The Wicked Wallflower (23 page)

The mob dispersed.

“Tell me that didn't make your knees a little weak,” Olivia asked. Emma's heart leapt and she trembled as she brought the glass to her lips.

“It did,” she whispered. Oh, it did. The question was, would he still act thusly a year from now, when a different winner was named? Or would he, too, be dragged away from her by some conniving siren? Was that just to put rumors to rest or simply a barbaric display of dominance and possessiveness?

Her gaze settled on Benedict, gazing at her shyly from a distance. He mouthed two words that made her pulse race:
Midnight. Tonight.

 

Chapter 20

“Emma, will you marry me?”

“Emma, will you make me the happiest of men?”

“Emma, I feel most ardently for you. Will you consent to be my wife?”

—­
P
ROPOSALS CONSIDERED BUT NEVER DELI
VERED BY A VERY INDE
CISIVE

BUT DEVOTED
M
R.
B
ENEDICT
C
HASE

Almost midnight . . .

E
M
MA HAD MADE
her choice. She had declared her choice. Yet certainty eluded her. She paced around her bedchamber as if each step would strengthen her resolve.

An empty valise lay open upon the bed. Whatever did one pack for an elopement? The frothy lace, silk, and pearl-­trimmed gown that her mother had ordered for her official wedding to Blake—­which was scheduled for two days hence—­would not do. All the ruffles and a delicate lace trim was a bit
much
for Gretna Green.

Emma added a hairbrush to the valise. She would certainly need that if she embarked on this mad trip.

If . . .

Doubts. They snuck up on a girl when she was trying to decide what to pack for an elopement adventure. After all, it was far easier to fret over this dress or that instead of This Fate or That Fate.

I have given Benedict my word, Emma thought. But that was
before
Blake confessed his feelings to her in the gazebo. She had not had a chance to tell Benedict otherwise.

Emma did not doubt Benedict's love for her—­even in spite of his betrothal to Katherine, which she dismissed as a momentary aberration, a forced arrangement that had nothing to do with his heart. She and Benedict shared the same dreams, discussed at length over a three-­year courtship. They would be happy. And he would be arriving within a quarter of an hour.

She added two dresses to her valise.

Her mind drifted to Blake. Maddening, impossible Blake. He made her feel beautiful, powerful, and alive. He listened to her and challenged her. He built a monument for her. Blake made his feelings plain.

Benedict had made his feelings plain, as well—­and over the course of three years in which he could be relied upon for the third waltz, a conversation about books, a warm smile from across the ballroom.

But Benedict had never broken the law and spent an inordinate amount of money to dramatically and romantically realize a fictional first meeting.

In light of that, Olivia and Prudence would scream that she was UTTERLY ABSOLUTELY MAD to even consider anyone but Blake.

I'm not mad, Emma thought. I'm just . . . scared.

I'm not sure of myself.

She had captivated Blake for
now
—­but for how long? Yet how many other women had he fallen for and built monuments for? None. She would have heard about it.

The problem was that the vicious voices of the ton that were a steady buzz in her ear:

What is such a plain, nothing, nobody girl doing with a handsome man like the duke?

They drowned out the voice in her heart.

Her intrigued but terrified, yearning, and cowardly heart.

Emma added a night rail to the valise and wished it were more alluring, instead of perfectly appropriate for an unmarried woman too long on the marriage mart.

London's Least Likely. Wallflower of the first water.

What does the
Duke of Ashbrooke
see in
her
?

Emma abandoned her packing altogether.

Gathering all the candles in her room—­given her penchant for reading late into the night, there were many—­she lit each one and placed them all on her dressing table. She sat before the mirror, awash in a warm glow.

Having usually avoided her reflection, she sought to give herself a good, long look now. She wanted to stop seeing herself as the haute ton did and start seeing herself as Blake did.

Her hair was not the long, lustrous, golden locks of Lady Katherine Abernathy, which reflected candlelight so well and inspired all sorts of rubbish poetry. Her own hair was dark and glossy; though it couldn't hold a curl for long, it eventually softened into nice waves.

Emma frankly appraised her features. They were the prim, plain, unremarkable features of a lovely English girl. Her eyes were almond-­shaped and her eyelashes, while not breathtakingly long and full, did flare up nicely at the outer edges.

Her nose was not pert, buttonlike, or adorable . . . but neither was it overly large or unshapely. Her nose was perfectly fine.

In this moment, when she ceased despairing over her lack of a full, sensuous mouth, she saw her own was nicely shaped. Perhaps even slightly like a bow. Emma ventured a smile at her reflection. She always hated her crooked smile, but Blake was entranced and intrigued by it. So maybe, perhaps, her smile was lovely after all.

She thought of all those hours when she did not smile. When she bowed her head in a book rather than assess her appearance. When she felt so unpretty that she didn't bother to
act
prettily.

Blake made her feel beautiful because of the light in his eyes when he gazed at her. Because of the way he always sought to touch her and to kiss her. Because of the way they were able to spar and banter and laugh together.

As Emma looked at herself now, she dared to believe that she was beautiful. The mean voices of the ton started to sound a bit distant.

Who does she think she is?
Lady Emma Avery, London's Least Likely . . . and yet also the Duke of Ashbrooke's fiancée and heiress to a massive fortune.

Oh, the wallflower?
The undiscovered treasure.

What is she doing with him?
All sorts of naughty, wicked, wonderful things.

He'll tire of her eventually . . .
He might. But perhaps he won't.

A lifetime of not believing in herself did not quite vanish after one good, long look in the mirror. And it certainly wasn't helped by the relentless ticking of the clock, which annoyingly reminded her that any minute now, Benedict would arrive, intent upon a midnight elopement.

She had a decision to make.

Marry the man who loved her for three seasons when no one else did. It was a safe and sensible choice.

Marry the man who'd never had an affair longer than a fortnight, who possibly loved her
now
. But did she dare risk FOREVER with him?

That damned clock tick-­tocked loudly on the mantel. She stuffed it in the valise along with nearly all of her clothing, which she hoped would muffle the sound.

Emma sat upon the valise, forcing it closed. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and
listened
to the voice in her heart. She could hear it now, above the voices of fear and mockery that always called her London's Least Likely.

Blake had fallen for her and there was no denying it. He had told her in words and shown her in his actions.

There was also no denying that she had fallen for him, too. She wanted to see herself the way he saw her. She wanted to live knowing the passion he had shown her. She
wanted
to be so certain of their love that nothing could shake her confidence.

She wasn't there just yet. Her nerves were in an advanced state of agitation, given the choice she was going to make tonight. Her heart was already racing. With fear? Anticipation? If only she had more time!

Standing, she walked to her bedroom window. There, in the mews, was the small glow of a lantern, which was Benedict's signal that he had arrived. She was to sneak out of the house and meet him at the carriage.

That was the plan.

Until Blake climbed in through the bedroom window.

I
T WASN'T THE
first time that Blake had climbed a trellis in order to sneak into a woman's bedroom at some ungodly hour of the night. But it was the first time his heart raced while he climbed—­not with fear that he would be caught or that he would fall, but fear that he would be too late.

It was also the first time that he wasn't sure if the woman would be happy to see him. Emma was a lot of firsts for him: the first time a woman rebuffed him and the first time he confessed his love to a woman.

Given that she was not expecting him, it was to be expected that she stifled a shriek when he climbed into her bedroom.

“Blake! What are you doing here?”

It was a fair question. Given the situation, only the truth would suffice. After all, he could not claim to have been strolling in the neighborhood and thought to drop by.

“I missed you,” he said plainly. He could only barely see her expression—­even though she had a ridiculous number of candles lit on her dressing table—­but he could not discern her feelings from the half smile upon her lips.

Though he had seen her since the end of the Fortune Games, he missed their sparring together at Aunt Agatha's, missed their banter, missed long gazes full of knowing that they shared a secret. More recently, he missed her soft cries of pleasure, the feel of her bare skin under his palm, and her crooked smile.

“You must have missed me very badly to venture into my bedroom at midnight. You couldn't wait for calling hours?”

The lady was not moved by his dramatic and romantic gesture of climbing into her bedroom. Yet.

This was Emma, the one woman who did not throw herself at his feet, which was why she was the one woman for him.

Blake glanced around her room. His gaze settled on a suitcase resting at her feet. He detected the soft, thin muslin of a chemise peeking out.

“Going somewhere?” he asked casually. Given what he'd glimpsed in the mews, he suspected he knew her answer.

“As a matter of fact, I was planning on it,” she said, her voice wavering. He noticed that her hands were desperately grasping the fabric of her skirt. She was nervous about something.

“Oh? Where might a young lady be going at this late hour?”

“I have plans to elope with Benedict,” she said.

His heart stopped beating. His lungs ceased to function. His stomach churned. His brain ceased to work, save for one thought:
No.

Her voice had wavered. There was hope. He clung to it.

Blake took a moment to will his heart into beating, his lungs into breathing, to quell the revolt in his stomach. His future happiness depended upon the next few moments, and his only coherent thought was that she looked so pretty in the moonlight.

Emma bit her lip, uncertain. She gazed up at him. He ached to take her in his arms and make her absolutely, positively certain of the happiness and pleasure they could have together. Forever.

Instead, he leaned against the window frame and said, “That explains why he's waiting in the mews.”

“What are you doing here, Blake?” she asked again. There was no disguising the anguish in her voice. “Have you come to stop me? Is this because of the fortune?”

“I told you, I missed you,” he said. Fortunately, he happened to miss her so much just when he might thwart her elopement. If that wasn't luck, he didn't know what was.

“How did you climb up here?”

Blake grinned.

“I had a trellis installed,” he said. She pushed past him, brushing against his chest so that she might peer out the window to confirm that yes, he had embarked on construction projects to her own house.

“But this is not your house,” she protested.

“Your parents just adore me,” Blake said. Also, parents of daughters betrothed to wealthy dukes did not quibble about installing trellises to her bedroom window. Anything to ensure the match.

“They are deluded,” she muttered. “You are impossible.”

“That's what I adore about you, Emma. A man goes through all the bother of orchestrating a devastatingly romantic encounter and you call him impossible. At least you didn't swoon.”

“Please,” she retorted. “As if I would do anything so miss-­ish as that.”

She picked up her suitcase. The woman obviously overthought the venture and packed excessively. Either that or she was bringing her entire trousseau.

“Would you like help with that?” he inquired politely.

“I can manage, thank you,” she said. Faintly. The suitcase was obviously quite heavy. She would have to carry it through the hall, down the servants' stairs, through the garden and out to the mews. Silently.

Made one wonder about Benedict. She was willing to go all the way to Scotland to marry him, and he couldn't meet her at the back door to help carry her suitcase? Disgraceful.

“It is midnight,” Blake said coolly, even though his heart was pounding. She could not walk out on him. Not now. But he didn't say that. He was not a man who begged or pleaded. Instead, he said, “You had better be going if you want to catch him. Or do you plan to leave him waiting? A measure of his love for you, perhaps. How long do you think he'll keep the carriage parked in the mews? A quarter of an hour? An hour? Until dawn?”