Page 17 of The Wallflower and the Duke
Alfie quirked his eyebrow at her, annoyance heavy on his face. “I’ve lost out to him when it counts the most. I don’t ever want to give him such power again.”
Power? She scoffed. “You only fail if you never try.”
“Is that what your mother told you when you stood against the wall of every ball in Town?”
She threw her hands to her hips, her patience slipping. “Well, that was uncalled for. I am only trying to help.”
“And I am making a damn mess of everything!”
“Only because you are choosing to.”
“I was born an heir to a dukedom, Jo. I haven’t chosen a damn thing in my life.”
But you.
She swore she heard the words tumble out of his mouth, but she couldn’t tell for sure because she strode up to him, cupped her hands over his cheeks, and kissed him.
Could a kiss hold one’s salvation?
Alfie would consider the merits of that argument later.
Right now? He was certain he had died in that carriage accident because Marjorie had just pressed her lips against his, soft and searching. A kiss full of questions.
He felt the air squeeze from his lungs as the panic melted away within him, and suddenly the world switched into focus.
Alfie wrapped his arm around her, pressing his fingers into her hips as his lips met hers tentatively.
Years, and this was nothing like he imagined it would be.
Her hands fell from his cheeks, and she pulled away enough to gaze up at him, her big brown eyes asking for an answer he didn’t have.
All except one. Alfred Renwick, the Duke of Abinger loved Marjorie Merryweather.
“I don’t need your pity.” His voice scraped against his throat.
She shook her head, leaning her forehead against his. Her fingertips danced at his temple, and he slammed his eyes shut, afraid if he opened them, this would only be a dream.
“Not pity,” she whispered back. “I care…”
He opened his eyes again, hopeful. Then reached down and tipped her chin up.
“Can I kiss you?”
Her eyes fluttered briefly to his mouth, then darted back up to his eyes. He never would understand how such rich brown eyes were threaded with the most beautiful gold and green.
Marjorie held so many secrets, like the soft freckles gracing the tops of her cheeks in the summer, the soft bow of her lips when she was about to laugh, and the way she smelled of spring—a scent that lingered behind her as if Alfie could never quite catch up. And her writing, of course.
Marjorie sighed, the tension in her arms melting as she leaned against him and nodded, her eyes full of an eagerness that tore at his chest. Hope—something much more powerful than love or desire.
He reached up and brushed back some dark brown hair from the sides of her face, his thumbs rubbing against her temples as he carefully studied her features, wishing to catalog every detail in case she left this evening and never returned. He knew that was a possibility, and he could never offer her a happy life as long as he remained in this room where he felt safe.
A growl ripped from his throat, and the delicate thread of his patience snapped. He bent down and pressed his lips against hers, a kiss that was not soft, not searching, but demanding. Alfie needed Marjorie. He needed to taste her, to feel everything she was willing to offer him. He needed something to hold him here when he felt as if he was standing on the precipice, fading away.
She was his hope.
A soft moan escaped her as she leaned against him. He deepened the kiss, sucking on her bottom lip, biting down softly before soothing the pain away with his tongue. She opened to him, allowing him inside as her hands wound around his neck and clung to him.
He could never convince himself that this was not how it always should have been between them—kissing.
