Free The Wicked Wallflower by Maya Rodale

utter innocence, he said, “Fortunately, we have corrected that appalling oversight.”
    â€œYou’re lucky you have a pretty face, Ashbrooke,” Agatha said dryly. “Your manners are appalling. I don’t know how your fiancée abides you.”
    â€œA little sherry gets her through the day. And night,” Blake said. Emma’s mouth dropped open and she shot him one of those looks that spoke of murderous rage and evil intentions. But then her lips curved into an adorably crooked smile.
    â€œIt’s the only way to tolerate him,” Emma replied as dryly as Agatha, to Blake’s surprise and to the amusement of the others.
    He saw Agatha’s lips quirk into an approving smile.
    â€œIndeed,” she said, raising her goblet before taking a hearty sip. “Fortunately he had enough sense to betroth himself to a woman of wit and judgment. There is hope for your children yet. Now what was I saying?”
    â€œThat you are the queen of the Fortune Games, your word is final, and we have the choice to participate, which makes any complaints null and void,” Blake declared.
    â€œWell done,” Agatha said plainly. “Your brain box works after all.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just declare him and his fiancée the winners and let us all go home?” Lord Pleshette muttered. “He was always the favorite.”
    â€œAfter everyone has traveled all this way?” Lady Agatha asked, aghast. “Besides, Lady Emma could still commit some unforgivable faux pas.”
    â€œLike Lord Anderson in 1816,” Edmund said, shaking his head. “That was such a tragedy.”
    â€œWas he the one who had been caught in your dressing closet, in your corsets and petticoats?” Lady Copley inquired.
    â€œNo, that was Lord Wiltshire,” George said. “Anderson was winning until he used the wrong fork at a luncheon. To be fair, it was a thirteen-course meal with separate cutlery for each course. The table setting monstrous. Not unlike this one.”
    â€œIt’s completely unforgivable,” Agatha said. “I couldn’t possibly leave my estate to someone ignorant in the most basic of table manners.”
    Everyone glanced nervously at the array of silverware, china dishes, and multiple etched crystal glasses upon the table. Dinner had not even begun.
    â€œTo the twentieth Annual Fortune Games,” Aunt Agatha declared, bejeweled goblet raised and voice booming. All the guests raised their glasses as well. Emma, nerves getting the best of her, was the only one to drop hers, shattering the crystal on the china plate and spilling wine upon her best dress and the epic table setting before her.
    Chances at winning the games = null
    â€œAh, the games have only just begun and we must already deduct six points from Lady Emma’s tally. Angus, do make that note.” Her footman wrote it down in the red leather volume. Emma’s cheeks burned. And the games began.
    T HEY HAD NOT even survived the first course when disaster struck for the second time, in the form of a polite remark and simple question that caught both Blake and Emma utterly and foolishly unprepared.
    â€œLady Emma, Duke, I think I speak for all the guests when I offer my congratulations on your betrothal,” Miss Montgomery said kindly from the far end of the table. Though she was a Miss, she was clearly at least forty years or more. A spinster.
    Miss Montgomery was her, Emma thought, if she didn’t play this game right.
    â€œThe news was such a surprise,” George said with a sharp smile, reminding Emma of daggers drawn. “We never thought cousin Blake would be the marrying kind. We are all eager to know how you met.”
    â€œIndeed, we are all perishing of curiosity,” Edmund said, and everyone murmured their agreement. Emma felt like a fox at a hunt. Surrounded. The snarling dogs closing in.
    Emma looked to Blake, hoping the alarm she felt was not