Page 2 of The Wallflower and the Duke
First her career, then Percy. Too many secrets.
“I must tell you something,” she said, swallowing down her nerves.
He would understand. He wouldn’t reject her for this. Percy was a man of words, his nose always stuck in a book. It was part of the reason why the family estate was crumbling. He much preferred books and poetry, and she thought their souls might understand one another.
Twin flames.
Percy tilted his head, scrubbing his hand through his golden blond hair and brushing it back. She loved how he smelled of ink and wine and books. It was almost sacred, a call home as it were.
“Can I tell you one?” he asked.
She clasped her hands and backed away, shaking her head. He didn’t need to say a word for her to understand what he wanted to share.
“Please, kiss me, Margie.”
“You haven’t proposed,” she squeaked out. “And I am not?—”
“Do you want me to? You need me to perform a romantic speech, or do I keep it strictly business? Do you want me to tell you how you’ve driven me mad since the moment I spotted you across that crowded salon?—”
“I was writing. I didn’t see you for half the night.”
He nodded, taking a large step forward. “You and your ink-covered hands. You silly woman. Don’t you understand?”
She shook her head, this time remaining still, refusing to retreat even as her pulse drummed in her ears.
“Allow me to kiss you. Tell me you will wait for me.”
Marjorie couldn’t think. Couldn’t hear past her heart as he stepped closer, and she reached out for his vest, gingerly laying her hands upon him.
He ducked down to kiss her, and she closed her eyes before stepping to the side.
“I write. I’m a writer.”
He groaned, tossing his head up toward the ceiling. “Yes, I know you love to write your little stories.”
“No,” she cleared her throat, holding her hand out to stall his advance. “I am an author. A published author.”
His head snapped to hers. “Published?”
She ignored the way the tiny hairs on her arms stood up as gooseflesh broke out over her skin. Marjorie pushed past the sour taste in her mouth and spun, marching to her desk to grab a copy of her latest published work, then shoved it in his hands.
Percy squinted, holding the book gingerly, first opening the cover, then flipping it over to examine it.
“It’s a whole novel, I promise. Nothing untoward.”
“Published,” he repeated. “Like M. E. Gastrell? I love his novels.”
“Percy.” She reached out and grabbed her novel, suddenly wishing to use it as a shield between herself and her maybe someday soon betrothed. “I am M. E. Gastrell. That is what I must tell you.”
He tossed his head back and guffawed before bending in half and placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. She was of half a mind to whack him over the head then with her novel. There was nothing funny about this secret.
“If you laughing sees me ruined…”
He glanced up and grinned. “You’re worried about some actress finding us? What will happen, Margie, when your parents discover you are a famous Gothic novelist? What then?” He stood and stretched his hand out, still chuckling as if stuck in disbelief. “Better yet, what of the on-dits? Marjorie Merryweather, the strange little wallflower who parades around the countryside talking to her raven?—”
“Hey now,” she bristled. “You can leave Benny out of this.” Had he called her strange?
Marjorie returned her book to her desk and crossed her arms, frustrated she had only moments before she thought she would kiss Percy. Now, she not only regretted ever telling him her secrets, she also didn’t want to kiss him.
