The Wicked Wallflower (17 page)

 

Chapter 15

No one has ever taken much notice of Lady Emma Avery, best known as the Buxom Bluestocking. But lud, has the ton taken note of her now! Potential heiress to a massive fortune and with a duke on her arm, how can anyone look away?

—­“
F
ASHIONA
BLE
I
NTELLIGENCE,”

T
HE
L
ONDON
W
EEKLY

L
IFE WAS DIFFERENT
on the arm of a duke. For one thing, ­people stepped aside to allow them to pass, like the sea parting. Emma was not bumped and jostled and elbowed in the head by tall, oblivious gentlemen. No one stepped on her toes. Not once did someone exclaim, “Oh, Lady Emma! I didn't see you there!”

She was all the more self-­conscious of her manners, her dress, the curl in her hair. She felt each glance that sought to discover what His Handsomeness, the Duke of Ashbrooke, saw in
her.
Every element was scrutinized, judged, and discarded until they shrugged and turned away from an unsolvable riddle.

Perhaps being a wallflower wasn't so terrible after all.

After the butler announced their entrance, a swarm of guests enveloped them. More specifically, a thick crowd gathered around Ashbrooke. Women cooed and fluttered and thrust their barely clad bosoms forward for his perusal, not at all dissuaded by the presence of his betrothed. She couldn't help but feel that if, say, Lady Katherine Abernathy were on his arm, no one would wonder why.

Blake clasped her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. The crowd pushed and pulsed around them, eager to get close to the principal players in London's latest drama. Young bucks clapped him on the back in congratulations and called for celebratory drinks.

The surge of the crowd forced them apart, and rather than be tugged down and trampled, Emma let go of Blake's hand. She watched him being carried off in the direction of the card room in the midst of a boisterous and celebratory group.

Left on her own, she forced a smile to her lips and held her head high. She managed to politely acknowledge the kinder group who remained to take note of her. She had only one thought: to find her friends—­and some solace in this madness—­as soon as possible.

It took her far longer than usual to pass through the ballroom to the particular corner where the wallflowers gathered. It was near the dance floor—­but not too close. It was adjacent to the lemonade table, so one might think they were simply parched, not desperately trying to be noticed and not noticed all at once.

Olivia was there, with Prudence. Both in white dresses trimmed with ribbon, lace, and flounces. They were occasionally chattering but mostly watching the dancers with expressions of thinly veiled envy.

“Emma! You have survived the games!” Olivia gushed when she spied her forcing her way through the crowd. “And now you have returned to London triumphantly!”

“And you still deign to recognize your humble wallflower friends even though you are soon to be a duchess,” Prudence said, smiling and bowing with great exaggeration.

“Oh please, you two,” Emma replied with a laugh, feeling a tension in her unwind now that she was back with familiar faces and ­people whom she could trust to view her as a friend and not competition. “I'm happy to be back with my friends.”

“We are happy to have you,” Olivia said. Then, very seriously, she said, “We are also very keen to meet your fiancé.”

“Where is he?” Prudence asked, glancing around as if the duke were nearby and they might have missed him. Which was impossible.

“Oh, he is probably around having dalliances, winning wagers, and generally being overbearingly Ashbrooke,” Emma said flippantly. She didn't know where he had gone. Already the world was returning to its normal order—­the duke as the life of the party, she in the wallflower patch. She was vexed to have lost him already, making her all the more eager to find Benedict, with whom she felt content and safe and like she belonged.

Already the events of this evening's ball had shown her that a match between her and Ashbrooke would never survive even if a very small, minuscule, rebellious part of her heart had dared to consider it. After all, the wedding had not been canceled. Then again, neither had he proposed in truth.

This was where she belonged—­with her friends, off to the side. Not on the arm of a dashing duke.

“Now tell me, what gossip have I missed in town?” Emma asked. Then, dropping her voice. “And most importantly, is there news of Benedict?”

Prue and Olivia looked at each other warily. Emma's gaze narrowed.

“Lady Millard had a baby. A girl. Mother and daughter are doing well,” Olivia said. “Lord Millard is devastated not to have a son.”

“And you would not believe the rumors about Lord Roxbury,” Prudence gushed. “The ton is in an uproar.”

“Mother hid the newspaper from me, for the gossip about him is, in the words of my mother, ‘outrageously inappropriate for the innocent eyes of a young lady,' ” Olivia added.

“I may have procured a copy,” Prue said. She and Olivia grinned slyly.

Emma admitted an interest in the scandalous Lord Roxbury. But she was more preoccupied with her own dramas. With that small, rebellious bit of her heart crying for Ashbrooke, she wanted to see the man she had loved for years and whom she planned to marry.

“But what of Benedict?” she asked, anxiously voicing the question.

“Oh, look! There he is! Your fiancé,” Prudence said proudly.

“Young ladies do not point,” Olivia admonished, and Prue ignored her.

There he was, indeed.

Ashbrooke arrived and stood before them, exceedingly tall, broad-­shouldered, and impeccably dressed in expensive, perfectly fitted evening black and white clothes that seem to cling lovingly to his every muscle. Much like most women did, given the chance.

Blake smiled, revealing a dimple in his cheek and a rakish gleam in his velvety brown eyes. It hinted of wicked secrets and naughty thoughts. Made a girl feel weak in the knees, that.

He was hopelessly handsome. And he was here, in the wallflower corner, for an unprecedented visit.

Collectively, all the girls in the wallflower patch sighed, Olivia and Prudence among them. One could practically hear hearts fluttering or feel a breeze from all the batting lashes.

Viewing him as the wallflowers did—­with pure, lusty adoration and unconcealed longing—­Emma felt her heart skip a beat and her breath catch. She had kissed this man. She had pressed her own lips to his, now curving in a seductive smile. She had bared her body to his. She had done all sorts of wicked, erotic things with him.

And as for their possible future together? He had told her,
We'll see
. He had said,
Maintain the ruse a little longer.
It was devastatingly vague, especially with her mother's wedding plans progressing at full force and Benedict, somewhere, in this ballroom.

She heard another wallflower murmur, “Never thought I'd see the likes of him approaching the likes of us.”

“I told you, fairy tales do come true,“ the girl replied, poking her friend with her fan.

“Good evening, Ashbrooke,” Emma said, finally finding her voice and her wits.

“My darling fiancée,” he murmured, taking her politely outstretched hand and kissing her shamelessly on the intimate, delicate skin of her inner wrist. “I thought I'd lost you.”

Behind her someone sighed. Emma bit back a groan.

“Please, may I introduce my friends?” she asked, gesturing at Olivia and Prue, who were blushing furiously and giggling uncontrollably. “Lady Olivia Archer and Miss Prudence Payton.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you both, mademoiselles,” Blake said, along with his most charming smile and a deep bow. He kissed the hand of each girl.

Olivia giggled. Prudence's cheeks went from pink to fuchsia.

Emma scowled.

“My apologies for interrupting your conversation,” Blake said, ridiculously. Of course they welcomed all and any interruption from
him.
“Emma must have been telling you all about her brilliant performance at the Fortune Games.”

“Actually, I was more interested in news from town. Particularly . . .” Emma's voice trailed off when it became abundantly clear that her friends only had eyes and ears for the dashing duke.

'Twas the Ashbrooke Effect in full force.

“How is your aunt? Was she in fine spirits for the games?” Olivia inquired kindly.

“She is well, and as devious as she's ever been,” Blake replied. “It's very kind of you to inquire.”

Olivia blushed at the compliment.

“Has a winner been announced yet, Your Grace?” Prudence asked, ever concerned with practical matters.

“While I'm sure my batty Aunt Agatha has made up her mind, the letters announcing the news have yet to arrive in town. She had taken quite a liking to Emma. But then again, how could she not?”

Blake smiled at her, and Emma felt her lips tug up involuntarily. It was impossible to resist him, even when he was vexing her. She wondered, fleetingly, what it might be like if she didn't have to resist his flirtations all the time.

“Blake—­”

“My dearest fiancée—­”

“Stop trying to woo my friends.”

“No, we are happy to be wooed,” Olivia replied. “Never mind her.”

“Woo away,” Prudence declared with a wave of her hand. “We shan't stop you.”

Blake gave Emma a smug look.

“Traitors,” she muttered.

“I had come over not just to meet your dear friends,” Blake said, “but also to request the honor of a waltz. Darling.”

She supposed they ought to, for appearances. But appearances did not make her heart quicken at the thought of finding herself in his arms once again. A slight smile on her lips, she held out her dance card.

He started to write his name by a certain waltz.

“No, not the third one!” Emma cried, snatching back the card. Prudence and Olivia looked on, dismayed with her, when they knew very well what the third waltz meant to her. And to Benedict.

Blake regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, before deadpanning, “I can't imagine why. The fourth, then,” he said, and wrote “
Ashbrooke
” on her card. It stood out among the other empty dances.

After that he claimed waltzes from both Olivia and Prudence. They blushed and giggled and enthusiastically agreed.

“I shall let you all catch up on gossip,” Blake said, showing his understanding of women. “Till then, Emma,” he murmured, before strolling off through the crowd.

“Your fiancé, Emma! He's dreamy and utterly charming,” Olivia gushed.

“You two, of all ­people, should not fall for his flattery or his looks,” Emma told them. “You know how this came about. You know it means nothing.”

“I think he does mean it,” Olivia said thoughtfully. “You can see the way he looks at you. His gaze sparkles.”

“No, I'd say it was more of a smolder,” Prudence said. “He seemed to be thinking wicked things about you. Didn't you feel warmed in his presence? I felt . . . warmed.”

“I do feel warm,” Olivia said.

Emma also felt warmed. Smoldering. Craving. Oh, they couldn't truly know until they kissed him in the moonlight! But some female had to keep her wits and her virtue around Ashbrooke. Clearly, it should be her.

Which wasn't to say she wasn't tempted. She was.

Her thoughts strayed constantly to the last night of the games. She found her fingertips pressing her lips, in memory of him. But it all depended upon the outcome of the games . . .

Blake hadn't said,
“Marry me anyway.
”

He hadn't said, “
Forget your lover boy.
”

His exact words were, “We should keep up the ruse a little longer.”

“You probably feel warm because this ballroom is excessively crowded,” Emma said, growing impatient. “Now tell, what is the news of Benedict?”

She ached to find him and console him, for he must have been devastated by the news of her sudden betrothal. If she could just explain what she had done, and why, then all would be well. They could elope tonight!

Prudence opened her mouth, though no sound emerged. Olivia's eyes widened considerably and she barely managed to point behind Emma—­even though ladies did not point. Emma whirled around, coming face-­to-­face with the man himself.

Benedict looked just as she had last seen him: the same soft brown tussled hair, the same inquisitive bright blue eyes, the same full mouth that had once brushed against hers for what she now knew was a sweet innocent kiss.

Nothing like the devastatingly wicked kisses with Blake, the thought of which made her cheeks redden considerably.

“Hello, Emma,” Benedict said softly.