The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3)

by Jillian Eaton

  “Then what is it?” Calliope asked.

  Percy sighed. “It’s Helena.”

  “Go away.” Dragging a pillow over her face, Helena closed her eyes and tried to block out the sounds of incessant pounding on her bedchamber door. “I said, go away!”

  “Helena, it’s me.” Calliope’s voice was muffled, but unmistakable. “Won’t you come out? Percy said you’ve been in there for days.”

  “It hasn’t been days.”

  “Three, at last count,” Percy chimed in. “And you’ve hardly eaten anything at all.”

  “I’ve been drinking,” Helena countered.

  “Wine doesn’t count.”

  “Well, it should.” Throwing the pillow onto the floor, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the blue silk canopy draped over her bed. “Come in. The door isn’t locked.”

  She heard the knob turn, and then the rustle of muslin as Calliope and Percy tip toed inside.

  “It’s dark as a tomb in here,” Percy noted.

  “Wait. Don’t open the – argh,” Helena complained when the duchess threw back the drapes and sunlight spilled into her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Eat,” Calliope said, picking up a piece of cold toast off a serving tray and holding it out. “Then we’ll discuss your life choices, beginning with why you’ve been in hiding and what happened to your hair.”

  “My hair?” Helena’S fingers crept self-consciously to her head. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It looks like a mouse took up residence in it.”

  “An entire family of mice,” Percy added as she opened the last drape before turning towards the bed. “Sisters, brothers, mayhap even a cousin or two.”

  “Or seven,” said Calliope.

  Helena bared her teeth. “If you’ve come in here just to insult me–”

  “We’ve come in here because we care about you,” Percy corrected as she sat down beside Helena and gently brushed a snarled tendril behind her ear. “And because I’ve never seen you in such a state.”

  “Neither have I. Eat,” Calliope said sternly, thrusting the serving tray at Helena. “Right now. You look as if you’ve lost at least half a stone.”

  Because she was hungry, Helena obediently picked up the bread into her mouth. It was dry and plain, but it was food. Calliope poured her a glass of water, which helped the toast go down a bit easier, and by the time she’d finished eating the pounding in her head had marginally subsided.

  But the aching in her heart…

  Well, that was there to stay.

  “Thank you for coming to my aid,” she said, looking at Calliope and Percy in turn. “However, this is not something you can help me with.”

  “Let us be the judges of that,” said Percy, reaching across Helena’s lap to grasp her hand. She squeezed it tightly. “What happened? All I know is that Lord Cambridge was here. Then he wasn’t, and you’ve been despondent ever since.”

  Helena pulled at a loose seam on the coverlet. “I don’t know if I’d describe myself as despondent. That’s rather dramatic.”

  “Mice,” Calliope reminded her. “In your hair.”

  “Oh, there aren’t mice in my hair.” She scowled at her so-called ‘friend’.

  Percy eyed Helena’s braid. Or what was left of it after three days without running a comb through the tumultuous curls. “There could be. I’m going to ring for a hot bath. Is Ives about? He’ll know what to do with your hair.”

  The ache in Helena’s chest increased. “I sent him back to London.”

  “You did?” Calliope’s brow furrowed. “But…why?”

  “To look for employment.”

  “I still do not understand.”

  Helena drew her knees up and looped her arms around them, like a child might in the midst of a thunderstorm. Except this was a storm that showed no signs of abating.

  When she’d run from Stephen on that ill-fated morning two weeks ago, she had known, somewhere down deep inside, that she was doing what was best for both of them. But that didn’t make the pain of it any less. That didn’t make her feel any better. And even though she’d hoped time would heal her wounds, with each passing day, she only felt worse.

  “Stephen – Lord Cambridge – was my benefactor. Now he is not. Which means I can no longer afford Ives’s salary.”

  Or my house, she added silently. Or food. Or clothes.

  Oddly enough, that wasn’t what concerned her the most. If she were honest, she didn’t even really care about the money. Because it had never been about the money.

  It had always, always been about Stephen.

  If only she hadn’t let him kiss her! If only she hadn’t opened her heart back up to love. If only she hadn’t realized what she was missing. Then surely, she wouldn’t have this…this decay inside of her. This awful, smothering weight pressing down on her soul even as everything else crumbled away.

  “I told you,” Percy murmured, glancing at Calliope.

  “You told her what?” Helena said, lifting her head.

  “That you loved him. And I know he loves you.” She bit her lip. “What I cannot fathom is why he left.”

  “He didn’t leave. Not exactly.” When her throat tightened, Helena reached for her glass of water only to find it empty.

  “Here,” Calliope said, quickly lifting the pitcher.

  “Thank you.” Taking a sip of cool water, she closed her eyes, then opened them. “Stephen didn’t leave,” she repeated. “I – I sent him away.”

  And for all her life, she’d never forget the hurt in his face when she’d told him not to touch her.

  “This is ridiculous!” In an unprecedented display of anger, Percy slid off the bed. Violet eyes bright with fury, she jabbed her finger at Helena. “And I won’t stand for it! Do you hear me?”

  Helena’s mouth opened in shock. “I...”

  “Stephen loves you. And you love him! Do you know how rare that is?” she demanded.

  “Um…” Helena glanced helplessly at Calliope, who simply shrugged and held up her hands as if to say, ‘I’m not going to argue with her’.

  “Furthermore,” Percy continued, “I will not – I will not – allow a foolish miscommunication to take that love away from you! If you won’t tell Stephen why you married his father, then I will. You’re kind and passionate and loyal, Helena, and you deserve this love. More than you deserve to sit in a dark room and feel sorry for yourself!” She took a deep breath. “And that is all I have to say on the matter.”

  “That was brilliant,” Calliope declared. “Positively brilliant. I couldn’t have said it better myself. Percy, you’re a force.”

  A pleased blush overtook the duchess’s cheeks. “Do you really think so?” Then she peeked at Helena, and some of her color disappeared. “I – I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have yelled, and I–”

  “No, you should have yelled.” Throwing aside her blankets, Helena stood up and wrapped Percy in a hug. “And you’re right, Stephen and I do love each other. But…it’s complicated.”

  Percy drew back. “It doesn’t have to be complicated,” she argued. “If you’d just tell him–”

  “I did,” Helena interrupted.

  “Oh. Well, that’s splendid! But then…why did you send him away?”

  “Yes,” Calliope said, coming up on Helena’s other side. “Why did you send him away?”

  Trapped between her two best friends in the entire world, faced with a love she could never have and filled with guilt for an act she did not regret, Helena could no longer keep her most heavily guarded secret. “Because there’s something else I couldn’t tell him. Something I can’t tell him. Something I haven’t even told either of you.”

  Percy and Calliope waited patiently.

  Helena gathered her courage.

  “I murdered my husband.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “My lord?” Mr. Charleston, Stephen’s solicitor of the past five years, looked at
Stephen expectedly, his quill hovering in midair. “Would you care for me to repeat the question?”

  It was a testament to how far Stephen’s mind had wandered that he didn’t even know Mr. Charleston had asked him one.

  “Yes,” he said brusquely, leaning back in his chair. “Again, if you please, Mr. Charleston. I apologize for my...state of distraction.”

  State of distraction.

  A good a name for it as any, he supposed.

  It certainly sounded better than I can’t stop thinking about Helena no matter how hard I bloody try.

  Shorter, too.

  “It is of no issue, my lord, I assure you.” Clearing his throat, the solicitor glanced down at the paper before him, then back up at his employer. “As we’re reviewing your spending accounts for the next quarter, I wanted to know what you would like me to do about the rental property in Berkley Square.”

  “What do you mean?” Stephen said blankly.

  “I…ah…was under the assumption, given our last conversation, that you intended to end the lease. Furthermore, you mentioned wanting to stop your monthly payments to a one, ah,” – he consulted his paper – “Lady Ware. Is that still the case, my lord? If so, I would need to submit a notice in writing to the lessor before the beginning of next week and notify the bank, as–”

  “No.”

  Mr. Charleston frowned. “N-no, my lord? To what part, exactly?”

  “To all of it.” Unable to remain sitting, Stephen stood up from behind his desk with the restless energy of a caged animal and began to pace the length of his study. Keeping his gaze on the wall, he spoke calmly and precisely, his cool, detached cadence a perfect foil to the hot rush of emotions burning inside of him. “I want to purchase the house in Helena’s name. Then I want a separate account opened in her name as well, and ten thousand pounds deposited in it by the end of today.”

  The poor solicitor almost tipped out of his chair. “Ten thousand pounds, my lord? Are – are you certain?”

  No, Stephen damned well wasn’t certain.

  He hadn’t been certain about anything since he’d returned to London.

  But he knew this was the right thing to do. The only thing he could do, after learning the truth about Helena’s marriage to his father.

  Her forced marriage.

  Her marriage that he should have stopped.

  When his stomach took a sharp turn, he went to the window and stared out at the quiet, tree-lined street beyond. He couldn’t go back in time and change what had happened, but he could do this. He would do this. And even though it wasn’t enough, it was better than nothing.

  It had to be better than nothing.

  As guilt gnawed at him, he spoke to the solicitor over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Charleston. That will be all.”

  A quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a door, and then Stephen was alone with only his bitter thoughts for company. For a full minute, he managed to avoid having those thoughts veer towards Helena, but the battle to avoid her wasn’t worth the effort. He could fight all day not to think about her, and as soon as he closed his eyes at night, her face was the only one he’d see. Her eyes, glittering like emeralds as she looked at him in annoyance. The small dusting of freckles across her nose that she tried to hide with powder, but he always knew they were there. The pink of her lips as her mouth curved in a smirk. All that red hair twisted and pinned and tucked beneath a hat when all he wanted to do was run his fingers through it.

  On a heavy groan, he scrubbed his hands down his face.

  Two weeks.

  It had just been two weeks since he’d left the country and returned to town. Not even a full month, yet it felt like a year. Like two years. Two years of not hearing the little breath she made when she was angry with him or seeing the way her eyes darkened when she was aroused or feeling her soft, silky skin.

  He missed her.

  God, he missed her.

  And he wanted nothing more than to go to her, but she’d been quite adamant that she wanted nothing to do with him. After what he’d learned, how could he blame her for it? If only he’d believed her when she had first tried to tell him about her engagement…but he had been too stubborn, too prideful, too hurt. He’d allowed years to be wasted. Years consumed by anger and hatred when they could have been filled with happiness and joy.

  Now it was too late. Helena had made her feelings clear, and he wasn’t going to beg her again. But he was going to open another bottle of brandy.

  He turned away from the window, and then he froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. For there, in the doorway, stood the woman who had stolen his heart and never given it back. The woman he’d wished for, day after day. The woman he’d dreamed about, night after night.

  “What – what are you doing here?” he croaked.

  “Hello, Stephen,” said Helena softly. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  For the entire journey from Winchester Manor to 7 Harcourt Lane, Helena had alternated between asking the driver to go faster and flinging herself out the window. Fortunately, common sense had prevailed, and she’d managed to reach Stephen’s townhouse without any unsightly bumps or bruises.

  But as she stared at the man she loved, she couldn’t help but wonder if a few scratches wouldn’t have been vastly preferable to this painful thudding inside her chest and the trickle of ice running down her spine.

  She could always flee, she supposed. She had told the carriage to wait. But she’d also come here for a reason. The most important reason of her entire life. And she wasn’t going to allow herself to leave until Stephen kicked her out. Which he would, of course, as soon as he heard what she’d come to tell him.

  “Are we friends?” he asked her, his blue eyes unreadable.

  “I believe you should reserve that question until after I’ve told you the truth. Do you mind if I sit down? I’m going to sit down,” she decided, helping herself to a velvet upholstered chair before he could reply.

  “I was under the impression you already told me the truth.” Sunlight filtered in through the window at his back, illuminating the streaks of mahogany in his carelessly tousled hair. With his shirt partially unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up, he’d never looked more handsome. She took a deep breath, then another.

  Lord, but this was going to hurt.

  “I told you one truth. Now I need to tell you another. About your father.” When her gaze fell to her lap, she forced her chin up. She owed it to Stephen – and herself – to look him in the eyes. “About the night we were married.”

  His jaw clenched. “I don’t know if I want to hear this.”

  “I don’t know if I want to tell you, but here we are.” She couldn’t figure out what to do with her hands. Why couldn’t she figure out what to do with her hands? After fidgeting with them for a moment, she braced her hands on the armrests of the chair. “You’re going to hate me more than you ever have, and I accept that. The only thing I ask is that you sleep on it before you decide whether or not you want me arrested. Whatever decision you make, I will accept that as well.”

  “Arrested?” His brow creased. “Helena, what the devil are you–”

  “I killed your father,” she blurted.

  Silence.

  Deafening silence.

  Then Stephen walked to his liquor cabinet. “I’m going to pour myself a glass of my strongest brandy,” he said with mind-boggling calm, “and you are going to tell me everything.”

  Her nails dug into the chair as she waited. When he’d finished preparing his drink, he took a long sip before he faced her, his gaze cool and assessing. His mouth a stern, drawn out line. His shoulders tense.

  “N-now?” she said weakly.

  “Unless you can think of a better time.”

  “All right. All right,” she repeated as she gathered her resolve. She’d already told Calliope and Percy. They’d received the tale with equal parts shock and horror before they’d both insisted that she go to Stephen without delay. So here she w
as, with her heart laid bare and her very soul exposed for judgement.

  Ready to tell her final truth.

  “You know the marriage wasn’t of my choosing. It all happened so quickly, the proposal, your rejection, the wedding day, that I never had time to consider what would happen on the wedding night. I was terrified.” She looked down again, gritted her teeth, and glanced up to discover Stephen studying her with quiet intensity.

  “You were a young woman forced into bed with a man who never should have looked at you, let alone had the audacity to think he had any right to touch you.”

  Those words – how much those words meant to her.

  But she wasn’t done.

  “I was brought upstairs and left in his chamber with directions to undress and lay still on the bed. I did not do either of those things. When he came stumbling in, it was clear he’d been drinking. It was also clear he intended to have his way with me, whether I was willing or not.”

  “You don’t have to continue,” Stephen said sharply. “I’ve heard enough.”

  “No. I want – I need – you to hear all of it.” Although her eyes stung, no tears fell, and her voice was miraculously steady when she said, “He pushed me towards the bed. I stumbled and fell backwards onto it. He started to climb on top of me and I…I didn’t think. I just reacted. There was a vase, on the table beside the bed.

  “I picked it up and brought it crashing down on his head as hard as I could. I don’t know if that blow would have killed him. I don’t know if in that moment if I wanted to kill him or not. But he teetered sideways, and he cracked the back of his skull on the table, and he didn’t get up. He didn’t get up,” she repeated as silent tears began to flow down her cheeks. “And when I felt for a pulse, I knew he was dead. Somehow, there wasn’t a lot of blood, so I cleaned up what I could and I – what are you doing?” she asked, bewildered when Stephen crossed the room and scooped her up out of the chair.

  “Holding you,” he said hoarsely, burrowing his face into the crook of her neck. When she felt moisture against her skin, she realized she wasn’t the only one who was crying.