The Wicked Wallflower (3 page)

“Ah, the bunch of wallflowers,” Salem said. “Is she the one voted London's Least Likely to Be Caught In Compromising Position?”

“No, that was her friend, Miss Prudence Payton,” George corrected.

Salem looked blank.

“Prude Prudence,” George explained, and then Salem's eyes lit up in recognition. “I believe Lady Emma was voted London's Least Likely to Misbehave.”

“I'm still not sure which one that is. Can't picture her,” Ashbrooke said. Well-­behaved Wallflowers didn't quite capture his attentions; he made it a habit to consort with women
most
likely to misbehave. In bed.

“Given that you do not even know the lady in question, I presume you did not actually propose to her,” George said dryly.

“I might have,” Ashbrooke said with a shrug. The devil only knew what he did when he was deep in his cups. “But I doubt it.”

Salem burst out laughing as the full implications of the situation began to register in his brain. An engagement announcement in the most widely read newspaper in London—­and the bride and groom had never even met. “What are you going to do?”

“This is clearly some prank or a joke or an egregious error,” Ashbrooke said easily. “Why should I bother myself with it?”

“Because everyone will be expecting a wedding,” George said impatiently. “She'll be ruined otherwise.”

“They shall be disappointed,” Ashbrooke replied. “It happens in life. I'm given to understand it is not a fatal condition.”

There would be no wedding. Not to the Tarle­ton twins or this Miss Aviary or anyone. Everyone knew marriage was for the creation of heirs, and he was resolved not to have any. No, he would leave a different legacy—­one more innovative and daring than a bunch of squalling brats.

If he could just get the damned engine built.

The butler interrupted his brooding to announce a caller.

“Your Grace, a caller. Mr. Edmund Parks.”

“Hello, cousin,” Ashbrooke said, smiling as he greeted his cousin, who eyed him warily. Edmund was always formally attired, starched within an inch of his life, and exceedingly well-­behaved—­a perfect gentleman, though without fortune or title. The more proper he was, the more Blake felt duty bound to make mischief enough for them both.

“I suppose you have come to inquire about news of my engagement,” Blake said, looking up from his calculations.

“You have my sincere felicitations,” Edmund said with a dignified nod of his head. “I look forward to meeting your betrothed.”

I as well, Blake thought. His polite smile faded at the words Edmund uttered next.

Edmund smiled and said, “I am also calling to see if we will have the pleasure of your company at this year's Fortune Games.”

The Drawing Room, Avery House

“How fortunate that you have landed a duke! And Ashbrooke, no less! However did you manage it, Emma?” Lady Mulberry inquired, a tinge of malice in her voice. Truly, she implied, it was remarkable that Emma had landed anyone.

But London's Least Likely and London's Most Eligible? It just did not add up.

Well, now she knew where That Cursed Letter had gone: directly to the offices of
The London Weekly.

Mystery solved.

One-­way ticket to America soon to be acquired. No, that wasn't far enough. Perhaps the Orient instead.

Emma glanced at her mother, who appeared to be woolgathering as she sipped her tea. Probably planning the wedding already.

“I was shocked to read it,” Lady Katherine said, and there
was
malice in her tone, because she had set her cap for Ashbrooke and everyone knew it.

Perhaps it was unkind or untruthful of her, but Emma was still mad about the pianoforte solo and a hundred other devious manipulations she had suffered at the hands of the beautiful, wealthy, and charming Lady Katherine Abernathy.

Emma could not relinquish this moment of triumph over her rival, nor could she admit that it was a hoax.

“I can assure you, I was equally surprised,” she said. Then she smiled, like she knew the most delicious secret in the world—­which she did, though she would die a thousand torturous deaths before admitting the truth of the matter to her nemesis, and in her own drawing room. “I didn't realize word would get out so soon,” she added.
Or at all.

“When will the wedding be?” Lady Katherine asked politely, while shooting daggers with her eyes.

“We haven't set a date yet,” Emma replied in a thickly sweet voice. Technically, this was not a lie. Technically, she and Ashbrooke had not even met, but did Lady Katherine know that? No. And God willing, she would not.

“What of your dress?” Lady Crawford asked.

“I'm sure I shall wear one,” Emma said confidently.

Jenkins appeared again, this time to announce even more callers. “Lady Archer and Miss Payton,” he said, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief that she would soon have allies in this farce. Then Jenkins mentioned at least a half a dozen other names that Emma did not bother to register.

It was official: she'd had more callers in this one hour than in four seasons combined. Behold: the power of Ashbrooke.

With whom she was still not acquainted.

The whole scene repeated itself at least six more times—­even though she, Olivia, and Prudence did their best to change the topic of conversation, and even though Emma did her very best to neither confirm nor deny the engagement. But with each gossipy miss and matron who passed through the drawing room, the more impossible it became to
not
marry the Duke of Ashbrooke.

With whom she was
still
not acquainted.

Ashbrooke House

Everyone in London was acquainted with the Fortune Games. A house party so strange, so devious, so absurd, with stakes so high, it would certainly be gossiped about. Extensively. But only the select few who had attended and survived truly understood.

Rather than simply leave her vast fortune to an assortment of close relatives and charities, Lady Agatha Grey invited a select group of family members to compete for the chance to be named her heir at her annual house party. Then she'd rewrite her will, leaving everything to that year's winner.

“Ah yes, the Fortune Games,” Blake repeated dryly. “The highlight of every year in which twelve of the Ashbrooke clan debase themselves at a demented house party in order to be named a batty old broad's heir for one year in which they pray for her timely demise.”

“That does accurately sum it up,” Edmund replied. “But I can't bring myself to miss it. I would hate to disappoint Aunt Agatha.”

“I'm going as well,” George said. “One can hardly turn down the opportunity to be named heir of a ninety-thousand-pound fortune. Especially if one is in need of funds.”

“I still haven't decided if I shall attend,” Blake said casually, though he tightened his grasp on his pencil until it snapped.

He declined to mention that his invitation had still not arrived. Must have been lost in the post. Or his secretary, Gideon, must have misplaced it. He would die a thousand torturous deaths before mentioning a lack of invitation to his own, dear aunt's annual house party.

Especially when the letter had probably fallen off the back of the mail coach, or something.

“How is the matter even under consideration?” Salem asked. “If all I had to do to get a fortune was attend a silly house party, I wouldn't think twice about going.”

Never mind that Salem wasn't in the habit of thinking once, let alone twice. Blake and his cousins shared a smile that commiserated over Salem's foolishness. The infamous Fortune Games were not for the faint of heart, dim-­witted, or socially inept.

“The games start in two days' time,” George said casually. “I myself am departing at first light tomorrow.”

“You had best decide soon, Duke, if it's not too late already,” Edmund said. Blake's gaze shifted from one cousin to the other, both in possession of a coveted invitation from Aunt Agatha, who, terrifying old dowager that she might be, was his favorite person in the world.

He suddenly felt a sharp pain in the region of his heart as the truth dawned: Agatha had not invited him.

If she had, and he had not replied, she would have scolded him about it in one of her weekly letters. Now that he thought about it, had he received a letter from Agatha lately? No . . . he didn't recall any. Not even a scathing set-­down about his behavior with the twins, or concerning the Norton scandal, the Doyle scandal, or his general recklessness.

It must have been weeks since he last had word from her. He'd been too busy with his plans for the engine by day and with debaucheries at night to notice her silence until now.

Blake swallowed and shifted his stance.

It should also be noted that Gideon was paid too handsomely to ever misplace anything.

He was the Duke of Ashbrooke, which meant he was invited everywhere. Always. As a rule. Especially by his own aunt. Though all the facts dictated otherwise. He had been snubbed by the one person whose good opinion and favor mattered to him.

“Although,” George said thoughtfully, “you of all ­people can afford
not
to attend, being a wealthy duke, and all.”

Unlike the rest of us.
The words, unspoken, were still understood.

“Which shall one day be yours, coz,” Blake said, sweeping his arm to indicate the large majestic house stuffed with priceless objects . . . and just one of many that the Dukes of Ashbrooke possessed.

“Unless you and your fiancée should be blessed with children,” Edmund pointed out. Blake ignored that point, given that he didn't know his fiancée. But George's eyes darkened and his brow furrowed in consideration. He stood to lose considerably if Blake ever did take a wife and sire brats.

“I'm sure Aunt Agatha would like to meet your betrothed,” Edmund added. “That is, before . . .“

“Is she unwell?” Blake was genuinely alarmed at the prospect. She had raised him. She had loved him. She was his rock. Although given this lack of invitation, perhaps she wasn't anymore. He would be damned if he showed even an inkling of the panic he was feeling.

How could she desert him?

“There are the usual rumors about the health of an older woman with a fortune,” George said. “But she is not getting any younger, much as she may insist otherwise.”

“We are still celebrating her twenty-­fifth birthday, are we not?” Blake inquired.

“For at least fifty years now, according to my estimation,” George replied. “Not that I would be foolish enough to allude to that in her company.”

“One wouldn't dare,” Blake quipped.

“Especially not if one wished to win the Fortune Games,” Edmund replied. “And enjoy all the good fortune bestowed upon the winner.”

Blake felt his competitive spirit flare. He was the Duke of Ashbrooke, who won everything, as a rule. At a hunting party, he bagged the most birds. In a ballroom . . . he bagged the most birds there, too. There was not a wager, card game, sword fight, or game of charades that he didn't charm or wit his way to winning.

The only thing he had ever lost was the support of his investors and Parliament for his Difference Engine. Someone more respectable and trustworthy was required, they had dutifully informed him.

Someone who didn't find themselves locked in a wine cellar with buxom twin sisters.

Someone who didn't steal other men's mistresses, flirt with their wives, or inspire wicked thoughts in their daughters.

Someone who was not cut by their own family. It seemed even Agatha didn't trust him with her money.

Someone who didn't find himself betrothed to a complete stranger by way of an announcement in the gossip columns.

They wanted someone more like Edmund or George. Someone who would become engaged to London's Least Likely to Misbehave. Someone who played by the rules and won fortune and favor from his own aunt.

A gentleman, not a rogue.

Blake smiled as a perfect plan started to form. An engagement with London's Least Likely to Misbehave would put to rest matters of which Tarleton twin he would marry, in addition to soothing his reputation and appeasing Agatha.

A fiancée and fortune would be just what he needed. She would restore his reputation, and thus he could woo back his investors. Or she might help him win the fortune, in which case he would have no need to pander for the funds needed to make his dream—­the Difference Engine—­come roaring to life.

No matter what happened, he won. It was the perfect plan—­save for one crucial detail. He was not acquainted with his supposed fiancée.

The Drawing Room, Avery House

Finally, the duke—­her fiancé—­finally deigned to arrive.

A hush fell over the drawing room as the Duke of Ashbrooke entered. Emma's heart began to pound again because he was
here
and he was real and she had never been so close to him before.

The duke's gaze swept over all the ladies in the room.

To say he was incredibly handsome or virile or masculine just wasn't enough. He was taller than most men, bigger, and undoubtedly stronger, too.

Benedict. Remember Benedict.

Ashbrooke's features were pure Greek per­fection—­all strong, straight lines from his jaw to his nose to the noble slope of his brow. Yes, she had just had such an inane thought, but she consoled herself that any thoughts remained in her head at all.

Benedict. Your True Love. Do Not Forget Benedict!

Ashbrooke's skin could only be described as sun-­kissed. His hair was dark, like coffee or chocolate, and slightly unruly, as if he had just come from bed.

His eyes, dear God, his eyes. When his gaze rested on her, it felt like sunshine on her bare skin.

Benedict who?

Women of varying ages and marital status peered up at him with dazed and dreamy expressions, like a God was literally in their midst. Emma got the distinct impression that he only had to say the word and any one of them would do whatever wanton wickedness he wished.