Page 26 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“I want to remember you like that, forever.”
She opened one eye, smiling at him, certain she was more than a little in love with him. The excitement of it coursed through her. She had a confession of her own—she wanted to remember the look in his eyes watching her now. Marjorie felt the tension simmer between them, before spinning on her heels and taking off through the field, her hands brushing against the last color flush of wildflowers before the cold settled in.
“You don’t think I’ll chase after you?” he called out.
The pond came into view, sitting at the bottom of a large hill and surrounded by a group of old oak and elm trees. And to the left, a small stone folly that his father had turned into a glass house. Marjorie darted over, attempting to open the doors, but they wouldn’t budge.
“Jo.”
She startled, surprised at how quickly he caught up to her. “It’s locked. I haven’t been inside in… years.”
He bent around her to an old terracotta pot by the peeling celadon door, the tangled snarls of rosemary brown and silver from years of neglect. The brittle leaves rattled and fell as the pot tipped over with a soft thud on the landing, and Alfie stood with a key clutched in his hand.
Marjorie plucked the key out of his hand and slipped it into the lock, frustrated when it didn’t budge. She pushed against it, but the door stubbornly refused to open. She felt the heat rolling off his body before Alfie’s arms reached around her, so close.
“Allow me,” he whispered, his lips ghosting by her ear as his chest brushed against her back.
A soft rush of air left her lips as he caged himself around her, opening the door with a push, and suddenly she was hit with a wall of memories of when they were younger.
The folly still smelled the same, of earth and geraniums and apples. The wild flush of roses that climbed along the wide bank of windows overlooking the pond were long past now. She stepped inside, her slippers scuffing against the stone floor. The cushions and blanket were still where she had stacked them for the last time they rowed on the pond, folded in the corner by an old trunk. And beside that, a pile of books and an old top hat and scarf.
She walked to the small desk in the corner, tracing her fingertips through the thick layer of dust. The taper candle was still half burned, unmoved, perched beside an old journal of hers. This had always been her favorite hideaway. She remembered afternoons spent here in the summer with Alfie, Percy, Harry, and Emily. Before Emily fell ill with smallpox.
“You haven’t changed a thing.” She glanced over her shoulder to find Alfie standing behind her, his hands stuffed into his pockets, studying her intently.
He cleared his throat, and whatever dreamy look had washed over his face, it disappeared. All these years and it was as though he had stopped time at Hollyvale, waiting.
Her heart ached all over.
One can’t wait on ghosts, and Harry and his father were never returning. Emily would never again be the young girl who climbed trees and fought bravely against Harry, the pirate king.
Those were memories now. The ones she weaved into her manuscripts when it was early in the morning, and the world was quiet, and her heart was sad.
“I kept everything as you liked.”
She nodded, stepping away from the small desk to the bed tucked into the back corner. Marjorie flopped onto the dusty mattress, grinning foolishly to herself as she gazed up at the ceiling and discovered the mural that she and Alfie had painted remained.
“It is no wonder you are a duke and I am an authoress because our painting leaves something much to be desired.”
“Dukes can be a great many things.”
She pushed up onto her elbows, meeting his stare once again. Something about being in this folly made her feel… Well, it was as if she were walking back into time all the while knowing she was no longer that young girl. She was trapped in another body entirely and governed by a mind that had lived lifetimes.
Marjorie was no longer the quiet country girl, nor was she the quiet wallflower of London. She very well was an author with a pet raven who trudged around the countryside in the early morning to catch a glimpse of the sunrise. There were so many pieces of who she was, and it felt as though none of them fit with him watching her.
“Then what are you, Alfie? A brilliant mind with a kind heart? A scholar of Greek mythology and purveyor of antique maps? A formidable duke who carefully builds his empire?”
He glanced down toward the floor, fighting back a grin.
“I don’t know at the moment who I am. But I do know I am glad to see you here again.”
“I can’t stay,” she said quietly, half warning him.
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Then what are you asking me, Alfie? These past few days have been a whirlwind, and I am sure it has been as overwhelming for you as it has been for me.”
“Overwhelming?” he chuckled. “Am I so much…”
