The Wicked Wallflower (25 page)

 

Chapter 22

“Your Grace, I am loath to disturb you at this sensitive time but I have come into some information I feel strongly you would like to know.”

“What is it, Jepson?” Blake wearily asked his valet.

“I know who sent the letter to the newspaper announcing your betrothal,” Jepson said anxiously. “I have learned the news belowstairs. From Lady Emma's maid.”

B
LAKE DID NOT
know which was worse: enduring Agatha's funeral or suffering through it without the solace afforded by Emma's hand in his.

He had left London immediately for Castle Hill to ensure that Agatha's explicit wishes for her funeral were carried out, right down to her stipulation that she—­or her coffin, rather—­arrived fifteen minutes late. One was never too dead for a grand entrance.

He mourned the loss of his beloved aunt. He mourned the loss of his beloved Emma. The wedding had been canceled—­it should have been occurring this very moment if Lady Avery had her way and if Agatha hadn't died. Given the news Jepson related, perhaps this tragic turn of events was for the best.

Blake could feel Emma's eyes on him, searching for a clue or an opportunity to speak. Did she note his hooded gaze, his clenched jaws, his hands balled into fists? No one else did. They fussed over him as if he were an eight-­year-­old orphan all over again. Except Agatha wasn't there to fix everything with her brisk efficiency and her utter lack of sentimentality.

“Go on, cry then,” she had told him then. “Get all those tears out so we can move on with our lives. There is candy and it won't eat itself.”

Blake didn't know what she would say now. Except, perhaps, there is brandy and it won't drink itself.

The Library at Castle Hill

When he strolled into the library, Blake's mood was black: like coal, like midnight, like a dungeon, like death itself. His last experience in this room had been nearly ravishing Emma up against the bookcase.

Today they gathered for the Reading of the Will.

Along with Eastwick, Aunt Agatha's lifelong solicitor, Blake recognized many of his former competitors in the Fortune Games, including London's Least Likely, who had defied all their expectations. She now stood to inherit
everything.

He had lost Agatha, and now he would lose everything else. Was it just days ago that he had been poised to attain more than he'd ever dreamt? It was cruel how fast and far he'd fallen.

He could marry her. Claim it all for himself.

But could he really, given what he had learned? Was he really surprised? Everything had been pretend from the start.

Except at some point he had actually fallen in love with her.

Perhaps Agatha's death—­and the cancellation of the wedding—­was a gift, given that he now had doubts about marrying her. If they never rescheduled the wedding, everyone would believe she had jilted him. She could marry whomever she wanted. She could be happy.

Isn't that what he wanted?

Eastwick began by clearing his throat. Everyone's attention was already fixated upon him, particularly the sheaf of documents that rustled in his hand.

“As you are all aware, Lady Agatha revised her will every year. This one was written just after the conclusion of this year's Fortune Games. I can attest that she was of sound mind and body at that time. I shall now read the pertinent parts.”

“To Lady Bellande, a donation to the Ladies Committee Benefiting War Widows and Orphans has been made in your name, which shall secure you a position on their board so that you may assist in their charitable endeavors.” Lady Bellande fixed a polite, if patently false, smile upon her face. Eastwick looked up from the papers and said, grimly, to her: “You should be aware that committee members are required to give a donation of fifty pounds per annum. Appointment is for life.”

To her credit, Lady Bellande's smile did not waver, though her complexion certainly paled.

Blake's mood lightened from black to dark gray, like thunderclouds, or the cold slate color of the sea on a dark day. But it plummeted back into darkness because he wanted to share a smile with Emma over this and couldn't bring himself to do so.

“Miss Dawkins,” Eastwick declared, and the poor girl peered up at him nervously. “Lady Agatha has fixed a dowry of five thousand pounds upon you. That is in addition to whatever else your family will have provided. She has also gifted you her seaside cottage in Brighton.”

Harriet Dawkins blinked back tears, then gave up. They rolled down her cheeks because that measure of security would make a world of difference to a girl like her—­shy, quiet, few prospects, largely unnoticed. But Agatha had noticed, and Agatha had ensured that she would be taken care of, whether she married or remained a spinster. From the look on her face, Blake deduced that no one had ever considered her welfare before.

He felt the loss of Agatha all over again, for she had known how to give a girl like Harriet a chance and hope for a future. Above all, now that Miss Dawkins was financially secure she was able to marry whomever she chose and to marry for love.

Like Emma.

The realization struck him sharply. Agatha had bequeathed not just money, but the freedom of
choice
. Without Agatha's gift, their prospects were dim, uncertain, and bleak. Now the whole world was theirs to claim.

That old broad was a smart one. A romantic, too.

Blake missed her so much it hurt.

“I did not know we had a seaside cottage in the family,” Lady Copley sniffed, utterly missing the monumental and priceless gift Agatha had bestowed.

“What you will find, Lady Copley, is that Lady Agatha's holdings were vast indeed,” Eastwick droned. “Which means we have much more to get through. For you, Lady Copley, Lady Agatha wishes you to have her china set, since you complimented it.”

Blake bit back laughter at Lady Copley's expression. She had loathed the china set, obviously, and only complimented it as part of the games. But Agatha had known how to discern the truth from the lies.

She must have known about him and Emma. She hadn't been fooled She had to have known their relationship was a sham. And yet, she still declared Emma the winner, which was maddeningly curious.

If she gifted Emma with the freedom to choose . . .

“There are other provisions made for her loyal servants, particularly Angus,” Eastwick went on. “She has left provisions for the village, etcetera. But the bulk of her remaining fortune, as you all know, will go to Lady Emma.”

All gazes settled upon Emma, who lowered her eyes. She was not family. She was possibly not even betrothed to Blake. Unlike Agatha, those rumors did not die. Instead it was remarked upon how Lady Emma had taken the ton by surprise; instead of a retiring wallflower, she turned out to be scheming minx. She had been transformed from the girl no one ever noticed to the object of scandal and scorn, favor and flattery.

“Lady Emma's holdings now include the bulk of Lady Agatha's wealth, which includes ninety thousand pounds . . .” Eastwick paused to allow for the collective gasp. “She also will receive a large portion of the Castle Hill estate. As for the house itself, its contents, and the five hundred acres that immediately surround it, those are for, and I quote, “ ‘Blake, who has no need for another house, but who does need a home.' ” She has also allotted up to ten thousand pounds to match funds the duke raises toward his Difference Engine.”

Blake didn't breathe. His heart didn't beat.

Agatha had remembered him. She had left him the one thing he truly wanted. A home. Their home and all the happy memories it contained. And with her gift toward the engine, she had given him her approval for the endeavor.

Above all,
she had made it completely unnecessary for him to marry Emma.

Which meant they could marry for love.
If
they married. They no longer needed each other for fortune or reformation.

Now, thanks to Agatha, they had a
choice.

Blake's mood turned from gray to a dark smoky charcoal, or the ominous shade of dark violet before a storm at dusk.

He knew what he had to do. Even if it felt like hell—­choking on the flames, fire burning his heart and the mocking laughter of the devil himself.

“What good is a house without the income generating lands?” Lord Copley asked, displaying his misunderstanding of the situation. While the last thing Blake needed was another house, he did want a
home.

“That is all moot, for they are to marry and everything that is Lady Emma's will become his,” Lady Copley replied.

“Is that so?” Lady Bellande said, smiling through her painted red lips. “The wedding has been canceled, and I have not heard that it will be rescheduled.”

Later that afternoon . . .

Emma slipped her hand in Blake's, yearning for connection with him. They had barely spoken since the night they made love; there hadn't been a chance. Days and nights had been a whirlwind of funeral plans, tears, and tedious travel along deeply rutted roads in an enclosed carriage with her parents. There was so much she wanted to tell him and even more that she wanted to ask. But he seemed so distant, even as he clasped her hand and walked by her side.

Butterflies fluttered through the garden, landing on the plump, fragrant Lady Grey roses and sucking up the sweet nectar and the warm sunshine. Butterflies in her belly, like the feeling of love at first sight. Like how she felt now, with Blake.

She loved him.

When it happened, or how, she knew not. It might have been when he strolled into her drawing room after the announcement was posted. He could have mocked her, exposed her, or destroyed her. Instead, he transformed her circumstances so drastically she still hadn't quite found her footing.

Now, with her hand in his she finally felt a measure of security. Her doubts were not entirely assuaged, she wasn't certain of their future—­other than that she couldn't be separated from him and still be happy.

More than anything, she wanted to be the woman he saw when he looked at her. Thanks to him and his stubborn insistence on wooing her, she was starting to be that woman and see herself as worthy of his love.

The gardens were silent except for the crunching sound of their footsteps on gravel and the low hum of insects on a hot summer day. He led her to the bench where they had spent many a happy hour, where she might have started to fall in love with him as they sought for love at first sight, or a spark.

When he climbed into her window the other night, she had been wavering over her fate. She knew then that she had fallen irrevocably in love with him. Only one man was going to love her like that: enough to venture into her bedroom at midnight and spend the hours until dawn demonstrating the dizzying heights of pleasure they could attain together.

She didn't know how long Benedict might have waited in the mews. He never seemed to pull through at the critical moment—­to take those extra steps to the back door, to ask her to marry him even before his need for a fortune became plain. He did
just enough
to keep her, but nothing more.

Blake had swept her off her feet and carried her off into the sunset.

Emma glanced up at him now and felt a rock of ice in her belly when he wouldn't quite meet her gaze. His jaw was set. She wanted to tell him
yes.
The words were on her lips, ready, and then—­

B
LAKE'S HEART R
EBELLED,
but logic and reason won the day. His heart—­and to be honest, other parts of him—­loved Emma intensely, relentlessly. Yet his brain wasn't so clouded by lust and deluded by love as to miss the facts.

If he wanted Emma to take a risk on him, then he had to take a risk on her love for him.

For better or for worse, the stipulations of Agatha's will had ensured that they need only marry for love.

Given the scheme she had enacted that led to this moment, he knew the devilishly difficult thing he had to do. He had to give them a chance to start anew—­without any schemes or deceptions.

“I know about the letter, Emma.” As they sat next to each other on the bench, Blake watched her reaction carefully, hoping it would reveal the news to be a lie. He badly wanted it to be a lie. “Your maid appears to have informed my valet. Belowstairs gossip is always worse than ton gossip. My trustworthy valet informed me.”

Emma had once told him a carefully crafted lie of omission:
Know that I did not send the letter.
But she had written it, with an acknowledgment of how ridiculous it was:
To the surprise of everyone . . .

And now this scheming miss had managed to inherit ninety thousand pounds of what should have been his inheritance. Never, never underestimate the Wallflowers. Never ever give your heart to one—­they'll trample all over it, like the most practiced and coldhearted courtesan.