Page 9 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“Frustrating, terrible.” She sniffed back a few tears. “Pig-headed, odd, shy?—”
“Stop.”
She glanced up at him. Her gaze lingered on his lips before finally meeting his eyes. Brown wasn’t the right word to describe them. They were nearly obsidian. Dark like the wet earth she loved to trudge over just so she could pluck a handful of wildflowers after a rainstorm.
“Pig-headed maybe, but I object to the rest. For someone who is a skilled wordsmith such as yourself, you are lacking some fitting descriptors.”
“Do you have suggestions?”
He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Are you flirting with me, Jo?”
“Aren’t you?”
Clever girl.
His heart was a traitor, no matter how much he knew logically she didn’t love him.
“You’re magnificent, skilled, courageous, kind. But that is only the beginning. You are the damn sunshine, even hidden behind the clouds. You are there shining, unwavering in your passion. And to hell with anyone who doesn’t see it.”
“That’s most of London,” she quipped.
“No, I won’t allow you to do that any longer either.”
She rolled her eyes, attempting to brush off his attention.
“If others can’t speak kindly of you, then at least speak kindly to yourself.”
“Alfie, I need your help,” she whispered. “Please. Hate me all you wish.”
“I never hated you.”
“I let you down.”
“You followed your heart. I can’t fault you for that.”
“And look at the good it has brought me.”
It brought you to me, he thought to say, but he couldn’t. Instead, he stood once more and forced himself away from her, slowly rebuilding the wall that distanced his heart from hers. Yes, she broke his heart, but they had been young, and it had been foolish to believe they could have run away to be married. He had admired his father too much to have ever gone up against his wishes.
But now?
That temptation tugged at his chest. He could spin around and pull her to him and kiss her, well and thoroughly, until she was left breathless. He needed her to understand the way he was desperate for her.
The truth was more important.
“I’m not sure how I can help you when I can’t help myself. I can’t leave this room, love.”
Marjorie scoffed as though she believed him to be making a jest. He swallowed the lump in his throat, worried the panic would begin creeping up his spine once more until he was frozen, and terror swept over him.
“I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through. I wrote but?—”
“I wasn’t ready to put it into words. Nothing prepares you. Harry was missing, and I couldn’t stand my parents’ misery at the news. I was on my way home with his body when I had my own accident.” He paused, sighing as everything within began to tense. “I woke up in France, not far from Waterloo as men screamed and were dying, and I thought I would too. But life wasn’t kind enough for that.”
“And you admonish me for speaking ill of myself? Don’t say such things, Alfie.”
“It’s been hell.”
“I believe you. But you’re here. You’ve come back, and I am so happy for it.”
