Page 21 of The Wallflower and the Duke
Swallowing hard, he tried to ignore the throbbing pulse in his ears and the icy shiver racing down his arms. He swore he felt a sweat break out on his forehead.
He was coming apart in front of her. He didn’t wish for her to see him this way. And yet she remained quiet and steady.
“What would you like me to do?” she said.
Alfie slammed his eyes shut and shook his head. He couldn’t logically make sense of what he wanted from her right now. What did he want her to do?
He wanted her to race to him from the hallway and close the door behind her. He wanted her arms to be laced around his neck and her lips against his. He wanted all of it, as grand as it was, because he still had hope that one day he would cure whatever was wrong with him. One day, they could have a future. But as long as he was trapped in this room, it was selfish to ask her for anything more.
He had proposed to her last night like some lovesick schoolboy struck by the local beauty, professing his undying love. Alfie, at thirty-one years old, hadn’t seen her for years. Instead of trying to keep something for himself, he just threw himself at her feet, knowing he could never be a good husband.
Damn the title. He hated that title. He hated who he’d had to lose to have that title.
“Alfie,” her voice called softly across the room, gentle and reassuring.
He opened his eyes slowly to look back at her, certain he appeared like some wild, crazed thing, but she hadn’t run away.
“Come here,” she said at last.
When he shook his head, he knew the refusal would cost him everything. He turned his back and, leaning against the wall, thought it would be better if she left. It would be better if she returned to London. He would reach out to Percy, he would do something, but she should return to London, not hide away.
He was the perfect example as to why. But then again, Marjorie knew that as well. Keeping a secret was not a privilege. It was a burden.
In and out. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to root himself in the room, trying desperately to make sense of the fact that his feet were firmly on the floor. That he was not falling apart. That the world was not ending. That he was safe. He could feel the cool breeze from the open window across the room. He could smell her perfume, chasing him, haunting him in the doorway.
He licked his lips, waiting for his heart to slow down, waiting for his lungs to finally have enough air so it didn’t feel as if he were drowning in the river in the park.
“Darling,” she whispered beside him. She slipped her hand into his and rested her head against his shoulder. “I’m here.”
With a ragged breath, he tilted his head so he could meet her eyes, not ashamed there were tears of his own as his mind struggled to stay present.
“I will only let you down,” he said.
She pressed her lips together and tilted her head. “There’s no way that’s possible.”
He moved his head back again, hiding away like a coward, even as her palm was warm against his, and it was the one thing keeping him tethered. He hated being lost to this overwhelming tide. Sometimes it felt as if he would lose himself for hours or days to it. He didn’t want to.
“You’re safe,” she said. “You don’t have to leave if you’re not ready. I will go to London myself. I had no idea.” She paused, inserting herself between him and the wall, her lips now nearly ghosting over his. With her free hand, she skirted her fingertips up his shoulder, back into the nape of his neck, playing with the ends of his hair.
“He stole your damn book,” he growled. “I’ll burn down London until he pays.”
“No,” she said, slipping her hand out of his and placing it on his cheek, wiping away a tear with the pad of her thumb. “Alfie, I need you to listen to me. Because this is important.”
He nodded, struck by the sight of her lips. The feel of her fingertips brushing against his skin was both calming and enticing all at once. This panic began to be chased away by anticipation.
“I cannot kiss you and make this go away, as much as I want that to be the case. I wish it were so simple. And I know you want to hide away. I know you are hurting.” She placed her hand over his heart. He couldn’t stop crying, and he hated himself for it.
“Alfie, darling,” she said again. “I have to return to London, and I realize now I must do so alone. But I need you to understand it’s not because I don’t love you. And it’s not because I don’t wish to be your wife. It’s because I want to keep what is mine. I don’t think he deserves to keep that book just because he thinks I’ll be quiet.”
Questions began swirling in his mind, questions about plans and what she meant to do. But all he could focus on was what she said—it wasn’t because she didn’t want to be his wife. What did that mean? How could she possibly feel anything for him when he was holding himself up now against his bedroom wall, crying because he couldn’t open a door? He was weak and a failure, and he would only let her down.
She clasped both hands on his cheeks, squeezing slowly, pulling his attention back to her.
“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me, Alfie.”
He swallowed hard. Why was it so difficult to stay present? Why did it feel like his mind went one way and his body the other?
“When I walked in, you were going to open that door,” she said. “Do you want my help?”
