The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3)

by Jillian Eaton

  They could have been in the middle of a bloody ballroom, and he wouldn’t have cared. Not that anyone was paying attention to them tucked away in the back of the crowded shop. Partially concealed by a wooden partition of crates topped with potted plants, they were all but invisible.

  “Would you care to go somewhere private?” he said huskily.

  “That’s not what I – Stephen.” She tried to pull back when he began to slowly remove her glove…with his teeth. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  It didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt…right. To be this close to her again. To touch her again. To taste her again.

  Rising halfway out of his chair, he traced his tongue along a thin blue vein on the inside of her wrist and then kissed the heel of her palm. Helena’s skin was impossibly soft and smooth. Like rose petals spread across a bed of silk. Their eyes met over the sloped curve of her hand, and lust hit him like a punch to the gut when he saw her pupils darken with desire.

  “This is a mistake,” she warned him.

  “I know.”

  “It’s not going to change anything.”

  “I know.”

  “I still immensely dislike you.”

  “I know.” He nipped her knuckle, and she scowled at him.

  Then she stood up.

  “Excellent. Since that has been established, there is an inn right around the corner. From my understanding, one can rent a room by the hour. If you go around the back, I shall meet you at the front.”

  Stephen stared at her as something unpleasant churned in his gut. He wanted Helena, true. God only knew how much he wanted her. But not like this. Not in a way that felt dirty and cheap.

  “I’m sure we can find someplace more accommodating than an inn,” he said tightly.

  “My carriage?” she suggested.

  He let go of her hand. “Helena–”

  “Or there’s the hayloft above the livery yard. I’ve heard the maids whispering about it, and–”

  “Helena.”

  Her brows drew together. “What?”

  “I am not going to make” – he lowered his voice – “love to you in a damned hayloft! This isn’t going to be some hidden, tawdry affair.”

  “Then what is it going to be?” she asked, visibly confused.

  It was a good question.

  “I don’t know.” Raking an agitated hand through his hair, he shoved his chair back and repeated, “I don’t know.”

  “Then perhaps you should return when you’ve decided,” she said in a voice that was noticeably cooler than it had been a second ago. “Or better yet, don’t return at all.”

  “That’s not what I want,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, darling.” Her expression vaguely pitying, she trailed a fingertip down his cheek. “Haven’t you learned yet that no one ever gets what they want?”

  Brushing past him, she sauntered out of the coffee shop without looking back.

  Chapter Nine

  “What’s wrong?” Percy asked as soon as Helena walked into the solarium. Bright and sunny, it served as the perfect studio for the duchess to work on her art.

  “Nothing.” Discarding her bonnet and gloves, Helena sat on the velvet armrest of a chaise longue and then slowly slid into it. Turning her head towards Percy, she mustered a long, rather dramatic sigh. “Everything.”

  “Tell me.” Setting aside her paintbrush, Percy pushed her stool out from behind her beloved wooden easel and frowned sympathetically at her friend. “I hope you do not mind me saying this, but you look terrible.”

  “I feel terrible. This is why I never allow myself to cry.” She pressed the back of her hands to her red, blotchy eyes. To her utter humiliation, she’d sobbed all the way back from the village while Ives had looked helplessly on. Her tears could have filled buckets. Oceans, really. And she blamed every single one of them on him.

  Stephen Darby, Earl of Cambridge.

  Or, as she preferred to think of him, the devil incarnate.

  This was why she avoided men and anything even remotely resembling a romantic relationship. Because it always ended in tears. Her tears. And the reward was never worth the pain.

  “Lord Cambridge followed me into town.” Lowering her arms, she stared numbly at the ceiling. “He wanted to have a conversation.”

  “And that…was a bad thing? Yes, that was a bad thing,” Percy said hastily when Helena merely pursed her lips. “What…what did he want?”

  “To sleep with me.”

  “To – to sleep with you?” Percy squeaked. “As in…erm…”

  “Shag, tup, take a flyer, blow the grounsils.”

  “I’m sorry.” The duchess blinked. “Blow the what?”

  “The grounsils.” Helena waved her hand vaguely. “Ives said it once, and I have always wanted to use it in a sentence.”

  “Ah.”

  “Not that it matters, because I never want to see Stephen again.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “He’s just so contradictory.” She sat up on her elbows. “He came here to end the benefactorship because he can no longer stand to be bound to me. Whatever that is supposed to mean. And then he wants to make love to me?” On an indignant huff, she flopped back onto the cushions. “I just wish he’d choose one or the other. You can’t hate someone and still desire them.” She slanted Percy a troubled glance out of the corner of her eye. “Can you?”

  “I suppose that depends. Do you still have feelings for Lord Cambridge?”

  “No. Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know! We only knew each other for one night before I promised to wait forever.” She shook her head. “Who makes such a vow?”

  “Someone in love?” Percy said tentatively.

  “Furthermore, how can he hold me to my promise when he doesn’t even know the real reason why I broke it? If he would have let me explain…but I suppose he was too angry. I can’t blame him for that, really. If I went away and returned to discover he was marrying my mother…” Her brow furrowed. “Still, you’d think the truth would have revealed itself by now. It’s as if we’re stuck in one of those horrifically dramatic Gothic romances that Dahlia loves to read. Minus a vengeful spirit, I suppose.”

  Percy brightened. “Do you know if she has The Ghost Duke Takes a Bride? I’ve been trying to find a copy for ages, but the bookstores are all sold out.”

  “I’ll ask her.” Helena’s gaze returned to the ceiling. There was a long crack in the plaster. It had splintered into two, with both lines veering away from each another until, for no reason that she could see, they both suddenly changed directions and intersected right in front of the chandelier. “I don’t know what to do, Percy. And I always know what to do.”

  “You are the one Calliope and I go to for advice,” Percy agreed. “But - in this case - do you think you might be…well…overthinking things a bit?”

  Helena frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “What did you feel when you saw Lord Cambridge yesterday?”

  “Shock, first and foremost. Then anger, of course, when I learned he was my benefactor.”

  “And then?” Percy prompted.

  “And then…and then I wondered what might have happened if things had turned out differently, and we were together.” Hating the tinge of wistfulness in her voice, she forced herself to sit up and scrubbed her hands down her face.

  Pull yourself together, she ordered herself sternly. This is hardly the time to lose your head, or your heart.

  “Would it be so wrong if you were together?” Scooting her stool across the smooth marble floor, Percy plucked a small pillow off the chaise lounge and hugged it against her chest. “Clearly, you both still have feelings for each other. Feelings that have managed to survive more than three years of separation and a horribly unfortunate miscommunication. I’m sure if you told Lord Cambridge the reason why you had to marry his father, he would forgive you. I – I don’t want to seem rude or uncaring, but I cannot understand why you haven’t told him before now.”

>   “Because…” Because I deserve his hate for what I did to his father. And since I cannot tell him about that, I must allow him to hate me for this. “Because I’ve never had the opportunity.”

  “In three-and-a-half years?” Percy asked skeptically.

  “I’ve been very busy.” Defensively, Helena stood and walked around to the other side of Percy’s easel. In swirling watercolor was a lovely pond surrounded by cattails. Two swans, their long necks elegantly curved, swam through the water side by side. “This is beautiful.”

  Percy blushed. “Do you really think so?”

  “You’ve a rare talent.” Absently swirling a paintbrush in a cup of water, Helena crossed the solarium to the long row of windows overlooking the front lawn. It was nearly noon, and the sun had climbed as high as it possibly could into the cloudless blue sky. There was just enough of a breeze in the air to ruffle the leaves, and if she were to step back outside, she could have done so without a shawl. It was a perfect day. Or it would have been perfect, if not for all of the conflicting emotions ramming about inside of her like logs at the top of a dam.

  Percy was right. She was overthinking. But how could she not? Stephen’s reappearance had changed everything she thought she knew. About him. About herself. About the past…and the future.

  If he didn’t want an affair, then what did he want? And why had she been so quick to settle for a moment of passion when she should have held herself to a far higher regard? She was no one’s mistress, let alone Stephen’s. But she was lonely. So achingly lonely. And when his touch had started to fill that empty void inside of her, she’d been ready to jump through fire to have more of it.

  Or into a carriage.

  Far more convenient, much less smoke damage.

  “Would you care to go for a walk?” she asked Percy. “I need the fresh air to help clear my head.”

  “I’d love to,” Percy replied without hesitation.

  Arm in arm, the two friends strolled out of the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Helena barely slept at all that night. No matter which way she tossed or turned, she couldn’t stop herself from having the same dream over and over again.

  In it, she was running, although she didn’t know from what or to where. Her hair was loose, and it kept getting in her eyes as she raced along a narrow path in the middle of a busy market square. She burst into a tent filled with ribbons and bonnets. The shopkeeper smiled at her and spread his arms apart.

  “Pick whichever one you want,” he said.

  Confused, Helena spun in a circle. “I can just…pick one?”

  “Yes, but be careful. You’ll have to wear it for the rest of your life.”

  “But I don’t want to wear just one hat for the rest of my life.”

  A wide shadow fell across the floor of the tent, and Cambridge, his fleshy lips turned up in a sneer, came inside and grabbed her wrist. “Foolish girl. It doesn’t matter what you want. Your only job is to look pretty.”

  “No!” Helena cried as she tried to yank free of his grip. “You – you’re dead.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Cambridge asked.

  “Yes, lamb.” Now Stephen entered the tent, and it seemed to shrink in size until there was barely enough room for the three of them. “Whose fault is that?”

  On a loud gasp, Helena shot up in bed as if she’d been thrown from a catapult. Her heart pounded her chest and a thin sheen of dewy perspiration clung to her temple. Dragging an arm across her forehead, she kicked the blankets off her legs and slid shakily off the mattress.

  A squinting glance out the window confirmed it was barely dawn, the sun a shimmering ball of orange slowly rising in a sky dashed through with yellow and blue. Even the birds were still sleeping, and for a moment Helena considered trying to do the same. Then she remembered her dream, and with a shudder, she drew a silk wrapper over her nightdress and stole quietly downstairs.

  She was greeted by a scullery maid, who dashed away to the kitchen to prepare hot tea and a plate of fresh fruit.

  “Thank you,” Helena murmured when the maid returned with a small serving platter. “Would you mind taking this outside? I’d like to have breakfast in the rose garden.”

  “Of course, my lady. Right away.” With a bob and a curtsy, the maid carried the breakfast down a hallway filled with portraits of the Winchester family. Helena followed after, pausing now and again to observe a painting. When she got to the very last one, she stopped short, pleased to see two familiar faces smiling down at her.

  With elegant strokes and bold, vibrant colors, the artist had managed to perfectly capture the love between Calliope and Leopold. In the portrait, the newlyweds were all but glowing with happiness. The new bride was sitting beneath a large oak tree on a swing. Her husband stood beside her, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Calliope gazed at the painter, her lips curved in a soft, almost knowing smile, while Leo only had eyes for his wife.

  It was a lovely, intimate peek into their relationship. And as she traced her fingertips along the edge of the frame before following the maid out through a set of French doors, Helena couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever find a man who looked at her the way Leo looked at Calliope.

  Stephen looks at you like that, a small, unwanted voice intruded.

  Helena gritted her teeth as she sat down at a circular metal table facing away from the sun. Stephen had looked at her like that. For one night, he’d looked at her as if she’d hung the moon and the stars. And when she’d kissed him, she’d felt as if she really had. But none of that mattered now. None of it had mattered in a long, long time. And just as soon as she could get Stephen back out of her head where he belonged, it would never matter again.

  “Is – is something wrong with the fruit, my lady?” the maid asked hesitantly.

  Too late, Helena realized she was stabbing a piece of pineapple to death. Never mind that it was a fruit, and as such could not actually be killed. Dropping the utensil with a clatter, she mustered a smile. “No. Everything’s fine, thank you.”

  “Ah…very good,” said the maid, obviously not believing her, but too well-trained to say otherwise. “If there is anything else you need, please let me know. My name is Sara.”

  Helena picked up her fork. “Thank you, Sara.”

  “Of course, my lady.” With a bob and a curtsy Sara hurried back inside, leaving Helena to ponder her mangled pineapple in private.

  She thought about her dream and what it all meant. The hats she understood. She did love a good bonnet. But Cambridge…

  With a shudder, she reached for her coffee, instinctively seeking something warm to help stave off the chill that raced down her spine. His was the one face she had never wanted to see again, even in her nightmares. Cambridge was a part of her past she didn’t want to relive. A piece of her life that had brought her nothing but pain, and misery, and heartache. Which was why she’d done what needed to be done, and she’d moved on.

  Or so she’d believed until Stephen had stormed back into her life.

  Too restless to remain seated, Helena stood and began to wander the gardens. Wet grass pulled at the hem of her wrap as she deviated from the stone path and slipped between two towering hedgerows of roses. Without thinking, she reached out to touch one of the pretty pink blooms, only to yank her hand back with a hiss when a thorn pricked her finger.

  “Careful,” a familiar voice drawled from behind her. “Roses are pretty to look at, but you’ve the devil to pay if you get too close. A lesson I learned the hard way, lamb.”

  Sucking on her finger, Helena whirled around. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Stephen, looking every bit lord of the manor in his cravat and tailcoat. Except he wasn’t her lord, and this wasn’t his manor.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. It did not escape Helena’s attention that while Stephen was formally dressed in attire befitting a nobleman of his station, she was still wearing her nightdress and wrap, both of whic
h were see through in the right light.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” Snapping a rose off the vine, he twirled it slowly between his fingers. “I wasn’t aware you were such a close acquaintance of Lord Winchester.”

  “There are a lot of things you aren’t aware of.”

  “Obviously.”

  The inflection in that single word – and the cool stare that accompanied it – raised the hairs on the nape of Helena’s neck, and suddenly her dream took on an entirely new meaning. If Stephen was still here because he’d guessed the truth about what had happened to his father…

  No, she told herself.

  Impossible.

  If he knew the truth, she’d already be in prison.

  Or worse.

  He didn’t know what she’d done. He couldn’t know what she’d done. The only person who did was Cambridge, and he certainly wasn’t telling anyone.

  She’d made sure of that.

  “I have nothing else to discuss with you.” She gave a careless flick of her wrist, as if she were shooing away an irksome fly instead of a very large, very powerful earl. “Go away, Stephen. These little meetings are beginning to bore me.”

  “We never had the chance to finish our conversation.” He glanced down at the rose, then up at her face. His expression hardened. “I’d like to finish it now.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you like. I’ve nothing to say to you.” Pursing her lips, she pointedly turned her head away from him. But she couldn’t help but sneak a glance out of the corner of her eye, and the sudden bleakness she saw in his face caught her off guard.

  “Stephen?” she said, confused.

  “What?” he said harshly.

  “I…never mind.” When a lump arose in her throat, Helena closed her eyes. Out of sight, out of mind. Wasn’t that how the saying went? Except even when she couldn’t see Stephen, she could still smell him. She could still sense him. Four years later, and she could still remember what his kiss tasted like.

  She opened her eyes to discover him staring intently at her, a line deeply embedded between his brows. Their gazes met, and his scowl intensified.