Page 5 of The Wallflower and the Duke
No, she was certain she was struck mad because as she glared at him from her seat, she vowed she would have her revenge, but first she needed help.
There was no time to waste. She left the next morning for the country.
Fluent in five languages. Versed well in the classics. And particularly excellent at grasping mathematical concepts. The education befitting of a duke, certainly.
Alfie excelled at each discipline. But that didn’t explain why he couldn’t turn the handle to his bedchamber to exit to the hallway.
He stood there, shoulders slumped, scratching the dark scruff on his jaw. Puzzled.
It was only the hallway to his childhood home. He knew what lay beyond. There were no surprises lurking. There was no one else in residence beyond his valet and the rest of the house staff. But he couldn’t find it within himself to turn that knob.
He dragged in a breath, feeling the icy dread creep up his spine as his heart began drumming in his ears.
Every. Time.
He released the doorknob and spun, collapsing against the door, then sliding to the floor into a heap. He clutched his head and rocked, waiting for the worst of it to subside. Certain he was going mad.
Imagine that—the new Duke of Abinger deemed unfit to take on the title and all the responsibilities. He couldn’t hide away forever.
Over a year since he had returned. A year since he had left to find his younger brother, who had been declared missing after fighting the French. And what had Alfie succeeded at? He discovered his brother’s body at Waterloo. Was then himself severely injured in a carriage accident and finally returned to bury his father. All in four short months.
And since then, that doorknob stood between him and the rest of England.
Damn it.
His hand shook as he bent in half, breathing in and out, trying his best to stay present. But even after all this time, it was never easy.
There had been so much blood. And the noise. Christ, the noise.
His heart rattled against his chest, and he wasn’t sure now if he was crying or screaming—or if those were memories as well—when suddenly a gust of wind licked the side of his face, and he snapped to attention.
A figure crawled through the window, hooking a leg over the ledge before pulling themselves through. After the accident, his long limbs weren’t as fast. He was all gangly and awkward, like he was back in Eton again, but that didn’t stop Alfie from reaching beside him and hurling a book across the room at the figure.
“Ouch, Alfie!”
Of course. He hadn’t seen her in three years, but Marjorie Merryweather was still well on her way to seeing him to an early grave. He forced himself up and strode across his room, where he stood above the figure of his neighbor, the girl next door, collapsed on the floor, rubbing her head.
“There are doors for a reason.”
Even though he wished to bend down and examine her head, he remained still.
“Yes, but the butler told me you weren’t accepting visitors. Seeing as I need?—”
“A letter then.”
She sat up and frowned. “You haven’t replied to that stack.” Marjorie pointed to the enormous stack of letters gathered in a bin on his desk. “Too much to do?”
Well, it wasn’t as though he needed to explain himself to her. So, he wouldn’t.
“Did I hurt you?” He clenched his fists at his side to stop himself from touching her as he slowly inhaled. Alfie wasn’t sure he was quite himself yet. He didn’t trust himself to be around her. He couldn’t live with himself if he hurt her. “I apologize.”
Marjorie was tall and slender, with large dark brown eyes and brunette hair. She had always considered herself plain. Alfie had long considered her to be the most beautiful woman in the world. But alas, she had kept the desires of her heart a close secret. And his parents made it clear he was never to pursue a relationship with any Merryweather, having a strong distaste for the acting family.
She reached out for his hand, and he hesitated before turning his palm over for her to grab. He pretended as if he didn’t notice it trembling. And he could tell she did as well. He hated her a little for it.
Three years.
He pressed his lips together, careful to mask his surprise.
