Page 38 of The Wallflower and the Duke
She folded her arms, ignoring the rain slashing against the stone facade of the building and splashing back upon her. “I only need a moment, my lord.”
There was more mumbling behind the doorway before Herbert stepped aside and she was allowed into the front hall.
Percy was immaculate. His suit bespoke, not a hair out of place on his head, and the grin on his face didn’t falter.
Marjorie sucked in a deep breath, unsure of where to start or what to say. “I need to speak with you,” she said, her voice wavering. She hated herself for it.
He nodded tersely, turned on his heel, and strode toward the first room off the front hall—a small sitting room. She walked in, dismissing her lady’s maid to stand outside the door before he shut it with a loud click.
“I’m very busy,” he said curtly.
Marjorie clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m aware. I understand you have another event tonight.”
“So, you’ve read my book?”
She studied his face. Nothing, not even his posture, changed to give away a hint that he suspected she knew.
“I heard the book.” That caught his attention because ever so slightly he tipped his chin forward in anticipation. “Percy?”
“I don’t have all evening,” he snapped.
Marjorie smiled and stepped forward, balling her hands next to her hips. “Yes, you’re very busy, I understand. But that book you read was mine.”
“Your book?” He laughed, and it was such an ugly sound.
“It was an old draft of mine. And it’s gone missing. I can’t find anything. And when word spread about your new novel, I thought I would attend your salon and listen to you read from it. Imagine my surprise when you read my novel back to me.”
He scoffed. “What are you accusing me of?”
Marjorie wished she was taller, bigger, and louder at that moment. She hated feeling stuck as the quiet, strange wallflower. “That was my manuscript,” she said. “And it’s gone missing.”
“Why does that concern me?”
She felt the embarrassment rush to her cheeks. There were only two nights it could have gone missing, and guessing at how he cut her off after the second, she knew very well when he stole her manuscript.
“Do you honestly forget?”
“Marjorie,” he said in warning. “I don’t want this to become ugly. I know you have aspired to become an author for years now.”
“And I am one. That is my manuscript. You stole it.”
“You can’t prove it,” he sneered.
And even though she had the journal, she wasn’t ready to confront him with that yet, still hoping he would come clean. And this could be solved quietly, out of public and away from the rest of London. She was already embarrassed enough as it was. Because for him to have stolen the manuscript meant he had been in her bedchamber, something he now swore to forget entirely.
“Marjorie,” he said, “I don’t want to embarrass you. I understand you may be jealous. But I don’t know what you’re speaking of. And I do have a very large event tonight that I must attend. I’m reading again. If you have an issue, please write in the future. We have no further business with one another.”
“We were engaged.” Those words were louder. Still, they weren’t enough.
“We were never engaged,” he corrected. “They were promises—promises that never resulted in a marriage. We haven’t been with one another for years now. And I don’t wish to see you again. I don’t know what delusions you have in your head. We all know how you spin webs of lies and wicked tales to help spend the time as a lonely spinster in London.”
“That’s going to be your answer?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” he scoffed once more. “Marjorie, I don’t know what you’re speaking about. The book is my own, published under my name. And whether you want to accuse me of stealing it or not, you have no proof that I did so. And now I must leave.” He walked to the door and tore it open, pointing for her to follow out. His dismissal felt like he struck her cheek.
She had followed him around, so sickly in love. She was younger then, and to think what she missed because of it, who she missed because of it. It left her feeling hollow.
“Very well, Percy,” she said. “I gave you a chance. But if you’ve chosen?—”
