The Wallflower’s Wild Wedding (The Wallflower Wins Book 3)

by Eva Devon

  The scent of flowers wafted from Stanley’s garden. It was a perfect night.

  Too bloody perfect.

  St. John found himself growing resentful, the emotion broiling deep with him. He needed a drink. He strode off to the table, snapping up a large glass of champagne.

  The punch looked delicious, but it was clearly just lemonade, and he needed something much stronger. He swallowed the champagne in easy gulps.

  This was not how it was supposed to go.

  He wasn’t supposed to be losing control of himself and his feelings.

  He was not in control of his feelings, and this was a disaster. Everything was rattling out of his grip, including the unwanted need to haul her off from all her admirers and make love to her, showing her he was the one for her above all.

  How the devil had this happened? It never had before.

  She was a glittering star in the crown of the demimonde, and he should be toasting her, not trying to make sense of his jealousy.

  He knew jealousy. He’d seen it all his childhood when his father had controlled his beautiful mother’s every action, terrified she would leave him or love someone else.

  It had been heinous.

  When the dance was done, St. John collected himself, determined not to be an ass.

  Stanley bowed over Eloise’s hand.

  But before St. John could cross to her and ask her for the next dance, Stanley had swept her off again as soon as the next one began.

  St. John stood, staring at them happily charging across the floor.

  Damnation.

  The man really was the devil.

  St. John went back, took another glass of champagne, and drank it. He then returned to the side of the dance floor, watching the two move easily together. She was quite good at dancing. It was a pity that she’d been wasted in that respect for years. How many men had missed the privilege of seeing her dance, and how many dances had she missed, too?

  All because the ton was full of fools who could not see how magnificent she was.

  He hated to think she had spent years and years without happiness, without joy.

  And then his frustration dissipated from him a little bit, for he had helped bring her to this moment, helped her find this happiness and joy.

  Surely, that counted for something.

  It was, after all, what he had wanted more than anything, wasn’t it? Yes, it was.

  And then it struck him.

  His job was already done.

  Since meeting her, it had been mere weeks.

  But there was no denying she’d already claimed her place.

  The opera had already given her a part worthy of a prima donna. The upper echelons were already falling in love with her, thanks to Dido’s Lament.

  What need she of him?

  She did not need him.

  He could let her go.

  He could go back to trying to find a proper wife, one who did not drive his emotions wild. A union where he didn’t have to worry about losing control of himself.

  He shuddered at the appalling thought.

  What wife could he now choose? What lady could replace Eloise?

  There was no one, and his heart sank.

  Was this how his life was to be after Eloise? Empty?

  Watching her dance with the duke, he felt like a fool.

  An acrid taste coated his throat as he realized his own hubris. He had thought he would be the rising sun in her world, making her dreams come true.

  God, the arrogance of it. Being a rake for so many years had made him an idiot, because she was the sun, not he. He was a planet revolving around her, not the other way around.

  And she did not need him, but he needed her.

  Pain laced through him because it would do her no good to have him in her life always. Not if she was going to be the blazing, glorious star that the sun was.

  Likely, as a husband, he would only hold her back. Even as a lover. . . She needed to be free to shine.

  So, drawing in a long breath, he understood what he needed to do.

  He left the side of the dance floor and walked away. He would find a way to let her know it was time for them to part, that she would eclipse him, as she should.

  Of course, he would continue to lend her protection, but he would not try to keep her. He was not that sort of man. Keeping her would be a disaster. Jealousy was a disaster. He’d seen what happened to his mother when his father had allowed jealousy to rule him, and he was never going to become a monster.

  Not like that man.

  Chapter 18

  Eloise all but skipped off the dance floor.

  The night was a triumph!

  And she was having such a wonderful time. The stars danced above, which was a rarity in London, for usually there was so much coal smoke that one could not see the night sky. But it was a particularly fine summer’s day and warm, which meant people were not burning coal in their fireplaces.

  So, the stars shone with a particular brightness. The scent of flowers filled the air, and it was like heaven. In all her life, she had experienced nothing like it. It was the greatest party she’d ever been to.

  Debutantes had never seen the like of it. Married lords and ladies of the highest rank attended the duke’s gathering as well as the demimonde, people of interest, people of style. It was a party meant for pleasure, not for preening.

  Yes, it was still who knew who and who had accomplished what, but it was different. This was not a party where people went and sought out someone to breed with to ensure the next heir.

  No, this was a party meant for enjoyment, and she was enjoying herself entirely. Her performance of Dido’s Lament had been perfect, and it had thrilled her to hear the pleasure of the crowd once again.

  This was how it would always be, she realized. She would sing, and people would applaud. They had no idea who she was, and she did not mind, for she was able to accept the fact that they thought her marvelous without knowing who she was.

  She let her gaze wander over the crowd, looking for St. John. He was nowhere in sight, and she felt her heart sink. She so wished to speak to him. She longed to share the triumph of the night, but he seemed to have slipped away.

  At one moment, she could have sworn she spotted his whiskey-colored hair, and so she quickly followed him, hurrying down one of the narrow garden paths that wound along the lantern-lined way.

  His perfectly cut black coat hugged his frame as he walked down the path with a greater swagger than usual.

  She called out his name, but he did not turn. Was he so deep in thought?

  She raced after him, her slippers beating along the gravel. And as she headed down the darkened way, her heart skipped a beat, for she was so happy to be with him.

  “Hollybrook,” she called out again.

  The man stopped and slowly turned towards her.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  She had got it wrong entirely. For, the man standing in shadow was not Hollybrook.

  “Yes, my dear?” he drawled softly. “Are you looking for company?”

  “No,” she said quickly, her breath tight. “No, I am not looking for company. I am looking for the Earl of Hollybrook.”

  The man’s sensual lip curled, and he nodded. “Ah, your keeper.”

  The man’s face was much harder than Hollybrook’s. More debauched. As if he had let life’s pleasures cause him to rot.

  She did not know how she could have ever mistaken him, except for the fact that their builds were similar and their hair color was quite close. The night sky had confused her as well as her own desperation to find him.

  The man took a step forward, his perfect breeches hugging strong legs and his polished boots shining, even in the moonlight. “Are you looking for a new protector, divinity?”

  “No,” she said quickly, shocked. Perhaps she was still far too innocent, but his blatant question surprised her. “Not at all. Thank you. I am most pleased with my situation.”

  He
cocked his head to the side, his jaw brushing his perfect white shirt points. “I’m sure I could offer you better, you know? Earls are well enough, but marquis are even better.”

  She swallowed, stepping back. “I am not interested in a man’s title, sir, nor his money. I am merely interested in my own profession.”

  He scoffed, lifting a hand to the gold chain dangling about his neck and clasping the ornamental glass. “Not interested in a man’s title or his money? That’s all you performers are interested in. After all, you come from nothing with talent and are looking for someone to keep you in comfort, are you not? I’m sure I can get you a better house and better jewels. Your gown is lovely,” his dark gaze wandered over her body, appreciating, undressing, “but I am certain you’re more lovely with it off.”

  Eloise tensed. This is exactly what St. John had warned her about: men who would treat her as if she were but a bit of meat to be bought and sold. A piece for pleasure to be obtained.

  It was so far from her usual experience she barely knew what to do or say.

  She sucked in a deep breath, drawing on the instincts which had so far treated her so well.

  “Sir,” she said. “I appreciate that you find me to be interesting and that you wish to offer yourself as a protector, but as I said, I am happy with the situation I am in and would prefer you did not make further advances.”

  His brow furrowed with confusion. “You were following me,” he said. “Surely, you wished for. . .”

  “No,” she said. “I was mistaken. I am looking for my protector.”

  She said that last word, and it felt so strange upon her tongue. But suddenly, she realized it was true.

  Hollybrook was her protector in more than one way. He had taught her many things. He had given her her dreams, and he cared about her. None of these men of the glittering set would care about her. She was just a novelty to them. A bauble to obtain. But when she left the stage after having sung so beautifully, she was just a thing to amplify their own sense of worth.

  It was a bitter realization, and it hit her like a painful blow. She stepped back, lifting her hands. “Forgive me. It was my mistake, My Lord. I shall go back to the dancing.”

  He crossed the distance between them with surprising speed, embracing her with shocking ease. “Stay with me. I am sure I could persuade you I am a man who could make you sing.”

  The way he pulled her so fast into his arms, like a rag doll, stunned her.

  But not for long.

  His hot breath caressed her neck, and the hardness of his body did not feel inviting. It felt like a threat.

  “Let me go,” she said tightly.

  “You bargain–”

  She slammed her foot down atop his.

  The marquis yelped and released his hold for a moment.

  She dashed backward, but not before he could seize her hand.

  Panic laced through her.

  “She said to let her go,” a voice cut through the night, hard and fierce.

  She swung her gaze and spotted St. John. “Hollybrook,” she called. “Thank goodness it is you.”

  “Hollybrook,” the marquis mocked, releasing her hand. “Making sure your property isn’t damaged?”

  “Were you planning to damage it?” Hollybrook asked, his voice so low and cold, she sensed the danger as he strode towards them.

  “Not at all.” The marquis raised his hands and laughed. “Who would wish to crush such a flower? One wishes to see flowers bloom, don’t they? And if they are abused, they cannot bloom so.”

  “True,” Hollybrook said. “So you best go off. No one will be abusing this flower.”

  “I am not a flower,” she hissed quietly. “I am a person. I should just like to point out.”

  “It’s a metaphor,” he hissed back.

  “I understand that it’s a metaphor,” she said. “But I do not like it. Next, you will both be waxing poetic about the picking of flowers.”

  He arched a brow, exasperated. “Must we argue now?”

  “No,” she said bluntly before swinging her gaze from man to man.

  “Forgive me, but I am a person, and I do not wish for you two to bargain over me. Or treat me like I am an object to be possessed. It is a terrible thing,” she said suddenly.

  Tears stung her eyes as she understood that, whether a wallflower or a singer, women were still largely considered things by men. “I do not care for it.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel, went to Hollybrook, and pulled on his arm. Still, she was no fool. She knew St. John’s good heart, even if he had behaved in a typical fashion. “Let us go.”

  And she pulled him along the path.

  They wound their way, not back towards the dancing, but off into a more wooded area.

  “I had no idea I was chasing a stranger,” she declared, catching her breath. “I was looking for you–”

  “There is no need to defend yourself,” he said gently, wrapping his arms about her. “I saw you go off into the darkness, and I was concerned for you.”

  He was silent for a moment. “But if you are ready for someone new, I don’t want to stand in your way.”

  “You are being absurd,” she declared, looking up at him, trying to make sense of why he’d say such a thing. “I do not wish anyone different. . . I. . . I love you.”

  “You love me?” he echoed, his face paling, not with pleasure but horror.

  “I think I do, St. John,” she breathed, holding onto him, savoring the feel of him against her. “Should I not say it?”

  He gazed down at her, his face tightening. “It is simply the first flush of a girl’s affection when she has been intimate with a man,” he protested.

  A breeze danced through the trees then, ruffling his hair, and the moon seemed to shine its cold light on his face.

  She loathed to admit that her eyes were beginning to burn at his denial. “Is that all?” she asked, trying to sound light.

  “Likely,” he said bluntly, his appearance growing stoney. “I would not wish to trick you into thinking something different. When a young woman is intimate with a man, she often feels as if that is love when, in fact, it is just intimacy.”

  “I like being intimate with you,” she said, leaning in closer, winding her hands with his.

  For a brief moment, he seemed to relent, bowing his head until his forehead touched hers. “And I, you.”

  “I am glad we are together now.”

  He did not reply.

  “Are you not?” she whispered, panic racing through her.

  “Too glad,” he bit out.

  “How can one be too glad?” she rushed.

  “I. . . When you danced with Stanley. . . I felt. . .” he looked away, his hands tensed around hers.

  “You’re jealous,” she breathed.

  “Yes,” he said, “and I am horrified.”

  That horror. . . She felt it in him now. It was why he was acting so oddly. Desperate to reassure him, she forced herself to smile. “Well, I’m glad to know you care a little bit that I was dancing with another man, that it bothered you just a little.”

  “Truly?” He scoffed, his brow creasing with displeasure. “You wish such a thing?”

  She’d hoped to reassure him. It seemed she had done the opposite.

  He leaned back, shaking his head.

  She was losing him, and for all the holding of hands, she could not make him stop.

  “I do like that you care whether I am yours or not,” she admitted passionately, unwilling to hide her feelings any longer.

  “Mine,” he said. “Good God, Eloise, I do want you to be mine, entirely mine.” His fingers slipped away from hers. “And that is why you can’t be.”

  Her hands remained aloft for a moment, as if expecting him to hold them again.

  “I don’t understand,” she exclaimed.

  He winced. “I have seen what happens to men when they wish to possess a woman. It is a nightmare, and I can never allow myself to go down that path.
”

  St. John took a step backwards into the shadows. “And so I must relinquish you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  Had he lost his wits?

  “I must relinquish you from this arrangement,” he said, his voice harsh with emotion. “I, of course, will continue to lend you my protection, but I will no longer be with you.”

  “But we have only just begun, you and I,” she insisted, stepping towards him. “How could you take it away so soon? Have I done something wrong?”

  He shook his head, retreating.

  Something was overtaking him. Something powerful. Something that was forcing him to choose pain over her.

  “No,” he said. “You have done everything right. It is I who is wrong. I cannot help it, Eloise. It is part of me. It is to do harm. And so, there can be no you and I.”

  “Cease,” she cried, rigid with emotion. “You lie.”

  “I do not lie,” he growled. “I have seen it. I cannot tell you how horrible it is.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment in the starlight that now felt, oh, so cold.

  “Please,” she whispered. “You are breaking my heart.”

  The muscles in his throat worked before he bit out, “I cannot break your heart. We have known each other too little.”

  She narrowed her eyes, not willing to let him off so easily. “You have seen me, and I have seen you, St. John. You can break my heart in this. Please do not do this. I wish to be with you–”

  “And I, you,” he cut in, his voice breaking. “Too much. Too much, Eloise, and that is why I must walk away.”

  “Is this what you always do?” she demanded without mercy. “When you begin to feel something, you walk away?”

  He stood silent, his gaze dropping to the wildflowers dotting the green, which seemed black in the night. “I have never felt like this with anyone.”

  “All the more reason to stay,” she urged, her heart aching so intensely she did fear it might break.

  “All the more reason to go,” he countered, not looking at her.

  And with that, he held out his arm. “I will lead you back to the ball now.”

  She wanted to rail at him. To scream! But it would do no good. She could see that from the way he had shut away his feelings for her.