aware that no one heard him. ­People looked at him and saw
duke
or
reckless scoundrel
or
notorious seducer
. He supposed it was his fault; that was the version of himself he presented to the world. It was the version Emma—­and potential investors, and his peers—­had judged him on, before they even met.

In moments like these he began to regret all the brandy, women, and scandals.

When it really mattered, no one believed him.

Blake glanced at Aunt Agatha. Surely she would understand.
Find the formula.
She liked control and to triumph over emotion and human fallibility. Above all she knew
why
this mattered to him.

“I don't like these newfangled machines,” she said, bracelets jangling as she sipped her wine. With that, he feared the Fortune Games lost. Oddly, it paled in comparison to the loss of her support for his endeavor.

E
MMA THOUGHT THEY
might have just lost the games. Lady Agatha—­and everyone else—­clearly hated Blake's Difference Engine. She didn't see a need for the machine in her own life—­the numbers she dealt with never added up to much—­but she didn't think it was a terrible use of the money.

It was certainly no worse than Miss Dawkins's plans to attract a suitor. Even Lady Bellande's charity balls would require many expensive gowns, keeping the dressmakers employed.

Emma might have managed to get through the luncheon without sharing her own selfish reason for wanting the fortune. But she was no longer confident that she deserved it. And if she truly didn't deserve it, what was she doing here? She ought to return to London and convince Benedict to elope with her before anyone discovered her scheme with Blake and she became a pariah.

It was imperative no one know the truth.

Such were her thoughts when Blake clasped her wrist and led her away from the others and down a tangled path through a thicket of trees leading to a small clearing. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead. The ground was covered in leafy green ferns and soft pads of moss.

She immediately feared for her life.

Then Blake smiled, a wicked grin playing on his mouth, his eyes alight with mischief, and she immediately feared for her virtue.

She couldn't cry for help, not without ruining the ruse. If she were madly in love with her fiancé, she would delight in a moment alone with him—­not scream for protection. So she bit down on her lip and tugged her hand away. As if retreating from a wild animal, she took one small step back, and then another, as Blake slowly walked toward her until her back was against a thick tree. He blocked her in by placing his palms against the trunk on either side of her head.

“What are you doing?” Why, why,
why
did her voice have to be so breathless around him?

“I want to show you something,” he murmured.

“We will be separated from everyone else. We
are
separated from everyone else. We should return to the group.”

She could hear Olivia in her head:
Young ladies did not find themselves at the mercy of a rogue.

His body was inches from hers. She was acutely aware of the slight distance and her traitorous desire for him to be even
closer.

“Perhaps I wanted to be alone with you,” Blake murmured. “Or perhaps this is part of the ruse, Emma.“

But no one can see us.
And then Blake untied her bonnet strings and let the hat fall to the ground. He pushed a wayward strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear, his fingertips gently grazing her cheeks. The gesture was so tender, so promising, she felt herself softening.

“What are you doing?”

Blake began where he had started last night: a kiss, ever so lightly, upon the delicate place just by her earlobe. Who knew the warmth of his lips touching there would send shivers tingling up and down her spine?

She knew. It was so strange that she knew.

Blake did not stop there. Emma stood still, save for the thunderous pounding of her heart. The words
no
or
stop
or
we shouldn't
or
young ladies do not
evaporated on their path from her brain to her lips.

He pressed more kisses along the delicate skin of her neck. She felt his warm breath and the touch of his lips. His hands inched closer, his body pressed nearer.

Emma closed her eyes.

She tried to conjure thoughts of Benedict but found she didn't have a memory that could compare to this real, sensual moment. This moment, the likes of which she and her fellow wallflowers had only dreamt of. She ought to experience it, nobly, if only to tell them about it.

Blake's trail of kisses continued scandalously along the edge of her bodice, where the muslin ceased to cover her skin. She abandoned all thoughts of her friends or Benedict or even the disapproving look Lord Pleshette had given her day dress, which suddenly felt far too confining.

“Wait,” she gasped. “What is . . . what are you . . . ?”

A few little kisses and her wits were completely dissolved. Damned Ashbrooke Effect!

“I am tempting you,” Blake murmured. She gazed into his eyes, trying to find a reason why he was making her feel these things, and found no answer.

Benedict.
She must think of him. She must save herself for him.

“I am not tempted,” Emma said. Her voice was appallingly breathless and the words were a complete lie. She was impatient and curious to know what this accomplished rogue would do next. These little kisses and touches already had her dizzy and weak in the knees. She couldn't even imagine how she might survive anything more.

She was tempted, yes.

She was curious, oh yes.

But resolved.

Benedict, think of Benedict!
Think of her pride and Blake's stupid wager!

Above all she mustn't think about how her skin felt warmer when Blake gazed at her.

“Are you sure?” he murmured. “You are not tempted even slightly, Emma?” As he carried on with the kisses, his palm found her waist and skimmed up, up, up, leaving a sense of delicious warmth and then a lonely cold.

Would his hand go higher, to her breasts? Emma caught herself arching her back and wanting to feel the wicked hands of this rogue upon her everywhere.

“My heart belongs to another. I told you.”

“But you're not thinking of him now, are you?”

Blake pulled back, taking away those wicked little kisses. But still, he boxed her in against the tree so that escape felt impossible.

“I can think of nothing else. I am thinking of him.”

She was thinking of Benedict, but it was taking every shred of her concentration to do so. Where Blake's dark eyes gazed down wickedly at hers, she forced herself to conjure Benedict's blue eyes bright with happiness when first seeing her at a ball.

Both made her heart beat faster. Who knew she was so wanton?

Blake looked at her mouth possessively and she involuntarily licked her lips. Was he going to kiss her? It seemed like he would. Why else would he stare so brazenly at her mouth with such a wicked smile on his lips? He was toying with her, she just knew it, and he was enjoying himself, too.

Well, all the other women in the world might fall all over themselves to have the infamous Blake Auden, Duke of Ashbrooke and All He Surveyed, looking for all the world like he was about to ravish them against a tree. But not she.

Benedict, think of Benedict.
They had kissed. She knew about kisses.

She just didn't know about kisses like the one Blake seemed to promise—­wild, dangerous, devastating.

She tilted her head up to Blake. Was he going to kiss her or not?

 

Chapter 8

Aunt A will inevitably sniff out Blake and Lady Emma's deceit. Wouldn't it be something if I were the winner for once?

—­
I
NNERMOST
THOUGHTS OF

M
R.
G
EO
RGE
P
ARKER-­
J
ONES

The Dining Room

T
H
E GROUP ARRIVED
at dinner to find that only ten places had been set. Yet there were thirteen among them—­twelve competitors and Lady Agatha herself.

“Hmmph,” Agatha said upon entering the dining room. “Mr. Parker-­Jones, why don't you spend the evening at the local tavern on your way back to London.”

George nodded politely and took his leave—­but not before exchanging a loaded look with Blake. Truth be told, while Blake was sorry to see him lose, he was glad the only other person who knew his engagement was fake was now out of the games.

Emma had gasped, and Blake shared her shock. George was much less loathsome than the other players who remained. Aunt Agatha couldn't possibly mean to leave her fortune to, say, despicable Dudley. And yet he was still a contender.

Perhaps Aunt Agatha was just a batty old woman and Blake sought a rational formula where none existed.

Agatha's eyes narrowed at those remaining in her personally selected boorish lot of fortune hunters. At least two more would be cut before supper. Blake met his aunt's gaze, defiant but troubled.

He ought to go, for he hadn't even been invited yet had brazenly showed up with a fiancée on his arm. The question of
why
his beloved aunt hadn't invited him nagged. Especially when she seemed exceptionally frail and completely reliant upon the arm of her brawny footman; in short, especially when it seemed her time of terrorizing the family was coming to an end.

He wasn't ready for a world without her.

Agatha met his gaze and held it.

He couldn't quite bring himself to wink or give a charming grin or play the part of dashing rogue. Did she not want to spend those last days with him?

Could he not be like everyone else, fixated only on the fortune, and not seeking reassurance and acceptance from a batty old broad?

“Blake . . .” Agatha said his name slowly before issuing her challenge. “If I recall correctly, you were not invited this year.”

He never resisted a challenge. Never met a woman he couldn't charm either. And he knew her better than anyone else—­which made this whole lack of invitation so troubling—­and thus he knew that fawning and flattery didn't fly with her.

“You say it as if it were a problem, dear aunt. Really, you ought to thank me for gracing you with my handsome face and winning personality.”

“Hmmph.” He grinned as Agatha tried not to smile. “Miss Montgomery, Sir Pendleton, thank you for playing the Fortune Games. Good day.”

Just like that they were gone.

The remaining competitors were in a somber mood over dinner, which consisted of seven courses of entirely white foods. And by the time they all adjourned to the music room for that evening's entertainment, tension was high.

Anyone, at any moment, could go.

No warning, no reason.

No goodbyes.

The Music Room

Ah, a musicale. Finally, an activity that should not destroy my new jacket. Or gloves. If I could only say the same for my boots after today's walk.

—­
P
RIVATE THOUGHTS
OF
L
ORD
P
LESHETTE

After supper the guests quietly found seats in the music room for that evening's performance. A statuesque opera singer by the name of Angelica Scarlatti would perform, accompanied on the pianoforte and violin. Agatha sat upon a chair as if it were a throne in the center of the room and the other competitors clustered around her.

Emma allowed Blake to lead her to a small settee nestled in an alcove off to the side. Her pulse hadn't quite slowed from the shock of watching three guests suddenly evicted from the game without preamble or discernable reason. At any second she might find herself ejected from the game, jilted by Blake, and publicly mortified.

She would be worse off than before the letter was stolen and sent off to the newspaper.

Blake sat beside her on the settee, which was upholstered in a soft green velvet and rather small. Very small. So very small that she and Blake had no choice but to sit with an improper lack of space between them. Her thigh against his. His arm against hers. Their hands awkwardly almost touching, fingers intertwining . . . she folded her hands primly in her lap.

Emma fixed her gaze straight ahead and focused upon the performers.

But, oh, she was just so aware of Blake. It was impossible not to be. She kept stealing glances, still in disbelief that there was a man so handsome in this world. And that he was beside her in this dark corner on this minuscule settee.

He shifted beside her. The touch sent a surge of heat coursing through her. She clasped her hands so tightly together that her knuckles turned white.

Blake turned his head slightly toward her. She stiffened, every nerve on alert, heart pounding.
If Benedict were here . . .
But he wasn't. Blake was and she was acutely aware of that fact and little else.

“You do look beautiful this evening, Emma,” he murmured.

“That again?” She gave a little laugh. Like fairies or Father Christmas, she ached to believe it, but just couldn't.

If she were so beautiful, she wouldn't be a wallflower on her fourth season. If she were beautiful, surely
someone
would have noticed so by now.

“I think it's your eyes,” he said thoughtfully. “Such a deep blue, like the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Having never seen the Mediterranean Sea, I shall take your word for it,” she said dismissively. But truly, her heart was beating with more vigor, as if accepting the compliment even if she wouldn't. He hadn't forgotten their conversation about complimenting her eyes in a manner which she preferred. He remembered what she wanted. And delivered. And no one could hear what he said or understand the significance.

Why
? Just . . . why? Emma took a deep breath, trying to still her tumultuous thoughts.

And then the musical began.

The musical was horrendous.

After a few bars in which there was no notable improvement, Emma dared to comment to Blake.

“Is it just me, or is the pianoforte out of tune?” she whispered.

“It sounds as if it had been dunked in the bottom of the lake, then transported across a bumpy country road, and then
not
tuned,” he answered with a grin and she stifled a giggle.

“Well at least Agatha is not squandering her fortune upon such trivial things as musical instrument maintenance,” Emma remarked.

“I wouldn't call my hearing a trivial thing,” Blake replied. “Clearly, the Fortune Games have taken a devious turn. Brace yourself, Emma, this could be a long evening.”

Emma didn't pay attention to the music. She was too distracted by Blake, who pretended to stretch and then draped his arm across the back of the settee—­and her shoulders. Such informality was appallingly forward, but no one was looking, and sitting up perfectly straight was so tedious, especially when she wanted to lean back into his warm embrace.

She was aware of his scent, clean and masculine, and something else she couldn't name. It was just
him
she supposed, and it was intoxicating, like a drug.

“Do you know Italian?” he whispered to her.

“No, do you?”

“A little,” he said.

“All the bedroom words, I'd imagine,” Emma remarked, unfortunately making her own self blush. Blake noticed and grinned. She felt a rush of pride for having amused him.

“Bedroom words?” he echoed with feigned innocence. “What, pray tell, might those be?”

“As an innocent young maiden I can assure you I have no idea,” she said quite stiffly. Why, why, why had she mentioned bedroom words? Honestly, no good could come of this conversation.

“You didn't read them in one of your books?”

“Apparently those books are not fit for ladies,” she replied, with genuine sadness at the fact. She had been repeatedly rebuffed in her efforts to borrow those sorts of books from the circulating library.

“Pity, that. Well I had thought she was singing in Italian, but now I am not so sure.”

“Is it French? I don't remember much from lessons at Finishing School.”

Blake cocked his head to the side and listened intently for a moment. “I don't think it's actually a language, or even words at all,” he said.

She laughed again, softly, then listened closely to the music. He was right, Angelica Scarlatti was singing utter nonsense. Still laughing, Emma glanced up at him and caught his eye. He, too, was amused.

She glanced around the room and saw that everyone was bored and tortured while she and Blake were cozy in this dark corner, trading quips and making jokes.

Then the violin made a particularly jarring, sawing noise and she tilted her head curiously.

“Is the violin playing the same song as the others?” she asked.

“Definitely not,” Blake replied. “Not the same song, not even the same key.”

“What an original concept,” Emma said politely.

Blake smirked. “Do say so to Aunt Agatha.”

Emma gasped, shocked. “I wouldn't dare,” she said. But then the music ceased and a footman stepped forward bearing a tray, draped in velvet. Agatha was grinning wickedly, and when Emma saw . . .

She gave a little laugh and said, “However, I will give her my compliments on procuring a flute at such short notice.”

B
LAKE WAS ACTUALLY
enjoying himself, which was strange, since he was sitting through the most god-­awful music that had ever been performed in England. But Emma was warming to him and trading quips about this bizarre musical they were forced to endure. He discovered she was sly and funny. She didn't fawn and simper like other women tended to do around him; Blake found he liked her more for it.

But that all changed with the shiny silver flute that one of Aunt Agatha's footmen presented.

It went without saying that he had never played the flute. Had never even picked one up. Yet refusal was not an option. Not when rising to the challenge was an opportunity to impress and amuse both Emma and Agatha.

As if he had been dared to jump off the roof or swim across the Channel. He couldn't say no.

“Do you read music, at least?” Emma asked, adorably concerned for him
now
—­though not when she had made the outrageously false declaration that led to this moment.

“Not in the slightest,” he replied.

“Well you can't be any worse than what we just heard,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“I'm flattered by your confidence in me,” he replied.

“This musical just became even more entertaining,” Emma remarked.

“For you,” he said, and then she smiled so prettily that his breath hitched in his throat for a second.

“Ashbrooke, I'm not getting any younger,” Aunt Agatha declared from the front of the room.

“You may not wish to live for this, dearest aunt,” he replied as he strolled toward the makeshift stage and gamely picked up the flute.

“Oh I can assure you, I do,” she said.

“The song we have selected is ‘L'amore Misterioso,' ” the opera singer said. “Do you know it?”

“I'm not familiar with it, no,” he answered. It was the absolute truth.

“It is very simple. Just follow along with the music and you will be just fine,” Angelica Scarlatti cooed. In another time, or place or evening, he might have planned an assignation with her, for she was a stunning woman: tall, honey-­hued hair and a figure to die for. Not to mention a mouth that she held in a perfect “O” shape for quite some time. While singing, of course.

Blake found Emma in the audience, gave her a wink, and was rewarded with one of her adorably crooked smiles.

On the count of three, half the musicians began to play. The rest waited a few more seconds. Blake felt ridiculous holding the tiny flute in his large hands but he endeavored to act as if he was an accomplished flautist and it was a perfectly masculine activity, like fencing, shooting, boxing, or some other violent endeavor.

From her perch in the front room, Agatha beamed at him. The others wore expressions of pain, vexation, or even anger. For Blake had been presented with a chance to fail spectacularly—­no one believed that rubbish about his flute playing—­but he was soldiering on to their disadvantage. But then his gaze settled upon Emma, smiling broadly and with something akin to affection in her eyes.

In spite of his absurd pose at the moment—­pretending to play a delicate flute in front of a hostile audience—­he felt a surge of pride. She had not been the slightest bit interested in him. She thought him a bore. She thought
nothing
of him. That is, until he had earned her admiration by brazenly risking humiliation in order to stick to their ruse. To do otherwise would have called her a liar. For better or for worse, in the Fortune Games they were united.