Page 13 of The Wallflower and the Duke
Her cheeks blushed. She sat and ducked her head, grabbing her peach and taking a bite. “You can continue sulking or pacing or whatever you do here. Don’t let me ruin your plans.”
“You’re baiting me.”
“Is it working?” She grinned to herself, pleased, then wiped away some peach juice from her chin. “Don’t be such a bear.”
He ruffled his hand through his hair. His valet had luckily been keeping it trimmed, but given enough time, the brown curls would stand up on end like coils.
“What are you writing this time?”
“The usual. Death, intrigue, romance.”
“I’m sorry for what happened to you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. She froze in her seat at his desk, gazing up at him. Once again, he was struck that in another life, this was only another morning, and they were a married couple bickering and flirting. Except then, he would have reason to lean down and lick the peach juice off her chin.
Friends didn’t do that. But he hadn’t thought of her as a friend in years.
And really, this was the damn problem. He was in love with his best friend. Had been, had proposed, and when she turned down his foolish plan, his love for her never escaped. Instead, it kindled his heart, bringing him home after almost dying in France, saving him from himself on the longest, loneliest days after burying his younger brother and his father’s death shortly after.
When it came down to it, Marjorie was his reason for living, even after breaking his heart. He treasured her and would help her even if it meant he would hurt himself in the process.
Nothing about it would be easy, but for her, he would do it.
It wasn’t lost on Marjorie that the day slipped by faster than she wanted. It often was the case when she was writing. But that wasn’t the only reason why.
She stretched from her spot on the floor beside Alfie in the chaise behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. He was reclined back with a stack of her manuscript pages beside him, reading intently.
“I don’t know how you do this,” he said, looking up from her writing. “This is brilliant. I can’t stop reading.”
Difficult as it was, Marjorie accepted the compliment, even though she wished to hide under the rug at the praise.
She stood, gathering up her inkwell and the few pages she was revising, and wandered to the desk. It was time to leave, but that didn’t explain why she wanted to climb onto the chaise beside Alife and rest her head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. Or how she wished to thread her hand into his and pretend nothing else mattered.
Stalling her departure wouldn’t help. Certainly not as she watched the day’s last burst of golden light wash over Alfie. A glimpse of what she had refused, this lovely, tender familiarity.
Alfie was her friend, wasn’t he?
And what she was beginning to feel for him felt far more romantic than that. Or maybe she had always been attracted to him. The way his lips spread into a wide smile, and his warm green eyes filled with joy. She loved the way smile lines creased around his eyes, made him friendly, familiar, and did something funny to her heart she didn’t understand.
Marjorie traced her fingertips over the top of her pages, waiting for something to make sense. But none of this made sense.
She had come back to seek his help in revenge against Percy. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t want Percy to make amends for what he had done, but seeing Alfie made her remember something else entirely.
She had loved her friend when he had proposed. She was seventeen. He was heir to a dukedom. It was ridiculous to even consider agreeing to marry him when his parents had made it clear that they didn’t like her family. The ton would never accept her, and she said no. But it would be a lie to say it didn’t break her heart to say so. Even then, even when she had thought herself in love with Percy, what she thought she felt for Percy had always been what she shared with Alfie.
“I need to go,” she said, first speaking softly to herself, then spinning and resting against the desk. She set down the pages and tried to steady herself. Even so far away, she could swear she felt the back of his hand against her cheek.
To that, she met his gaze. He was always so good at pulling the truth from her. Even now, when he considered himself broken and beyond the capability of love.
She had to leave today, but she wasn’t ready to return to London just yet and leave him behind.
“Do you have to?” he asked.
“Yes,” she laughed. “Of course.”
“Let me have a carriage bring you back.”
She walked over slowly to collect the rest of her manuscript. When his hand reached for hers, he pulled her down to the edge of the chaise.
She twisted so she covered his chest with her body. They stared at one another, waiting, the silence filling up between them.
