Chapter 13 #2
Corinna waited for her turn to descend. The heavy carriage door swung open wider, and Mr. Marsh stepped up to the wooden block.
He reached up, offering his large, gloved hand.
Corinna placed her hand in his. His grip was firm and steady, his broad shoulders blocking out the harsh afternoon sun. As her boots hit the cobblestones, she looked up, and her eyes met his.
His piercing blue gaze locked onto hers, heavy and entirely focused. Arabella’s quiet words seemed to sit vividly in the narrow space between them, hanging heavily in the warm air without either of them having spoken a single syllable.
They said nothing. He did not let go of her hand for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He simply held her gaze, a silent, charged current passing between them, before they finally turned and went inside.
Inside the small, whitewashed parlor, the air was warm and smelled of hearth smoke and dried herbs. While Julian tended to Vivienne’s endless demands regarding the temperature of the tea, Corinna stood near the small window, watching the stable hands water the horses.
A quiet step sounded behind her.
“The tea here is remarkably bitter, Miss Ashwell,” a deep, low voice observed.
Corinna turned slightly to find Mr. Marsh standing just a pace away, holding a steaming cup of tea in his large hand. He looked entirely out of place in the rustic inn, yet possessed an immovable gravity that dwarfed the small room.
“Bitter tea is a standard feature of posting inns, Mr. Marsh,” Corinna replied softly, keeping her voice low to avoid drawing her sister’s attention. “It builds character, or so my father always claimed.”
“Character must have a very sour taste, then,” he murmured, a dry twitch of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. His blue eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “I trust the remainder of the journey will not test your character too severely.”
“I am remarkably resilient,” Corinna countered, tilting her chin up. “Though I suspect the real test begins once we arrive at the park.”
“Resilience is a useful trait,” he answered quietly. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. “You will need it.”
He did not explain what he meant, and before she could press him, Julian called out across the room, breaking the spell.
Mr. Marsh stepped back instantly, slipping once again into the neutral, obedient posture of a secretary.
But the heat of the exchange lingered on her skin long after he turned away.
The second day of travel was significantly quieter.
The landscape opened into something wider, greener, and deeply familiar.
The oppressive weight of the London Season finally began to lift from Corinna’s shoulders as the rolling hills and dense woodlands of her childhood home came into view.
The tense energy that had gripped the party in the city seemed to dissipate with every mile that separated them from Mayfair.
At dusk, the carriage finally turned through the towering wrought-iron gates of Ashwell Park.
The light was fading rapidly, casting long, dramatic shadows across the winding gravel drive.
The great house rose before them at the end of the avenue, its pale stone facade glowing warmly in the twilight.
Thick green ivy climbed the ancient walls, and smoke curled lazily from the tall brick chimneys, welcoming them home.
The carriage drew to a halt before the wide stone steps of the main entrance. The heavy front doors swung open immediately.
Mr. Ashwell strode out onto the portico. He was a tall, lean man with silvering hair, dressed in a comfortable country coat. Her father possessed a warm, open face and a cheerful, deeply moved smile that carried across the gravel drive.
The carriage door opened. Mr. Marsh descended first to assist the ladies, followed by Julian.
Mr. Ashwell stepped down the stone stairs, his eyes scanning the arriving party with eager anticipation. He stopped completely on the second step.
The warm, polite smile on Mr. Ashwell’s face transformed into an expression of profound, moved recognition. He did not look at the man in the expensive burgundy coat. He looked directly at the tall secretary in the plain brown wool.
Mr. Ashwell stared at Mr. Marsh with the searching, emotional eyes of an old friend’s father.
“Edmund,” Mr. Ashwell said. His voice carried across the quiet drive with complete, devastating simplicity. “You have your father’s face exactly. God bless you for coming home.”
Corinna froze, her hand arrested halfway to her cloak clasp.
Mr. Marsh went completely rigid. The color vanished entirely from his face, leaving his cheekbones stark white in the fading twilight. His jaw locked so tightly that a muscle jumped violently beneath his skin.
Realizing the catastrophic error in an instant, Mr. Marsh took a step forward, his hands flying out in a rare, uncoordinated gesture of frantic denial.
“Sir Gerald, you are mistaken,” Mr. Marsh said, his voice tight and stripped of all its usual calm authority. “I am merely Mr. Marsh. I am his lordship’s secretary. Lord Ravenswood is standing right here.”
Edmund quickly gestured toward Julian, who stood a few paces away.
Sir Gerald blinked, the emotional warmth on his face instantly freezing into stunned confusion. He looked from Edmund to Julian, whose handsome face had gone slack with utter, horrifying panic.
A suffocating silence descended over the gravel drive. The evening breeze rustled the ivy on the stone walls, the sound unnaturally loud in the frozen air.
Julian cleared his throat, his famous charm entirely deserting him. “Indeed, Sir Gerald… Mr. Marsh is quite correct. I am the Earl of Ravenswood.”
Sir Gerald looked back at Edmund, then back at Julian, his mind visibly struggling to reconcile the impossible truth staring him in the face. The polite country welcome evaporated into thin air, replaced by a heavy, jagged wall of absolute awkwardness.
Corinna stood on the carriage step, her heart fluttered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the pale, stricken face of the secretary, and then at her father’s bewildered expression.
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The awkward atmosphere hung over them like an executioner’s axe.