Page 3 of Winning the Wallflower's Heart
Carefully, she dusted her cheeks with a soft sweep of rouge, swept a berry-colored lip salve over her lips, and carefully curled her honey hair.
As a child, her father had called her hair spun gold, praising her for being his good luck charm. For a short dazzling time, it seemed almost true—days filled with lavish meals in a beautiful sun-filled home on Wimpole Street, afternoons playing with the finest dolls, and endless games in the garden. The Marquess of Quintrell accepted nothing but the best, after all. But that all faded, giving way to nights spent being carted from club to gaming hell, where she sat bleary-eyed in the corner as he wagered away what remained of her mother’s fortune.
When his luck finally soured, she was left to fend for herself for days, rummaging through the pantry for stale biscuits and making herself tea to quiet her hunger. Her mother, drifting in and out of restless sleep and forever reaching for those tiny bottles by her bedside, barely left her room in those final months, leaving Georgiana alone.
All Georgiana had learned then was that a broken heart was in fact fatal, and if she were to survive her time at Pickins House, she would need to remain as small as possible.
That hadn’t changed in the passing years. It had only grown more vital as she grew older, and her brother and father fell deeper into their addictions, and their anger shifted toward her.
“Well, Mr. Romeo, it’s time I must leave. I can’t take you with me today, but I promise I will be back, and you and I will go far?—”
A glass shattered down the hall.
Georgiana ducked, covering her head before silence fell, and she slowly sucked in another breath and sat up.
“We are leaving here,” she whispered, determined. Her heart raced against her chest, and her fingertips were cold. But they were almost always cold. She nuzzled against the tabby cat, then dropped a quick kiss on his forehead. “I’m sorry I have to leave you. I will be back as soon as I can.”
She grabbed a small bag and a cloak, then slipped out the back hall, the chilly fall air hitting her lungs. She was too afraid to look behind her, too afraid someone would roar her name, and she would be drawn back, stuck to drown with them.
But Georgiana couldn’t. Not any longer.
Georgie couldn’t afford a hackney, so she walked for almost an hour through the city, navigating the crowded streets, being pushed and shoved along the way, making her feel invisible. It wasn’t a new feeling for her; she had learned quite young that it was best to fade away into the background. Even so, it was never easier to digest the truth, and sometimes she wished she had never been born, but she never let her thoughts stray to that dark place for long—it was far too dangerous.
When she arrived at her destination, she stopped to look up at the tall, narrow building faced in cream-colored stone. Its front door was painted a glossy black with polished brass fixtures that gleamed in the sunlight. The dread in her stomach began to rise. She swallowed down the bile, quickly mounted the stairs, and with a small inhale, knocked on the door.
A large man stuck his bald head out, his looming posture altogether off-putting. “What do ye want?”
“The auction, sir. I’m here?—”
“Very well, very well.” He stuck his thick neck out farther, glancing up and down the street, then hauled her inside. The door shut tightly behind her, and she gasped.
She was no stranger to gaming hells. She had been dragged to a collection of them as a small child, time and again. Those were nothing compared to this. This was a grand hall meant for the very top of London society, a golden gaming hell, a far cry from the ones her brother and father ever frequented.
She gripped her bag and moved forward, surveying the room. It was a grand hall with tall arches and columns and a beautiful mural painted on the ceiling. The floor was perfectly polished, with one long carpet stretching down the middle of the hallway.
“Right, come along,” the older man said. “There’s a lot to organize before tonight’s event.”
She nodded quickly and followed close behind.
It wasn’t as if she knew what to expect when she decided to save herself by auctioning off her virginity. She thought it would be in a place similar to the hells she had visited as a young girl, but here she would be auctioned off to a member of the aristocracy. They could do whatever they wished, and she would be quiet and accept the money paid for her. Maybe, if she could be so clever, she could escape. She longed for a life where she could be filled with contentment rather than fear.
As she drew deeper within the gaming hell, the rooms became smaller but no less grand until, at last, the man opened a door to a stairwell down below.
“Come on, lass,” he said. “No time to spare. Come on, come on.”
She followed behind, swallowing down the sour taste in her mouth, gripping her bag so tightly she felt her fingernails cutting into her palms. It was not too late to back out, but Georgiana had no other option. She had thought of everything else, but London had never spared her another glance. And while she was friendly with some of the women in theton, she couldn’t find it within herself to rely upon them.
She could rescue herself. Even if it meant relinquishing the last bit of herself over to a stranger to secure that freedom. It was a risk, a great risk, but when backed into a corner, one would do almost anything. That was just part of human nature. Georgiana was sure of it.
The man stopped, pulled back a curtain to reveal a room full of chittering young women dressed in plain white chemises, their hair pulled up, their faces plain, and no jewelry. It was a scene far removed from the ballrooms of Mayfair. But then again, Georgiana had never ventured far from the wall. No one ever took notice, which made tonight all the more nerve-racking.
For years, she had been told that she wasn’t wanted, wasn’t desired. When she came of age, there was no money for her debut. No man courted her, perhaps because they knew of the trouble with her brother and father, but she was left alone once again to make sense of the world.
Here she was, clueless about what was shared between a man and a woman in bedsport, outside of what she had seen in those hells. She recognized the danger in her plan—that she was placing herself at a man’s mercy, and so far, they had shown they were unworthy of that trust. They would take selfishly, draining her until there was nothing left to give, and then cast her aside, leaving her to bear the same alone. It was still better than being tossed aside and bruised, being yelled at, screamed at to scrounge for money, to find food, to know that money was won only to have it spent four times over, leaving her with nothing.
She was at her family’s mercy, and they had none. They abandoned her, chasing instead after their vices—vices that had wholly consumed them. Her mother had passed, her father was in failing health, and her brother would spend most days semiconscious, madly searching for something to ease the pain within himself. In the few hours he was awake, he was unpredictable and cruel.
And Georgiana couldn’t find it within her heart to hate them, but she wouldn’t allow them to drag her down as well. She would find her peace.
