Free The Wicked Wallflower by Maya Rodale Page A

apparent in her expression. She thought of all those hours in the carriage when she deliberately avoided his conversation—­and any temptation—­by sticking her nose in a book.
    They ought to have concocted a story. Instead they ignored each other.
    When Blake did not rush to her rescue fast enough, Emma knew she would have to save herself. The games had hardly begun and she already had negative points—­fewer than anyone else. She had to act daringly or risk falling further behind.
    â€œIt was the most romantic encounter,” she said, and everyone at the table fixed their attention upon her. She took a deep breath and drew courage from Blake’s curious gaze. Then she took the opportunity to commit them to the romantic story she wanted, and it was straight from the pages of Miss Darling and the Dreadful Duke.
    â€œWe met at a ball,” Blake declared at the same time Emma stated, “We stumbled upon each other in an abandoned gazebo in Hyde Park during a sudden, severe thunderstorm.”
    â€œThat’s just like in Miss Darling and the Dreadful Duke! ” exclaimed Miss Dawkins, a young debutante and fellow wallflower.
    â€œQuite a coincidence, I assure you,” Emma replied, smiling weakly. She nervously sipped her crisp white wine, gripping the glass securely.
    â€œWhere is there an abandoned gazebo in Hyde Park?” inquired Lady Copley, half of a bickering middle-­age ­couple.
    â€œOh, it’s on the far side,” Emma answered, having no idea if one even existed. “I do enjoy a good constitutional walk in the morning.”
    â€œOne wouldn’t think Ashbrooke would,” said Lady Bellande, who was the sort of painted widow that was every woman’s worst nightmare. “One would think he were engaged in other pursuits in the morning.”
    â€œIt was on my way home from an exclusive gaming hell,” Blake explained, which tested the imagination of no one.
    â€œHow excellent you both enjoy long walks at first light,” Lady Agatha said. “For I had planned a tour of the grounds tomorrow.”
    â€œNot all four hundred acres, I hope,” Lord Pleshette quipped. “I should hate to wear my boots. They’re from Hobbs, which makes the King’s boots as well.”
    No one cared about his boots. Surely Emma wasn’t the only one who felt ashamed of her unfashionable attire after he had given her a dismissive glance.
    â€œWhat else have you planned for us, Aunt Agatha?” Blake asked. “Dragon hunting? Another game of Dueling Debrett’s? Perhaps some jousting? It’s just not done enough these days.”
    â€œA musicale. Perhaps a ball. Perhaps a circus,” she said, sipping her wine and grinning devilishly. “I’ve heard some ­people are having the most remarkable luck training bears to do tricks! Wouldn’t that be a wonderful talent to have?”
    â€œBears?” Miss Dawkins echoed in a very hollow voice.
    â€œA musicale shall be lovely. Perhaps I might sing,” Lady Bellande offered. “Ashbrooke could accompany me . . . on the pianoforte.”
    She said this in the sort of voice that led one to understand that she meant his accompaniment literally on top of the pianoforte, and not for a musical endeavor.
    Emma felt her lips purse in a decidedly spinsterish fashion. An unexpected surge of possessiveness stole over her. She did not want her fictional fiancé to be unfaithful to her, nor did she want anyone to think so. Her pride revolted at the prospect.
    Certainly the feeling of possessiveness had nothing whatsoever to do with wanting him for herself.
    She was the first person to say that she and Blake made an odd and unexpected ­couple. She was a plain wallflower. He was a man so handsome that he sucked all the attention in the room toward himself, as if he possessed his own personal force of gravity.
    But at the moment she fiercely wanted it to be true.