Page 7 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“That’s funny, given your…”
“Well, it has to do with that.”
His thick eyebrows rose in confirmation. Alfie was her oldest friend in this world, the duke next door. And for years now, they were forced to keep their friendship a secret.
It wasn’t the only secret.
He turned and made himself a cup of tea. She swallowed, realizing she had been staring at him. His dark hair stood up this way and that, his curls unruly. And his usually sharp jawline was covered in dark stubble. And yet, he was handsome.
There had always been something magical about Alfie.
She turned, draping her arm over the chaise and tilting her head toward the sun. Why hadn’t he answered any of her letters in all these years? He must help her. She had no one else. Her parents certainly wouldn’t.
“A manuscript of mine was stolen.”
Alfie stopped stirring his tea, then gently placed it down.
“And was published under a different name,” she continued.
“Not M. E. Gastrell?”
“No, Lord Chadwick actually.”
For a moment, the room fell silent, but Marjorie could practically feel the air swell around her. She reluctantly opened her eyes to find him standing in front of her. Then he bent down, the light striking his face just so, and she discovered a scar by his temple that was new.
She reached up to touch it, then snatched her hand away.
“France,” he said matter-of-factly before his eyes darkened. He nearly growled. “He stole your manuscript, then published it as his own?”
She nodded, focused on his lips. So close. She hadn’t really ever considered kissing him before. Friends didn’t kiss. So why suddenly was that all she wished to do?
“I attended a salon in London where he was reading. I went…” She blushed, too embarrassed to admit she had missed the viscount. “Everyone in London has been buzzing about the new book. And I sat there and listened as he read my words back to me. I couldn’t say anything. I was too afraid. Too angry…”
Tears burned her eyes, the rest of her words catching in her throat. Rage had coursed through her then, but she was too tired now. She was left only bitter.
And set on revenge.
Alfie leaned forward, closing the space between them, and wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb. Such a soft touch.
“And you came back for me?”
She nodded, pressing her face into his palm, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time since walking into that salon.
“I’ve no one else, Alfie. And you are the only other person who knows the truth. I’m not sure I can do anything. I don’t…”
Five years ago, Marjorie had happened upon Alfie fishing in the river by her estate. She had been out walking, stuck on her manuscript, and the truth had spilled out when he asked her what she was doing. She hadn’t a reservation then and didn’t now.
She sat up, pulling herself from her trance, and wiped her own tears. “I won’t cry over him. I won’t.”
“He’s a blackguard. Always has been.”
“I suppose you wish to tell me you told me so?”
“No, I’m not interested in being righteous. I want to be your friend. I’ve always been your friend.”
The small hitch in his voice didn’t escape her notice. Nor the way her heart had raced when he had pressed his thumb to her cheek. Such a small, stolen touch born out of nothing else but earnest concern.
“My friend,” she repeated, but even she wasn’t sure at the moment. What a strange feeling that had swept over her upon seeing him after all these years. “Why haven’t you written back?”
