The Wicked Wallflower (27 page)

Emma's mouth dropped open in terror.

“Horrible, unspeakable things,” Prudence concurred. Emma downed the contents of her sherry glass in one go.

“No one would marry you after that,” Olivia added thoughtfully. “No one good, anyway. Not even Benedict.”

“If you two are trying to be helpful, I'm afraid you are failing spectacularly,” Emma declared. “I've half a mind to flee to the Continent already.”

“But don't you see, Emma? No one would risk such grave consequences if not for true love,” Olivia said simply, with an encouraging smile.

“Risking
everything
like that would be a testament to your love for him,” Prudence said. “If he does love you, then he won't be able to resist your grand gesture.”

“Oh, the romance!” Olivia gushed.

“Oh, the insanity!” Emma countered.

“He built the ancient ruins of a gazebo for you,” Prudence said matter-­of-­factly, “which suggests his love for you is strong, and eternal and amenable to public displays of affection. Therefore—­”

“The least you can do is plan a wedding,” Olivia said. “And announce it in the newspaper.”

“You do have the dress,” Prudence pointed out. The three girls turned to look in the direction of the wardrobe, where one would find a beautiful ivory silk gown decked with seed pearls and glass beads. No one, not even the cruel dandy, Lord Pleshette, could scoff at her in that dress.

When Emma did not immediately and vehemently protest this new, absurd plan, Olivia declared, “I'll fetch the paper and pen,” and started rummaging through Emma's desk.

“I will drink more sherry and pretend all of this goes away,” Emma said, closing her eyes.

It did not go away. It was in the newspaper the next day.

 

Chapter 24

There are rumors that the Duke of Ashbrooke is dying, though his friends and physicians assure me that is not the case. Dear Readers, it's best left unsaid how I came upon that information.

—­“
F
ASHIONABLE
I
NTELLIGENCE”

BY
A
L
ADY OF
D
ISTINCTION,

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

Ashbrooke House

B
LAKE HAD BEEN
suffering chest pains that ranged from a dull ache to hot, fleeting pangs that made him gasp. He found himself plagued with a shortness of breath; he feared suffocation. A general sense of malaise and ennui consumed him. None of his usual activities—­flirting, fencing, making love, making merry, visiting his clubs, ballrooms or bedrooms, or reviewing calculations for the Difference Engine—­kept his interest for more than a second, perhaps two.

He drank tumblers of wine or brandy. He brooded in rooms where the drapes were drawn tightly over the windows.

Sleep eluded him, thus depriving him of a few sweet hours where he might not worry that he was dying. Was this how Agatha felt?

A consultation with the physician revealed that nothing was in fact wrong with him: His heartbeat was strong, his lungs sounded good.

Blake scoured medical texts in search of this obscure, devastating malady. Eventually, he was forced to conclude that he was sick with love. He told no one of this embarrassing condition.

The infamous Duke of Ashbrooke, laid low by love!

But there was no denying it, for his thoughts strayed constantly to Emma, for whom he still hungered in spite of everything.

“Your Grace,” Pendleton intoned. With his white-­gloved hands he presented yet another highly polished silver tray bearing yet another ivory vellum letter sealed with bright red wax. In the shiny silver, Blake saw the reflection of a man driven mad by pride, love, betrayal, and with a tendency to perhaps overreact.

He looked away quickly.

“This arrived for you,” Pendleton said, presumptuously placing the letter upon Blake's empty breakfast plate.

“Where is the newspaper?”

Perhaps there would be news of Emma's elopement with Benedict, and he would know he'd lost his chance at love. Forever. Then he could move on with his life.

“I am withholding it, Your Grace.”

Blake felt his temper spark, like the strike of a match.

“Withholding it? What the devil for? Are you seeking an early retirement?”

“It is my understanding that this letter will serve as an explanation.”

Blake took the letter and glared at Pendleton while he sliced through the wax seal with a knife. A small clipping from the newspaper fluttered into his lap. Blake lifted it carefully. He read the words, vaguely aware that he was holding his breath. It was not usual for him to read outrageous, scandalous gossip about himself. Today he was not in the mood.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE BY A LADY OF DISTINCTION

This author has it on
excellent
authority that on Saturday, June 5, at eleven o'clock in the morning, Lady Emma Avery will trade in her title of “London's Least Likely” for that of the Duchess of Ashbrooke.

Blake pressed his mouth into a firm line, fighting an upturn at the corners that would indicate something like amusement, or hope, or appreciation. Not him, not lately. She couldn't just
do
things like this. She couldn't just declare something was so and that would make it so.

He was not quite sure which
she
he was referring to—­Emma, or her scheming mother. But as he read
The
London Weekly
snippet again, there was no mistaking that this was Emma's own wit and phrasing.

“That will be all, Pendleton.”

“Are you certain, Your Grace? Are there any arrangements I might make?”

“No.”

Blake then turned his attentions to the note itself, noting it was composed in Emma's handwriting. He recognized it from all of those false love letters. Which he might have saved. And read. And reread.

With his breath stilled and his heart carrying on tentatively, he focused on the letter in his hands.

Blake—­

The reason I don't like sherry is because one night Olivia, Prudence, and I drank far too much of it. We discovered that it does, as Olivia's mother says, “make a lady forget herself.” In our madness, my idle thought to draft a proposal to Benedict was spun into Prudence's very wicked idea that if I were to resort to such drastic measures to find myself a husband, I oughtn't settle for the likes of Benedict, but should set my sights on the most handsome and charming eligible man in town. You.

Prudence dictated the letter. Olivia wrote it. I foolishly drank another glass of sherry. In our haste to escape a kitchen fire, we forgot the letter. I learned from you that my mother had sent it.

He could, far too easily, picture those three girls three sheets to the wind on sickly sweet sherry. No wonder she refused to drink the stuff. No wonder she tried to refuse his proposal. She truly hadn't meant any of it.

Thus began our sham romance. Somewhere along the line came love. Then heartache. I still hope that it will lead to happily-­ever-­after for you and me.

However, I did write another letter, which I sent to
The London Weekly
. You said you wanted our love story to be real, Blake. But would you like it to have a happy ending? I would . . .

Meet me at the altar and make this love story true.

Yours (whether you like it or not),

Emma

A grin tugged at his lips, again. He fought it, valiantly.

She couldn't just do this—­arrange a wedding, take matters into her own hands, control their fate. It was meddling and scheming and it broke the rules: She was supposed to be a damsel in distress, and he was supposed to save her. But this—­she just expected him to arrive at the appointed time and place as if he had no say in the matter. Had Benedict married another? Had her mother pressured her into this? What the devil would he be walking into if he were to arrive at St. George's
today
at eleven o'clock?

A glance at the clock told him he had just an hour to make his decision.

He could leave her stranded at the altar, his point very well made. She could take her ninety thousand pounds and buy all the sherry in England and post all the notices to the newspaper that she wished. But it wouldn't change the truth.

And the truth was . . .

 

Chapter 25

In all of my years reporting upon weddings of the haute ton, this author has never attended such highly anticipated and dramatic nuptials as today.

—­“
M
ISS
H
ARL
OW'S
M
ARRIAGE IN
H
IG
H
L
IFE,”

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

St. Peter's Church, London

B
ENEDIC
T STOOD AT
the altar awaiting his bride. In this, like everything else, he was unsure. But with the vicar behind him and his father beside him, there was no turning back. His fate awaited him—­she was fussing over her veil and dress as women tended to do. She was a fate he didn't choose because he had been too slow to act, too blind to see the love waiting for him far longer than he deserved.

This was his last chance to escape this fate and seize another. For he had, once again, seen the devastating announcement in the gossip column.

The organ sounded, echoing in the stone chamber. Benedict's heart started racing.

This was his chance. If he ran now, he could possibly make it to the
other
church on time.

St. George's Chapel

Emma peeked into the church once more, taking care to keep herself hidden. Her father, mother, and a few others had eagerly taken their seats in the first pews and now were anxiously awaiting the wedding that was supposed to have started a quarter hour earlier.

Who knew a mere quarter of an hour could feel so endlessly, eternally, and infernally long? She did. She wished she did not.

“He's not here,” Emma said. Again.

She took a deep, fortifying breath, which only served to remind her how blasted tight her corset had been laced. The satin gown, decked with pearls, weighed heavily upon her bones. She wanted to escape this dress and this horrid thing that was happening to her: taking a chance on true love and failing.

Prudence and Olivia, dressed in matching blue silk dresses, peered curiously at her.

“Call the carriage,” Emma said, grasping at the neckline of her gown frantically. “I would like to be driven to the docks immediately. Perhaps someone would be so kind as to purchase me a one-­way ticket to Paris. No, Italy. No, America. No, China. Yes, China should be far enough away—­”

“Emma, it will be fine,” Olivia said in a soothing tone of voice. “He will be here.”

“Do you know that? How could you possibly know that?”

“Emma, you must have faith in the duke, and in true love,” Olivia said.

She groaned.

“Easy for you to say! You are not in a wedding dress laced so tightly as to make it impossible to breathe, uncertain if your groom will arrive before suffocating to death. Though perhaps that would be preferable to life after being jilted at the altar.”

“At least there is no one here. Other than us,” Olivia said.

“And the mob outside,” Prudence, ever logical and practical, had to point out. “Listen to them! They sound almost as eager as you to see if Blake arrives!”

Indeed. It seemed all of London had turned out to witness the unfathomable sight of the Duke of Ashbrooke marrying London's Least Likely. She had not considered that when she drunkenly assented to Prudence and Olivia's horrendous plan to send off the wedding announcement. Or when she wrote that letter to Blake explaining how, and why.

“This was a horrible idea,” she cried, starting to pace about the room. “I'm never drinking sherry again. Ever! It is the devil's own brew and it makes a lady forget herself and all sense and reason. It should be banned! I will start a petition . . .” She paused when she saw her friends' nervous expressions. “Why are you two looking at me like that?”

“We'll have to return your wedding present, then,” Prudence muttered. “I thought it was such a clever, romantic idea.”

“A collection of sherry glasses,” Olivia explained. “And we cannot return them.”

“We had to get them engraved. One of a kind,” Prudence said. Both girls smiled sheepishly.

“So I shall drink myself to a stupor in style. Since Blake will probably jilt me.” Nerves got the better of her and the words started tumbling out in a rush of panic. “Everyone will know he jilted me, too, thanks to that blasted mob outside. I shall be mocked mercilessly for daring to think a man like him would care for
me
.”

“Emma . . .”

“That is, if I don't die of embarrassment on the spot. Wait—­weren't you going to fetch me a one-­way ticket to America? No, China. I had settled on the Orient, had I not?”

“Emma!” Prudence shouted, finally managing to cut her off. “You must calm down.”

“Calm down?
Calm down?
” Emma shouted back. Calming down was impossible. She had loved and lost not once, but possibly thrice in just one month! She was risking public mortification, her life and reputation in society, and most important of all, her already fragile heart.

“Calm down?”
she said again, throwing her bouquet of Lady Grey roses to the ground. Prudence shrank back. “How could you tell me to
calm down
at a time like this?”

“One should never tell a woman to calm down,” Blake remarked from the doorway. “It only infuriates them further.”

“Oh, thank God,” Prudence and Olivia exclaimed. Their relief was palpable. It did not compare to Emma's.

“Blake. You are here,” she said, as if the words made it true. Honestly, she felt as if he might be a hallucination, a mirage, a fine example of wishful thinking.

“Hello, Emma,” he murmured. She drank in the sound of his voice and reveled in the warmth it gave her. He was here! But did he mean to stay? His expression was inscrutable. Were his eyes dark with desire, or because he had awful news to deliver? Was that a hint of a smile upon lips or a grimace?

Her heart beat slow, steady, awaiting its fate—­to race with joy or stop altogether?

“Perhaps we will leave you two alone,” Prudence said, and with a firm grasp on Olivia's wrist, exited the room.

They were alone.

She had missed him.

Emma no longer cared about possible mortification, ruination, or any of that. He was here and she wanted nothing more than to wrap herself in his arms. Forever.

“You could have anyone,” Blake said. “And not just because you are an heiress. You could have anyone because you are beautiful, intelligent, and fiercely true to yourself.”

Her heart continued to beat, but tentatively.

“You could, too,” she said. “You are legendary because you are handsome and charming. But you are also intelligent, thoughtful, and daring. Most of all, you have made me become a girl I never thought I'd be. It's you I want, Blake. You alone.”

Blake pushed off the door frame he'd been leaning on and slowly crossed the room. Emma's heart pounded with every step he took closer to her. Blake wasn't leaving! But would he stay?

He placed his hand on her waist, possessively.

“Emma,” he murmured, gazing down at her with his warm, dark eyes. Heat began to pool in her belly, like a slow, smoldering fire.

The heavy oak door leading to the chapel swung open.

B
ENEDICT HAD STE
PPED
out of the church a changed man, a determined man. For too long he had retreated from challenges, and in avoiding the wrong decision, had made none. He hadn't held on tight to the things—­and ­people—­whom he loved. He had strived to be a dutiful son. He saw now what all that duty and indecision cost him.

Emma. Love. Happiness.

He glanced at his timepiece. It was too late, though he suspected he'd missed his chance days, weeks, months, even years ago.

“Are you so bored of marriage already that you're looking at your watch?” Katherine whispered sharply, whilst smiling for their family and friends who had joined them on this day.

Benedict leveled a gaze at his
wife
. She possessed none of Emma's gentle disposition or sweetness. What she did possess was a fortune, which would go to his father's debts.

“Actually, I have somewhere to be.”

“Our wedding breakfast? Do try to smile, even though you don't mean it. I am not exactly thrilled with the turn of events either, but I won't let them see it,” Katherine said. She smiled fiercely.

“Later this afternoon I will be joining my regiment. I have purchased a commission,” Benedict said. If it wasn't already too late, then it was high time he learned discipline, determination, and to fight for what he believed in until the bitter end.

T
HERE WERE
CERTAIN
times during which a man did not like being interrupted. Making love was one of them. Proposing to the love of his life, another.

“Oh, there you are, Duke!” Emma's mother cried, bustling in. “We'd begun to despair.”

Prudence and Olivia scurried behind her, as politely as possible trying to remove the countess.

“Mother,” Emma said, “we'd like a moment.”

“Everyone is waiting and growing increasingly anxious,” Lady Avery replied.

“We're fine. Everyone is fine,” Prudence declared.

“My mother says ladies oughtn't interrupt the private moments of others,” Olivia added.

“We'd best be getting on, then,” Lady Avery chirped. “Are you coming, then?”

“Lady Avery, Emma has requested a moment of privacy. Therefore we shall have a moment of privacy,” Blake said firmly, leveling a stare at his future mother-­in-­law. Really, he had to disabuse her of the notion that she could carry on meddling in their lives.

He stared. She stared. Finally, she retreated with Olivia and Prudence in tow.

“Now where was I?” he murmured.

“You were going to confess your undying love for me and declare how happy you were that I have arranged this wedding and how you cannot wait to marry me,” Emma said. He burst out laughing.

“That's what I love about you, Emma. You know me so well. And,” he said, smiling, “you aren't afraid to tell me about it. Or when and where I should do something about it.”

“I only meant to show you how much I love you.”

“It's just, if we are going to have a wedding, we ought to have a proposal.”

“Another one?”

“A real one. And say yes this time,” Blake said.

She laughed happily and said, “I will.”

“Emma, I could list all the things I adore about you and go on for days,” Blake said, clasping her hands in his. “I could paint a damn fine picture of our life together. But you know, just as I do, all the pleasure we give each other and all the little ways that we make each other better. Ever since the unusual circumstances of our first meeting, we've been on an adventure that I don't want to end. There is only one more thing to say.” For this, he dropped to one knee and gazed at her earnestly, lovingly. “
Emily,
will you do me the honor of becoming my one and only beloved wife?”

B
LAKE
W
ILLIAM
P
EREGRINE
Auden, the ninth Duke of Ashbrooke, and Lady Emma Avery were married shortly thereafter. It is reported that the duke played what might generously be described as “musical notes” upon his flute as the bride walked down the aisle. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the large wooden doors of St. George's were thrown open and the crowd let up a roar upon seeing that London's Least Likely had snared her duke, thus giving hope to all the Wallflowers in London. Then he gave her a scandalously passionate kiss that thoroughly put to rest any rumors that their marriage was anything but a love match.