The Wicked Wallflower (18 page)

“Benedict!” she exclaimed, a rush of pleasure coursing through her. It faded swiftly when she saw that his smile was merely polite. On his arm was Emma's worst nightmare: a tall, blond, beautiful woman dressed in an expensive gown in the latest fashion. “And . . . Lady Katherine,” Emma said in a hollow, tinny voice.

She felt her heartbeat slow to the slowest pace possible while still keeping her alive. Her lungs, too, seemed to function at a glacial pace. She couldn't breathe.

Lady Katherine Abernathy and Benedict?

She was the cruel, beautiful darling of every party. There had been great expectations for her marriage to someone like Ashbrooke.

Emma loved Benedict, but he wasn't quite a catch, being a second son of an impoverished earl. He was the kind of man for a girl like her.

A match between Lady Katherine and Benedict was as unexpected as . . . a match between herself and the Duke of Ashbrooke. And yet, she clung to Benedict's arm like ivy on an old monument.

“Hello, Emma,” Lady Katherine cooed. “Welcome back to town after the games! You must be the last to hear the news!”

Prudence and Olivia stood awkwardly beside her. Benedict stood, wooden, before her. Emma felt a premonition of doom.

Katherine beamed up at Benedict and nudged him gently. Tell her, darling.”

“Emma, Lady Katherine and I are betrothed,” Benedict said stiffly. The floor seemed to collapse under her feet. Emma fought, and failed, to keep a smile on her face. This was shock. This was betrayal. Had it been anyone else . . .

But the seasons had ticked by and . . . She sucked in her breath as it began to make sense. Heartless though she might be, Lady Katherine must have felt the same pressure to have a husband by the time of Lady Penelope's ball.
Any
husband.

“You're not the only one having a whirlwind romance,” Lady Katherine said with a perfect, lilting laugh, a flip of her golden blond hair, a smile that wasn't crooked and a dowry that was enormous. “It's quite the thing! Perhaps you, Olivia, will be the next one to surprise us. Or not. You are London's Least Likely to Cause a Scandal.”

Lady Katherine found her own wit hilarious. No one else did.

“For four years running,” Olivia said gamely.

But Lady Katherine wasn't paying attention. “Oh, look! There is Miss Peters,” she said. “I haven't shown her my betrothal ring yet. Come, Benedict . . . “

But Benedict stayed, blue eyes fixated upon Emma. She should have told him the truth. He should have had faith in her, waited for her. Why, she hadn't been gone three days! He couldn't possibly love Katherine, beautiful and vivacious though she might be. But she had pots of money.

Emma wanted to reach out and touch him, to make sure this was real and not a bitter dream. She had to say something, for this could not be the end of the only love she had known. The one man who understood her when no one else ever did.

All Emma thought to say was, “I saved the third waltz for you.”

But that said everything, really. With those few words she was able to convey that she had waited for him, that she still wanted him and that she had faith in him. Benedict nodded in acknowledgment before walking off in the direction of his fiancée, leaving Emma unsure if he would return to her.

What, oh what, had she done?

Later that night

According to the betting book at White's—­and others around town—­the Duke of Ashbrooke and his fiancée are favored to win the Fortune Games.

—­“
T
HE
M
AN
A
BOUT
T
OWN,”

T
HE
L
ONDON
T
IMES

In the third waltz, Benedict did not disappoint. Emma accepted his hand with a shy smile. No words were necessary. Even though he smiled, she saw the sadness in his eyes.

He swept her into his arms. The music began to play and they began to move in time to the orchestra. His hold on her was not as firm as Blake's, his steps not as determined, his hand not as indecently low on her back. But she breathed him in and fell back into the easy, comfortable feeling of his arms. Like home.

Even though her heart traitorously yearned for the adventure that was Blake.

“It appears we are both betrothed,” Emma began. There was no point in avoiding the topic.

“Rather suddenly,” Benedict replied.

“To whom one would not expect,” she added. Her heart throbbed because in spite of everything they easily returned to finishing each other's sentences.

“Some would say it's a whirlwind romance,” he said pointedly.

“Or perhaps there is more to the story,” she suggested. “One would certainly hope so.”

“Inquiring minds would like to know,” Benedict added.

“Me, too,” she replied, giving up the pretense and allowing the questions to tumble out. “I thought you would wait for me,” she said softly. As she said the words aloud, it sounded so silly that she would ask him to wait for her when she'd run off with a
duke.
But it all seemed so implausible and everyone else found it suspicious. Why not Benedict?

“You were betrothed,” he said flatly. “There was nothing I could do.”

Ask me why. Follow me. Fight for me.

“How long have you been . . . when did you . . . what happened?” she asked.

“I had to, Emma. I understand, I suppose. It is Ashbrooke. And you know my family requires that I make an advantageous match. Katherine and I . . .“ Emma winced at the familiar address, for it suggested a genuine intimacy. She cringed because she was in no place to judge or claim him. Not anymore.

Funny, how he could feel like home and utterly foreign all at once.

Funny, how her efforts for them to be together had driven them so far apart. Except it wasn't funny at all.

“Is your heart engaged?” she dared to ask. Somehow, the answer mattered, crucially. If it was a matter of money, she could understand. She would still be heartbroken, but logic would console her. But if he had never loved her, or if he had fallen in love with Katherine in less than a week's time—­that would be devastating.

Benedict leaned close to whisper in her ear. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“My heart is engaged. But not to my fiancée,” he said softly, whispering a secret truth for her to hold close. Emma kept her eyes closed as they waltzed and whispered. He still loved her. Perhaps they still had a chance.

Opening her eyes, she peered up at Benedict.

“If I win the Fortune Games I shall be an heiress,” she said. The words were plain, the implications profound.

Benedict paused.

Her heartbeat did, too.

And then the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile—­she loved to see him smile—­and she leaned in close, desperate for what he might say.

“You might purchase a quaint London townhouse,” he suggested.

“With a library,” Emma added.

“With windows overlooking a garden,” he said. “Where children might play.”

“I wouldn't want to be lonely in this townhouse,” she whispered. But it was Blake's muddy boots she imagined in the hall. It was Blake's jacket thrown carelessly over a chair, and the servants were addressing her as Your Grace and not Mrs. Chase.

Mrs. Emma Chase
. Would she never exist?

But Benedict knew nothing of her traitorous thoughts. He smiled, his bright blue eyes sparkled and old habits died hard. She melted, a little.

“Emma you could still have this,” Benedict whispered urgently. He pulled her closer. Held her hand tighter. “
We
could still have this.”

Benedict leaned closer and kept his mouth close to her ear while he whispered a plan that was madness, pure madness, but exactly the sort of thing young lovers did when fortune and society conspired against them, when they were determined to triumph and live happily ever after, no matter what. Not even if—­

B
LAKE WATCHED
THE ­
couples dancing—­one ­couple in particular—­with a mighty scowl. It didn't take a genius to deduct the identity of Emma's lover boy. Any fool could see her feelings of tortured love plainly on her beautiful face.

He took the liberty of interrupting his cousin's conversation with renowned gossip Lady Som­erset.

“George, who is my fiancée dancing with?” It took an unseemly amount of control to modulate his tone from overbearing, violent, and possessive caveman to mildly curious gentleman. The question he did not dare ask aloud was, why does the sight of her in the arms of another man burn like cheap whiskey?

George squinted, tilted his head. Then he produced an answer.

“Benedict Chase. Rossmore's second son.”

“Isn't he the one who lost his fortune in the ‘Change?” The man couldn't resist an investment; unfortunately he couldn't determine the good from the bad.

“Yes, and his sons have all been instructed to procure heiresses. Chase seems to have done a bang-­up job. He just recently announced his betrothal to Lady Katherine Abernathy. Her parents are livid because it was not the match they'd hoped for.”

Of course not. Chase was an impoverished second son and she could have had anyone. Almost anyone. She'd been one of the debutantes to foolishly set her cap for him and sought him out at every opportunity for years. He'd taken care to avoid her, not wanting to find himself ensnared in an “accidentally” compromising position.

“How recently were they betrothed?”

“While you were off at the Fortune Games with your
own
fiancée,” George said. Blake experienced an uncomfortable feeling, like heartache, for Emma. She played the Fortune Games for a man who, in her absence, immediately betrothed himself to another woman. It was all rather tragic, really. Even if it suited him.

“What do you know of his character?” Blake inquired, and George choked on his brandy, which Blake pretended not to notice.

“You're awfully intrigued, suddenly, about an impoverished second son. I can't imagine why,” George mused in a provoking way that made Blake want to punch something. But he forced a neutral expression as he replied.

“The man is waltzing with my fiancée.”

“To whom you did not actually propose,” George said a touch too loudly for Blake's comfort. No one seemed to hear, though Lady Somerset was lingering in the vicinity.

“I find that detail to be irrelevant,” Blake replied offhandedly, only to discover that the words were true. At some point, amongst all the faux proposals and pretend affection, he'd started to feel connected to and possessive of her.

Though they'd only parted earlier today, Blake keenly felt the absence of her sly glances that suggested she wanted him in spite of her stiff resolve to refuse him. He missed the quips and teases, her crooked smile. And the kisses. He definitely missed that.

“Did you ever discover who had sent the letter to the newspaper?” George asked. “I'm dying to know who in town has such a devious imagination. I should not want to cross them again.”

Come to think of it . . .

“No, and I hadn't considered it,” Blake said honestly. He had originally dismissed it as a prank—­but a deuced helpful one at that. He had focused only on how to convince everyone it was the truth, when in fact there was someone out there who knew their engagement was fake. Such potentially damaging information, in the hands of God only knew whom.

It was also a prank conveniently timed to coincide with the Fortune Games. Emma had mentioned needing to marry for money . . .

“What is done is done,” Blake said, though without much confidence. A troubling thought, that.

George smiled smugly and asked, “Dare I inquire if His Grace has fallen for her?” And then, jesting, “Is my position as heir becoming uncertain?”

Blake dared not ask or answer that question. But the truth was proving impossible to ignore. His Grace was indeed in the midst of falling for her. Unexpectedly.

If he married her, there would be heirs and George would be out of luck. Presently, Blake was not concerned in the slightest.

“Excuse me, I owe my fiancée a waltz,” Blake said before stalking off through the crowded ballroom, his eyes fixed upon Emma and her lover boy.

“Your Grace!” Someone called out to him, but Blake ignored the distraction.

Who was this man who had captured Emma's heart so completely that she refused
him
, a renowned lover, a wealthy man, a duke? Anyone would say that he was the better catch, the better man. Everyone except for
her.
He stifled a roar.

As he made his way through the crowd, Blake took a long look at his rival. The man was slight and plain-­featured, with fashionably tussled hair and a painfully earnest expression. Blake rolled his eyes.

“Ashbrooke! Congrat—­”

Blake moved forward, his attentions ever fixed upon Emma and lover boy. As she spun around in the waltz, he caught glances of Emma's adoring expression. How could this lover boy have such a hold on her? More to the point, could Blake captivate her thusly?

What if he were the one she loved so obviously and so completely? A sharp intake of breath. A quick kick of his heart. One word:
want.
One word:
need.

Had the brandy he'd drunk earlier gone to his head? No, this wasn't like any intoxication he'd ever experienced.

“Blake!” Emma seemed surprised to see him interrupt her waltz with lover boy. That struck him as wrong. A faint flush crept across her cheeks as if she were embarrassed. Or guilty.

Jealousy had a firm grip around his heart. She was
his
as far as anyone knew, and he wanted that to be true. He definitely could not lose her to him.

“I have come for our waltz,” he said flatly, the famous Ashbrooke charm having deserted him. It was plain that he was intruding upon a private, tender moment between lovers. It burned, that.