The Wicked Wallflower (19 page)

“But I promised you the fourth,” she explained impatiently. “This is still the third.”

As if he—­an acclaimed mathematician—­couldn't count. He designed a bloody machine that could count automatically. But he understood, perfectly. He was
bothering
her.

She was refusing him, the Duke of Ashbrooke, her fiancé, in front of the ton.

Blake rocked back on his heels. Waltzing ­couples nearly crashed into him and gave irritated looks—­until they saw with whom they had collided and then they one-­two-­three-­ed away at a greater pace than set by the orchestra.

One thing seemed plain to him: Emma could not have sent that letter. Not when she spent her every breath fighting him. Not when she was trying to dismiss him so she could dance with a short and impoverished bloke whom he could easily knock unconscious to the ground with one half-­hearted blow.

He had half a mind to do it. And it wouldn't be halfhearted at all.

“Are you not going to introduce me to your lov—­” Blake began as Emma reddened and cut him off.

“Your Grace, may I present Mr. Benedict Chase,” she said.

“It's a honor to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Benedict said.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Blake said. “My felicitations on your own betrothal. Lady Abernathy is a lovely young woman. Though I daresay she cannot compare to Emma.”

“No,” Benedict said, so softly, so genuinely, that both Blake and Emma turned to him in wonderment. Both men knew that in all the ways that truly mattered, Lady Katherine didn't hold a candle to Emma.

“Have you set a date?” Blake inquired. Emma's attentions were still fixed on Benedict, but her soft, dreamy expression had hardened.

She bit her lip when Benedict answered, “A fortnight from Saturday.”

Even later that night . . .

Benedict mumbled his excuses at the end of the third waltz. Blake watched Emma watching him stroll through the crowds, presumably on his way to reunite with Lady Abernathy. Before the orchestra even began the next song, Blake pulled her into arms.

He held her far closer than was proper, but it was not close enough. He pressed his hand scandalously low on her back and it took all of his self-­control not to slide his hand lower, clasp her bottom and press her against him.

“You drive me mad,” Emma hissed.

“Mad with desire?” he murmured. She scowled at him. Blake wisely elected not to tell her that she looked lovely when angry, with her rosy cheeks, fiery blue eyes, and her mouth in the most naughty pout. Attempting to kiss her would be perilous; he wanted to anyway.

“You didn't have to meddle like that,” she said dismissively. No one ever spoke to him dismissively.

“I wanted to meet the man I'll be jilted for. And the man who will soon possess my beloved aunt's fortune.” And because Blake was under the influence of the hot flares of jealousy, he said, “I want to know who will own the only place I've called home.”

“We had a deal,” Emma replied, struggling to keep her voice down. “I thought you were a man of your word. We split it, should we win and should, God forbid, Agatha pass on this year. Do you realize what an impossible situation we are all in?”

“It's not impossible,” Blake protested.

“Benedict and I are in love, but engaged to other ­people,” Emma explained. “You and I stand to win a fortune, but at what cost to a truly spectacular woman?”

Very well, the situation was impossible. He needed the fortune, or he needed a permanent alliance with a well-­behaved woman like Emma. Yet it was becoming harder to avoid a difficult conclusion: he needed her in other ways, too.

He needed her to gaze lovingly at him, the way she did with Benedict.

He needed her to tease him, as she did.

He needed her to treat him just like a man, not a duke.

He needed her to challenge him. She made him a better man.

He'd go mad if he didn't taste her soon or feel her soft skin against his. He needed Emma for the sake of his sanity.

He had to go and fall for London's Least Likely to Love Him.

Finally, she exhaled impatiently, shook her head and muttered, “I should have never—­”

“Never what?” he asked. When she did not reply, when she would not look at him, he asked again in a firmer voice, “Never what, Emma?”

“Just know this,” she said, looking him squarely in the eye. “I did not send that letter.”

That letter, that letter . . .

Who had sent it, then? Did she know who did? Did it even matter anymore? Someone had written it and sent it to the newspaper. And
everyone
had read it. The damage was already done. There was no way to undo it and almost no point in knowing who had caused it. Difficulties like Benedict's own sudden betrothal or Blake's tangled feelings could not have been foreseen. The only thing to do was push forward.

“Yet you agreed to this,” he said, pointing out one critical detail.

“I did not agree to this!”

Her eyes flashed with true anger. His heart stilled. Her cheeks flushed an angry pink. Her curls shook because she was
trembling
with rage. He couldn't breathe.

“You did—­I proposed and you—­”

“You kissed me with everyone else looking on,” Emma cried, struggling to keep her voice from being overheard by ­couples waltzing around them. “I did refuse. But you did not accept it.”

Neither his breath nor heartbeat resumed. Even in that addled state, he paled at the memory.

That day in the garden, she had said “no” eight different ways, but he, being a delusional thick-­skulled egotist, did not for a second think that a woman would—­could—­refuse him. He hadn't even heard her.

She had agreed in the end, reluctantly, when he gave her no other option. He had cajoled and
kissed
her in the garden, with London's biggest gossips looking on. She never had a choice in the matter. He had forced his will upon her.

Blake thought he might be sick.

The truth was, he had barred her from her beloved.

The truth was, Benedict still claimed her heart, while he was falling for her swiftly, surely. Damn near completely.

The truth was, he hadn't given her a choice before.

Now he wanted her to choose him.

 

Chapter 16

“The Duke of Ashbrooke, reformed?” gasped one matron. “I never thought I'd live to see the day!”

“By all accounts, you have,” the gentleman replied dryly.

“Pity, that,” she murmured.

White's Gentlemen's Club

A private room

“T
HANK YOU FOR
meeting me, gentlemen.” Blake addressed the round, distinguished faces of the peers assembled before him. They leaned back in thickly stuffed leather chairs before a polished oak table bearing glasses of French brandy. In their thick fingers, burning cigars sent smoke curling up toward the ceiling.

That they were even present was a testament to Emma's restorative powers to his reputation. A wild, wicked rogue bachelor was not to be trusted. But a man betrothed to a sensible women with an impeccable reputation could be considered upstanding, reasonable, and trustworthy.

Nevertheless, they were
here,
and he was going to take full advantage.

“As you are aware, I've made changes in my personal life and the way I conduct my . . . business,” Blake said. He stood before them, projecting a confidence that ebbed and flowed but always rose to the challenge. There was no wager, challenge, or dare that he did not attempt to conquer. He was Ashbrooke. He always won.

Losing was not an option. Especially when winning had never mattered more.

“Knowing this was a concern that influenced your decision to invest, and given the changes I've made,” he went on, “I thought you would like the opportunity to reevaluate that choice.”

Lady Emma's bedchamber

Emma had a choice to make.

Benedict had made the most scandalous suggestion at the ball: elopement. A mad dash to Gretna Green. Happily-­ever-­after with the man whom she had loved steadfastly for three seasons was just within reach.

Then there was Blake.

A mad wild adventure that would likely end in a heartbreaking disaster of epic proportions. Blake made her feel new, lovely, terrifying, sensual, maddening things. Could she live with her pulse constantly racing? And what of the nervousness when he was not around and the anguish she felt as she wondered who he was with? She imagined long, passionate nights with him—­in exquisite detail—­but she feared a rake like him would tire of her and seek his pleasures elsewhere. She imagined a cold bed, a broken heart, and the whispers from the ton . . .
We always wondered what he saw in her. Never expected the match. No one thought it would last.
She'd be a duchess, yes, but a lonely one.

Emma could picture a different life with Benedict—­one of serene contentment with a reliable man. She could count on Benedict not to stray, for he seemed to lack the appetite for such passion.
She wouldn't miss the passion, would she?

This wretched business with Lady Katherine was simply because he was driven to such desperate measures by his father's urgent need for money.
Shouldn't he have fought for her more?

Emma pushed aside her doubts and considered logic. Reason. Values. Odds. Her odds of happiness were greater with Benedict because there was less of a chance that he would act disreputably and ruin everything. There was also the fact that she had loved him for three years already, and had embarked on this whole scheme in order to win the fortune they needed to marry. She could not give up on him now.

Even if Blake tempted her tremendously.

Blake whom, she noted, had not actually proposed to her for real. At all. Ever.

Until the winner of the Fortune Games was announced, she had choices. If she were
not
named the winner, Benedict couldn't marry her for lack of funds. And Blake, who had never really proposed, would have no incentive to.

She had to make her decision—­and soon.

Emma announced her choice to her fellow wallflowers.

“I am going to elope with Benedict.”

She expected they would be shocked, complete with dropped jaws, raised brows, and an utter inability to speak. Olivia and Prudence provided exactly that reaction.

Emma had not anticipated the way her stomach would churn violently in their awkward silence, broken only by the sounds of hammering and shouts from the laborers working on a mysterious construction project in the garden.

It was Prudence who spoke first—­after a few false starts and deep breaths. “You could be the future Duchess of Ashbrooke, Emma. But you will scandalously elope with second son Benedict?”

“I'm marrying the man, not the title,” she answered, a touch haughtily. Truly, she had given the matter much thought. She considered the tug of her heart, the feeling of her gut, and logically considered both men and the life she might lead. But it really came down to one thing.

She didn't believe that she could keep the duke interested in her for very long.

There was also the not insignificant lack of an actual proposal from Blake.

“Are you mad?” Olivia quite exploded. “You cannot elope! And you cannot jilt the duke for . . . for . . . Benedict!”

“Shhhhh,”
Emma cautioned. If her mother caught wind of this, she would be locked up, and let out only for strictly supervised wedding dress fittings and for the big day itself, which was rapidly approaching—­just a few days away now. It was the talk of the town, and it seemed only she dreaded it. “I thought you liked Benedict,” she said.

“We did. We do. But that was before you met the duke,” Olivia said. Oh, it was always
the duke, the duke, the duke!

“Might I remind you that our engagement is a sham?” Emma pointed out with some irritation. Her friends had not steeled their hearts to his devastating smiles and the wink of his eyes. Thus, they forgot the truth of the matter.
It was all pretend.

Even she had momentary lapses where she believed.

For all she knew, Blake would jilt her once the winner was announced. She ought to flee with Benedict while she had the chance. Logic, that.

“You were hardly gone two days before Benedict was betrothed again,” Prudence said. “Doesn't that seem suspicious?”

“And what will Agatha think if it turns out you win her fortune, only to give it to another man when you marry?” Olivia asked.

“She told me ‘The heart wants what the heart wants.' Besides, she may live for another year of Fortune Games,” Emma said. “Whereas I will be bound for life to whomever I marry.”

“But why are you even considering this? The duke seems to love you,” Prudence said. As if that were the end-­all, be-­all. Then she frowned, considering something unpleasant. “And there's something about Benedict . . .”

“What about Benedict? Is it because he needs a rich bride? I know that, and I have always known,” Emma replied strongly. “That is why I embarked on this whole charade! Blake and I made an agreement that we would split the fortune if we won. So I played the part, all for Benedict.”

“But he betrothed himself to Lady Katherine within days,” Prudence said. “He did not wait for your return—­possibly triumphant and rich—­nor did he ask us why you suddenly made another match. Shouldn't he save himself for true love?”

“Blake, on the other hand—­” Olivia said dreamily.

“Is a known rake, rogue, and debauched soul,” Emma replied succinctly. He was a notorious charmer and seducer of beautiful women. He loved hard and left at first light. “It is unfathomable that he should fancy
me
.”

“But he obviously does,” Olivia sighed.

“But for how long?” Emma said, and there was anguish in her voice. “Until a pretty opera singer catches his eye, or a merry widow seduces him, or a housemaid bats her eyelashes at him? He will embarrass me with his infidelities. How long can I trust him?”

White's Gentlemen's Club

“While we are impressed with your sensible betrothal, we can't help but wonder for how long this good behavior will last. Have you reformed for good, or until certain temptations arise again?” Lord Doyle's gray brows arched questioningly.

Blake's temperature spiked. He fought the urge to loosen the cravat his valet had tied too tightly around his neck. He knew the temptations Doyle alluded to—­the man's mistress, for example. But these days and nights, Blake was only interested in Emma.

“Will you miss sessions of Parliament when they are discussing our proposals because you have been waylaid by an opera singer?” Archibald McCracken demanded.

It had happened before, when Blake had arrived late to an interview with the wealthy shipping magnate. He'd come straight from the bed of a woman, after a long night of smoking, drinking, gambling, and wenching. He'd been in no condition to convince a man to part with his money.

“Or will you arrive stinking of booze and hung over after having drunk someone's excellent and expensive vintage brandy on a dare?” Lord Norton questioned bitterly. Blake made a note to replace the man's vintage collection of rare wines and brandies that had been devoured at Blake's urging at one hell of a house party.

“Or will you find yourself locked in a wine cellar with a man's innocent twin daughters?” Tarleton hollered, face red and eyes bulging.

“While we are glad to see you turn your life around and start acting like a gentleman, we are concerned about how long this will last,” Doyle said moderately.

“Speak for yourself,” Tarleton said in a furious huff, obviously still mad about his
innocent
twins.

The gents didn't believe him. They couldn't hand over their money or their faith in him and his machine when this “reformation” could just be this week's folly.

Just as Emma couldn't love him if she doubted his devotion to her—­or lacked the confidence in herself to believe him.

“Fifty thousand pounds,” Blake said. “Building the machine will require fifty thousand pounds in finished designs, manufacturing, and assembling of parts. But then all the reckoning books in the world will need to be reprinted. Other industries will prosper because of it. Subsequent iterations of the machine could produce unfathomable innovations. All you need to do is have faith in this future. All you need to do is say yes.”

Lady Emma's bedchamber

“Emma, you stand to win ninety thousand pounds,” Prudence said in a reverential gasp. Ninety thousand pounds was an unfathomable sum.

“
If
I win and
if
Lady Agatha dies within the year, which I wholeheartedly hope she does not. There are so many
ifs . . .
“ Emma said. “There are too many variables to consider. Too many possible outcomes; some of which are great, some of which are disastrous. I ought to hedge my bets and accept the first reasonable offer. Benedict's elopement.”

“But if you win,” Olivia said.

“And if you inherit,” Prudence added.

“If you learn of your possible inheritance before your wedding day,” Olivia clarified.

“Which wedding day?” Prudence asked with a challenging lift of her brow.

“The wedding my mother has planned is scheduled for two days after Benedict suggests we elope. He said we should go on Thursday, at midnight . . .” Emma's voice trailed off. “We have been too long on the shelf. We have done
nothing
for too long. Now is my chance to seize my surest path to happiness and I want you both to understand.”

“But Blake . . . “ Olivia protested.

“Has not actually proposed,” said Emma, which was truly the crux of the matter. “I cannot consider him a real suitor if he has not actually asked me to marry him in truth.”

“And yet,” Prudence countered, “with ninety thousand pounds on the line, how can he not?”

White's Gentlemen's Club

Fifty thousand pounds. The words still hung in the air, much like the thick gray smoke of the gentlemen's cigars.
If, if, if . . .
there were so many things in that number: securing the necessary support from the government, securing the necessary funds to construct the engine, demonstrating that this new venture signaled a future to be embraced, not the devil to be scorned. All depended upon Blake's ability to convince them to trust him.

Lord Ferguson cleared his throat. “With all due respect to your calculations, we still have ­concerns—­”

“You have six daughters, do you not?” Blake interrupted. Norton's eyes flashed.

“Aye, and I'll thank you to stay away from every one of them,” he growled.

“Fear not, I am devoted to my fiancée,” Blake said truthfully. “But have you thought to dower them, while considering the cost of upkeep to an estate like Berkley Park,” he asked, referring to Norton's crumbling ancestral home. With land rents declining and such expenses looming, Norton had to do something drastic or face bankrupting his family. Blake knew this, but would Norton acknowledge it?