Page 11 of The Duke's Accidental Wallflower
Minerva closed her eyes briefly, leaning into her father’s touch for just a moment, allowing herself to feel the comfort she had long denied herself. When she opened her eyes again, she found his gaze steady, warm with understanding.
“You have done well, Minerva,” he said quietly. “Maybe she is right, and you ought to trust her.”
“I will try,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “But it is hard.”
Her father smiled faintly—a shadow of the man he had once been, but still a father who cared deeply for his daughters. “It always is, my dear. But you are strong. Stronger than you know.”
Minerva nodded, though the knot in her chest did not fully unravel. Still, there was a flicker of something she had not felt in a long time—a small spark of hope that maybe things could change. That maybe, with time, she could learn to let go.
Lord Bellington gave her shoulder one final squeeze before stepping back. “Get some rest,” he said softly. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
Five
Evan strode briskly down St. James's Street. The streets were bustling with activity—vendors calling out their wares, the clattering of carriage wheels over the cobblestones, and the murmur of Londoners going about their business.
An older couple walked arm in arm down the street, passing him with a nod of their heads. Their smiles seemed unrealistic. Evan’s jaw tightened as parents came to memory. He could still hear the low, cutting arguments that had seeped through the walls late at night, their words sharp enough to wound even when he didn’t understand them fully. He had learned young that love, marriage, family—none of it was what it seemed.
As quickly as the memory came, a flash of a woman’s black hair caught his attention. He thought for a moment he had seen Lady Minerva. However, he had been mistaken.
Yet, the thought of her lingered. Her rejection had stayed with him, a thorn in his side that he had not anticipated. He quickened his pace, his polished boots striking the slick cobblestones with purpose as he headed toward White’s, the gentlemen’s club where he usually found a brief respite from his thoughts.
Nothing of importance happened.Her voice, cool and indifferent, echoed in his mind, far too loud for his liking. He clenched his jaw.
Nothing of importance?He’d kissed his share of women, and they’d all wanted more. Yet Minerva... she had resisted him..
It gnawed at him. No one resisted him. Not with any real conviction. He could read people well enough, knew their tells, and had spent years perfecting the art of drawing out desire, of watching a woman melt under his gaze. But Minerva had stood firm, her chin lifted defiantly, her rejection cool, as though he had not rattled her in the least.
But he had. He was sure of it. Even if she refused to admit it.
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, annoyed that he was even still thinking about her. As he started to cross the street, he looked up for a passing carriage. Just as the carriage passed, though, he saw a flash of black hair again.
Just as soon as he thought he might be going mad, through the window of a modest glove shop, there she was—Minerva.
Evan paused mid-stride, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto her figure through the shop window. Why did she linger in his thoughts, an uninvited guest that refused to leave? He’d encountered dozens of women more charming, more amenable, and yet it was her cool dismissal that replayed in his mind. She had reduced his advances to nothing—a wound to his pride that festered with every passing day.
And now, there she was, oblivious to his presence, her dark hair catching the sunlight filtering through the window. She looked so composed, so unbothered, chatting with her chaperone, an older maid perhaps.. The reminder of her snub rankled him. But then he saw it. The moment she realized he was there. Her posture stiffened, and he watched, amused, as she ducked slightly behind one of the shelves, as if that could somehow shield her from view.
A slow smirk spread across Evan’s face.Totally unaffected,he thought sarcastically.Completely indifferent.
Without hesitation, he veered off the sidewalk and crossed the street with purposeful strides, his boots clacking against the cobblestones as he made his way to the shop. There was something irresistibly satisfying about watching her try to hide, and he wasn’t about to let an opportunity for a bit of fun pass him by.
The bell above the shop door chimed softly as Evan entered, the warmth of the small store replacing the cool bite of the wind outside.
The shop was quaint and orderly, the scents of polished leather and lavender wafting through the air. Shelves were lined with neatly folded gloves of every shade and texture, each pair meticulously arranged as if to promise elegance to their future owner. A brass bell above the door chimed softly as Evan stepped inside, the sound almost swallowed by the thick carpet beneath his boots.
The shopkeeper, an older man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, gave him a brief nod before returning to arranging gloves on the counter.
But Evan’s focus was entirely on Minerva.
She was standing by the shelves, her back still turned to him, though she had clearly realized he was there. He could see the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she shifted slightly, clearly debating whether to bolt or try to endure it. He watched her straighten, her cheeks flaming red when she finally turned to face him.
Evan took his time approaching her, his stride confident and unhurried. He let his eyes linger on her flushed face, taking in the slight tension in her jaw, the way she held herself as though bracing for battle. It was delicious.
Her black hair, neatly pinned but slightly wind-tousled, caught the light as she moved, and when she turned to face him, the cool blue of her eyes flashed with irritation. Dressed in an expertly tailored gown that hugged her figure with understated grace, shelooked every bit the composed lady of society, though the flush in her cheeks betrayed the effort it took to maintain her control.
Evan’s smirk deepened as he watched her fingers tighten around a pair of gloves, the white-knuckled grip betraying her composed exterior. She was flustered, though she would likely die before admitting it. It was all in the small details: the slight tremor in her hand, the way her head tilted just a fraction to the side as if debating whether to flee.
He almost wanted her to try. The idea of chasing her down the narrow aisles of the shop had an odd appeal, though he doubted she’d make it far. Minerva Bellington wasn’t the type to run—not physically, at least. She preferred her battlegrounds verbal and strategic. But here, in the quiet intimacy of the shop, she was at a disadvantage, and she knew it.
