Chapter 6
“Arabella, if you pace this floor one more time, you shall wear a trench into the parquet that even the finest carpenter in Mayfair will be unable to repair,” Edmund said, his voice taut with the effort of remaining completely still.
“I feel as though I am watching a caged tiger, and frankly, it is making my own nerves fray.”
“Perhaps you should be frayed,” Arabella countered, stopping mid-stride so her skirts rustled sharply against the rug.
Her gentle features were tight with an unfamiliar, cold anger.
“It is wrong, Edmund. Deceiving a family that has acted with good faith and honor is a stain upon our name, and I do not care what your elaborate rationale is. It is simply wrong.”
“I had to know who she was before I committed my life to a contract I never signed,” Edmund said, gripping the cold marble of the mantelpiece until his knuckles turned a bloodless white. “Do you truly expect me to walk into a marriage blind?”
“I expect you to walk into it honestly,” Arabella fired back, closing the distance between them.
“Father made this arrangement because he trusted Sir Gerald, just as he trusted the Ashwell name. You are treating them like common swindlers who must be investigated. What do you think Mother would say if she knew the truth?”
“Mother knows the stakes,” Edmund replied quietly.
“Mother knows the stakes of the earldom,” Arabella corrected, her voice trembling slightly. “She does not know the depths of your deception. If she saw you standing there in a secretary’s coat, she would weep.”
She would do far worse than weep, Edmund thought, a heavy knot forming in his chest. She would never forgive me. “I am doing this to protect our family,” he insisted.
“You are doing this to protect yourself,” Arabella said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, measured tone.
“Do not dress your fear up as nobility, because it does not suit you. You could have met her as yourself. You are the Earl of Ravenswood. If they were looking for a title, you were already that man, and if you were looking for a wife, you have robbed them of the truth before the courtship has even begun.”
“It is not a matter of pride,” Edmund argued softly, keeping his voice strictly controlled to mask the rising panic in his blood. “It is a matter of survival. Cecily proved how easily a title obscures the man beneath it, and I will not make that terrible mistake twice.”
“So you choose to make an entirely new mistake,” Arabella concluded bitterly. “You lie to them.”
Julian, who had been sitting in the velvet armchair looking uncharacteristically small, cleared his throat and stood up. “Arabella, please. We meant no lasting harm. It is a temporary measure.”
Spinning toward Julian with the grace of a striking serpent, Arabella fixed him with a look of absolute disdain.
“I do not know you, Mr. Marsh, but I know that playing a role is a dangerous game. Standing in that hall yesterday and pretending to be a sister to a stranger made me feel physically sick.”
“Edmund found me in a back alley in Naples,” Julian explained, his posture shifting into a defensive stance. “I was young, arrogant, and foolish. He did not ask for my life in return for the massive debt he paid, asking only for my company.”
“And now he asks you to play the fool on his behalf,” Arabella noted coldly.
“He asks me to protect him,” Julian corrected. Stepping forward, he allowed his smile to widen into that polished, devastatingly charming expression he usually reserved for crowded ballrooms. “I am honored to serve him, Miss Ashford, and I am quite delighted to make your acquaintance properly.”
Arabella stared at him without a hint of a blush or a polite smile in return, letting her gaze travel from his perfectly styled hair down to his polished boots as she assessed him entirely.
“You speak very smoothly for a man who claims to be honoring a life debt, Mr. Marsh,” Arabella said, her tone perfectly polite but incredibly distant.
“You seem to be enjoying this charade entirely too much. I suggest you save your boundless charm for the elder Miss Ashwell, as I have little interest in being the subject of your latest performance.”
“I assure you, my charm is entirely genuine,” Julian protested gently, though his smile faltered just a fraction.
“As genuine as your title, I imagine,” Arabella replied before turning her attention back to her brother. “I will keep your secret, Edmund. But do not expect me to smile while you ruin innocent people.”
She walked to the heavy oak door, pulled it open, and left the room without looking back.
When the latch clicked shut, the silence returned, heavier and far more suffocating than before. Edmund crossed the room in two strides, looming over Julian.
“Not my sister,” Edmund warned, his voice a low rumble.
Straightening his cuffs, Julian adopted an expression of injured innocence. “I was merely being welcoming, Edmund. Surely a man can offer a polite greeting without you turning into a sentinel.”
“I know exactly what you were being,” Edmund said. “And I am telling you right now, the answer is no. You will not practice your parlor tricks on Arabella.”
“I have never used a parlor trick in my life,” Julian argued indignantly. “I was merely attempting to put her at ease because she is remarkably tense.”
“She is tense because we have dragged her into a lie,” Edmund said, turning away to stare at the empty fireplace. “Leave her be.”
Julian looked at his fingernails, keeping his mouth firmly shut in a blatant, unspoken refusal to agree.
The evening card party was held at the home of a distant cousin, a woman who seemed to operate under the delusion that an abundance of candles and vicious gossip could adequately replace genuine conversation. The room was stifling, smelling heavily of melting wax and overpowering floral perfumes.
“I do not understand why anyone would willingly subject themselves to these gatherings,” Edmund muttered as they surrendered their hats in the crowded vestibule.
“Because it is an excellent opportunity to observe the local wildlife,” Julian replied cheerfully, adjusting the lapels of his fine burgundy coat. “Look at them, Edmund. They are all desperate to win a few coins and a shred of scandal.”
“I have no interest in scandal.”
“That is because you are playing the dreary companion,” Julian pointed out, clapping Edmund lightly on the shoulder. “Now, stand up straight and look appropriately subservient. My future bride awaits.”
As Julian strode into the crowded main parlor, Vivienne spotted him almost instantly, breaking away from a cluster of young ladies near the fireplace as a triumphant smile illuminated her face.
“Lord Ravenswood,” Vivienne called out, offering a sweeping curtsy that showcased the expensive cut of her gown. “I was beginning to fear the evening would be entirely ruined by your absence.”
“And miss the brightest star in Mayfair?” Julian replied smoothly, bowing low over her gloved hand.
Vivienne laughed, tapping his arm lightly with her ivory fan.
“You are terribly wicked, my lord. But you simply must agree with me on a matter of utmost importance. Look at Lady Danbury. Her gown is entirely the wrong shade of yellow for her complexion, making her look exactly like a bruised lemon.”
Julian hummed, smiling down at her with complete devotion. “I am afraid I only have eyes for the stunning cerulean blue standing directly in front of me, Miss Ashwell. All other colors simply fade in comparison.”
Watching the exchange from a few feet away, Edmund felt a strange, twisting ache in his chest. Desperate to escape the suffocating heat and the piercing shrill of Lady Sophronia Quill’s laughter echoing from the next room, he retreated toward the edges of the parlor, seeking refuge behind a towering arrangement of potted palms.
Stepping hastily behind the large green leaves, he immediately collided with something soft.
A quiet gasp sounded in the shadows, followed by the dangerous clatter of porcelain.
Edmund stepped back quickly, his hands coming up to steady the person he had just barreled into. Corinna Ashwell was standing pressed against the floral wallpaper, desperately balancing a small plate stacked absurdly high with tiny, bright yellow lemon cakes.
“I sincerely apologize, Miss Ashwell,” Edmund said, keeping his voice low as he helped her steady the precarious tower of pastries. “I did not realize this foliage was already occupied.”
Corinna looked at him, and then she looked down at her plate. “It is the only strategic position in the room with a clear view of the main exits and direct, unhindered access to the dessert table.”
Edmund felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward, entirely charmed by her blunt assessment of the room. “A vital combination.”
“I make a habit of being prepared,” Corinna said, offering the plate toward him. “Would you care for a cake, Mr. Marsh? I find that chewing is the only polite excuse to avoid dancing with Lord Fife. He steps on toes with the ruthless precision of a trained assassin.”
She is entirely too wonderful, Edmund thought, taking a small cake from the edge of the plate. “Thank you. Shall we find a card table? Or do you prefer to stand behind the plants and watch your sister devour my employer?”
Corinna let out a quiet breath of laughter that warmed the small space between them. “A card table sounds infinitely safer.”
Navigating the crowded room together, they managed to claim two empty seats at a green baize table near the corner. Circumstances kept arranging their proximity, and Edmund felt the undeniable, physical pull of her presence the moment he sat down across from her.
“Do you prefer whist or loo, Mr. Marsh?” Corinna asked as she arranged her skirts.
“Whist,” Edmund answered without hesitation. “It requires far less luck and far more strategy.”