Page 36 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“Damn,” she said. If she could prove the novel was hers, she had hoped the publisher would stop running the presses. She stayed in front of the building for the remainder of the afternoon, first walking back and forth in front of the shop, and then waiting in the carriage, lying down, and sitting up, always moving to keep her mind busy.
But after several hours, she knew there was only one more option.
Marjorie needed to find Percy and confront him.
It had been nearly six days, and Alfie couldn’t remain in the country any longer.
“What are you doing?”
His mother burst through the open door to his bedchamber as he helped his valet pack.
“Leaving.”
“You only just left your room. How can you go to London? Stay here a little longer with me where you will feel safe.”
“No,” he said simply.
Since her return, his mother had driven him mad, going on about this and that—improvements to the house, trips she wanted to take, gowns she wanted to order. All of which he had zero interest in. His mind was only ever on Marjorie. He had remained behind, watching her leave, and felt like the biggest failure. He wouldn’t do it any longer.
“Alfred, you can’t leave.”
He spun to face his mother. “You threatened me with a doctor if I didn’t leave my room, and now you wish for me to stay? Which is it, Mother?”
“Why the rush to London?”
He debated whether he should tell her the truth. And in his hesitation, he realized he no longer cared about her opinion. Let her say what she wished; at the end of the day, he was duke. His father had passed, his brother was now buried. He couldn’t remain living in the ghost of one life because he was too afraid to step into the new one.
“Aren’t you leaving?” he said. “You returned and told me that you were going to Percy’s event.”
“Yes, I was planning on leaving tomorrow. Why don’t you wait, and we’ll go together?”
“I don’t have time.”
His mother collapsed dramatically at the edge of the chaise, clearly exasperated. “You have all the time in the world. You are duke, darling. The world works for you.”
He shook his head, putting his hands on his hips and staring down at the floor. He hated how he felt—how panic coursed through him… and rage. He was furious with himself.
“I love Marjorie, Mother.” He held up his hand before she could counter. “You can have your opinion, but she will be my wife, and she needs me. Remaining here is failing her. I cannot let her go to London and face what she must face alone.”
“Face what?” his mother asked.
“Percy stole from Marjorie.”
“Stole?” she asked. “Stole what?”
It felt wrong to tell the truth. It felt like it was Marjorie’s story to share.
“Percy stole a manuscript.”
“Marjorie has a manuscript?” His mother scoffed. “That makes sense. Even the on-dits know she’s always writing or has her nose in a book.”
“Yes, well, she’s published, Mother. She uses a pen name but is very successful.”
“A published author! Of course. She’s always been a scandal. First her parents, now her. The entire family wishes for all the attention of London.”
“You could help sway that opinion,” he said.
She lifted her nose in the air. It was answer enough.
