Page 33 of The Wallflower and the Duke
Alfie stilled beside her, then pushed her behind him, squeezing her hand tight. She peeked around his body, trying her best to see who it was, only coming to the devastating realization that it was his mother, the duchess.
“Go ahead,” she whispered. “I will continue home. This doesn’t have to be a problem.”
He shook his head as his mother spun on the drive, and her eyes met them both, her face settling into stone. She might as well have been Medusa.
Dash it, Marjorie cursed under her breath.
It was still so early. The sun had barely risen, and here she was, found walking hand in hand with the duke.
He glanced toward Hollyvale, staring a beat too long at his room. A sharp, sour taste overtook her mouth.
“Alfie,” she said, hating the plea in her voice, or the way she suddenly felt ill to her stomach. Her heart raced in her chest, her palms sweaty. “Alfie, stay with me if it’s?—”
“This would have had to happen at some point,” he said, and his voice sounded distant. He tore his focus away from the house and back to his mother. “S-stay here. Give me a moment with my mother.”
He cast one more look up at his bedchamber window before he set off toward his mother, too far away for her to hear their conversation. But the duchess shot a hard stare in her direction, nodding abruptly. She’d always hated Marjorie.
It was obvious what had happened.
Marjorie hadn’t bothered to fix her hair. She wore yesterday’s wrinkled dress now wet from walking through the fields so early. Her slippers were stained. She looked a mess, certainly not fitting for a morning visit in a parlor with the Duchess of Abinger.
She blew out a breath and closed her eyes as a high-pitched ringing pierced her ears, and the sounds of Hollyvale faded away. The same thing had happened when she had heard Percy read her novel out loud to her, claiming it as his. Shock and knowledge that her life was forever changed.
Alfie suddenly turned and waved her forward, and she knew she had little choice but to obey. As much as she wished to turn around and retreat, she couldn’t. She clenched her hands as she walked over to Alfie and his mother.
She bowed her head. “Morning, Your Grace.”
“Miss Merryweather,” his mother sneered. “It is early for a visit, and Alfie here has said he found you walking this morning and invited you for tea.”
Marjorie didn’t miss the way the duchess swept her gaze over her, picking her apart piece by piece. She was no better than a vulture, eager to tear apart her prey until nothing remained.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very well,” his mother said, and she turned abruptly, setting off into the house.
Marjorie drew back, a little stunned, as Alfie came to stand beside her.
“What did you say to her?” she whispered.
There was a gleam in his eye. “Pretend as if we haven’t seen one another.”
“You told me she was in Bath,” Marjorie countered.
He shook his head. “She was. I don’t know why she is back so soon, but I think her finding me outside of my room has shocked her into being somewhat pleasant for the moment. So, let’s take advantage of that, shall we?”
Marjorie agreed and quickly hurried inside, glancing around the once-familiar halls of Hollyvale. She hadn’t been here in years. It was still as magnificent as ever, though dark due to the intricately carved paneling and collection of tapestries.
She certainly felt the loss of Alfie’s father and Harry. It was much too quiet.
Harry was always singing or humming or laughing, following Alfie around as if he were responsible for hanging the moon in the sky. Their father preferred to play the pianoforte. The house had been alive with noise and laughter and joy, even if it had been made clear to Marjorie that she wasn’t allowed to take part. She had caught glimpses, and it had felt different from her own home, which was a different sort of chaos growing up.
Her parents had visitors from all over the world who shared grand adventures, and they hosted wild parties. Marjorie was always lost in the shuffle, finding a way to keep herself busy and not so lonely. Especially after Emily was sick, and she was in London by herself.
Alfie peeked over his shoulder at her and winked. If she hadn’t been marching after the stodgy figure of the duchess, she might have allowed herself to smile back. Instead, she quickly glanced at a mirror in the hallway, brushed back her hair, and followed, walking into the parlor and sitting down in the chair offered to her. She sat straight, quiet, and swallowed hard.
“Alfie, I’m so pleased to see you,” his mother said as she sat opposite Marjorie and poured everyone a cup of tea.
The woman was grace and polish—everything, she supposed, a duchess should be.
