The Wallflower’s Wild Wedding (The Wallflower Wins Book 3) Page 12

  He was sacrificing their happiness for something she did not understand. But whatever it was, it was powerful, indeed.

  Without a word, she placed her arm atop his, fearing this might be the last time they ever touched.

  He took her back silently.

  When they reached the crush of guests, he bowed.

  “I wish you good fortune, Eloise.”

  There was no kiss. No touch. No meeting of eyes. He simply left her standing alone with a cut as sharp as any surgeon’s.

  Her heart sank to her feet.

  All the happiness that had come to her these last weeks vanished.

  None of it felt real.

  It had all been so quick, and he had abandoned her so quickly.

  “Run off, did he?”

  She tensed, turning to the duke. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Stanley groaned, whipping out a silk handkerchief. “You’re turning into a watering pot.”

  “Am I?” She gasped, taking it and pressing it to her eyes.

  “You are,” he said. “And it’s leaving tracks in your makeup. You’re wearing a good bit.”

  “Well, I am a lady of the stage,” she said.

  He narrowed his gaze and said quietly, “You’re a lady in disguise, is what you are.”

  She gaped at him. Was this night to be a complete and utter mess? “How could you possibly know?”

  “I am the Duke of Stanley,” he announced lightly. “I know everything, including the fact that my friend is being a coward right now, but for good reason.”

  “A coward?” she repeated carefully. “I never saw him as a coward. How can there ever be a good reason to be a coward?”

  “You don’t know his story,” Stanley said kindly, folding his hands behind his broad back. “You don’t know what made him the way he is.”

  “The war?” she offered, carefully dabbing at her eyes.

  A muscle tightened in Stanley’s jaw as he gazed out in the distance. “St. John was firmly made before the war. Made by a cruel man, indeed, and he is determined to never allow that cruelty hurt anyone else.”

  “But how could it hurt anyone else?” she demanded. “St. John is the kindest soul.”

  “You know that,” Stanley agreed quickly, “and I know that, but he is afraid that with you, that will vanish and he will be replaced by the monster that was his father.”

  “And so he’s left me,” she surmised, her shoulders sagging.

  “It certainly seems so,” Stanley said.

  Her eyes closed, unable to stand the gaudy scene. “I don’t know if I can bear it.”

  “Are you in love with him?” Stanley asked gently.

  “I told him so,” she admitted, hardly believing she was being so honest. But what was the point of lying if Stanley already knew so much? “And he told me I was simply being a foolish girl in her first throes of intimacy.”

  Stanley snorted. “Bloody hell. Not well done of him, was it?”

  The silence stretched for a long moment before Stanley ventured, “Would you like me to help you?”

  She longed to wail, but she drew herself up instead. “How could you possibly help me?”

  “Oh, there are always ways,” Stanley assured, patting her back rather ineffectively. “There are always ways.”

  She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She would not give up. She had never given up on what she wanted. And she wasn’t about to start now. “Then, let us use them.”

  Chapter 19

  Eloise ate her breakfast and did not allow herself to give thought to the fact that St. John was gone. She was made of stronger stuff than that.

  She had to be. . . Though it hurt. The silence of the house made her feel as if she was rattling around in it and. . .

  No. She closed her eyes.

  She would be strong.

  She was determined to be.

  Eloise would not allow herself to be dramatic, and ridiculous, and wail, or throw herself upon her bed.

  No, she had far better things to do, like becoming a self-reliant, independent young woman.

  It did not matter that her heart was breaking or that he had left her or that he had decided he had to protect her from himself.

  Protect her from himself.

  The very idea was absurd. He was the best man she knew, and she had no idea how to convince him of it.

  She scowled at the beautifully laid table with its pressed linen tablecloth, silverware, and hand-painted blue porcelain.

  Apparently, she could not.

  After all, he was determined.

  And much like herself, he was stubborn.

  She bit down on her toast furiously then returned to her stationary and her hastily scrawled letter to Lucy.

  Perhaps Lucy would have an idea of what she could do.

  She’d relayed as much of her situation as was possible.

  Resigned, she poured more coffee into her cup, a beverage she found she preferred far above tea.

  What ever was she going to do?

  She was due at the opera for all-day rehearsals. And yet, the more days passed, the more she longed to go after Hollybrook and shake him to make him understand he was being a fool by denying them both the happiness and contentment of being together.

  They belonged together, of that she was certain.

  And if he did not see that, well, perhaps he deserved to be alone.

  But that would also mean she would be alone. And yes, she understood that he thought she was a young lady in the first flush of intimacy, but the truth was, she was not a girl.

  She was a woman.

  And she liked to believe that she knew her own emotions.

  “How bloody arrogant of him,” she said to her coffee cup. “To think that he can tell me how I feel!”

  Good Lord.

  She loved him.

  There was really no other explanation for the way she felt. The physical intimacy between them had been powerfully strong, but it did not have to do with the fact that she admired him, the way that he had helped her, the way he had immediately decided to do all he could for her.

  Even now, in his terribly misguided way, he was helping her.

  And though she wished to scream, she also admired him for it.

  This monster that his father was? St. John did not wish her to be exposed to it. But how could she convince him he never had to become that monster?

  Perhaps if she understood the situation more clearly. . . but she couldn’t imagine him telling her the truth, not now.

  Eloise sighed, took another drink of strongly brewed coffee, picked up her quill, and wrote another line of the letter.

  She hoped Lucy was well in her endeavor, but the truth was, Eloise was not well in hers.

  The first performance of her opera was this evening. She knew it would be a success. She was determined that it would be so, but her insides were shaking away. And she doubted he would be in attendance.

  Before she could scribble out her thoughts, her butler entered the breakfast room. Thompson gave her a slight bow, extended the silver tray, and she took the large folded letter upon it.

  He said nothing, though his bushy white brows were slightly drawn together, perplexed, before he turned and retreated quickly.

  She stared at the scrawling script, turned it over, and spotted Hollybrook’s seal.

  She gasped. Perhaps he was changing his mind!

  Perhaps this was some proposal that they might live together again. She broke the seal quickly and opened the document. Her eyes scanned the writing, and her heart plummeted.

  Did he think she would be pleased?

  The house was hers, it said.

  Hollybrook was also giving her an annuity of five thousand pounds. She was to have a horse and carriage. His lawyer was to ensure she received all of this without delay and without dilemma.

  It stated Hollybrook would extend her credit at whatever shops she wished for the rest of his life. He was to be her prot
ector in every way but the one that mattered.

  In reality, she was to be his mistress without having the pleasure of it. It was not fair. It was not right.

  How could he be so kind and yet so cruel in a single document? For this was his formal adieu. She knew it in her bones.

  It was tempting to tear up the paper, as if such a thing might make him still hers. But she was no fool. If he was going to give her the house for now, she would not deny it, for she had nowhere else to go. She did not have the money yet from her singing. And she could not go back to her parents and continue in her ruse.

  What would she do when the weeks had passed and she was expected back at home? She had hoped to boldly proclaim her triumph to her parents as if, somehow, they might accept that. But now, she knew she was in a terrible, terrible place.

  She would eventually have to tell them the truth, for she could not pretend to be a debutante again, a wallflower. And she was to live in this house, perhaps for the rest of her days, or at least until she could afford a smaller one with her salary from the opera.

  She placed the document down, sliding her hand along his writing as if it somehow might make him closer. She plunked her coffee cup back in its delicate saucer, stood, and pushed herself back from the table.

  She would not be a wilting flower in this, as a man would no doubt expect her to be.

  Chapter 20

  “You’re going to the opera tonight, of course.”

  It was tempting to pretend not to hear Stanley over the din at Gentleman Jackson’s. “I’m not.”

  They’d given strict instructions. . . No crowd.

  So, of course, the other training boxers were standing far back on the sidelines, secretly betting, and watching the two men who’d stripped to the waist.

  After all, he and Stanley were bruisers with hammers for fists.

  Stanley tsked. “She’s going to be heartbroken if you don’t show up.”

  “You overestimate her heart’s ability to break,” St. John ground out. “She intimated such a thing already. And she continues to walk this earth. Her heart is beating with no dilemma. I am not going to the opera. I don’t wish to see her.”

  “You do,” Stanley cut in. “You, like the lady, doth protest too much.”

  “I do not.” St. John growled then realized he was, indeed, protesting too much. He clamped his jaw shut.

  “You wish to see her with every bloody fiber of your being,” Stanley said, circling around the ring.

  St. John circled, too.

  God, he hated seeing Stanley, but he’d been unable to avoid him.

  St. John had come to his boxing club with a purpose, to have his brains beaten out by someone who could match him in the ring. There were few such men in London.

  The owner of the boxing club was one of the only people who could put St. John down for a count.

  Stanley, too, could, if it was the right day.

  Perhaps, he prayed, today was the right day.

  St. John dodged a hard blow from Stanley’s right uppercut.

  “Fine,” he relented, anticipating the next hit. “I admit that I wish to see her.”

  He darted quickly to the left.

  Stanley swung ’round, trying to slam his fist into St. John’s gullet.

  “Then, what the devil are you doing here?” Stanley queried, bring his guard back up. “Go to her. See her at the opera tonight. It will please her.”

  “It will not please her if I start–”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Stanley drawled. “You will never be your father, St. John.”

  St. John blinked sweat back. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do know that,” Stanley returned cooly, circling left. “And it’s some strange thing in your head which makes you think you could be.”

  With that, the duke managed to pop his fist into St. John’s jaw.

  His head shot back, his teeth clacking together.

  It was as if the duke’s fist was reiterating his point. St. John wished to crack Stanley back for it.

  He could still hear his mother, her crying out as his father hit her face, and with that, his resolve tightened.

  He brought his arms in, closer to his body.

  He lowered his center of gravity, came in fast to the right, and drove his fist into Stanley’s gut.

  A swooshing sound slipped past Stanley’s lips as he staggered back, winded.

  Stanley lowered his head, blinking. “If you won’t see reason, you shall force me to extreme measures.”

  “Extreme measures?” St. John echoed. “What the devil could you possibly do?”

  “I’m going to marry her,” Stanley said lightly but firmly.

  “You threatened this already,” St. John reminded, as his gut tightened at the very idea.

  “Yes, but now I have a special license.”

  “You have what?” He growled as he nearly tripped on absolutely nothing.

  “A special license,” Stanley reiterated.

  “You cannot possibly have a special license to marry Estella Cartwright,” St. John snapped as he darted about the ring, weaving back and forth, looking for an opening.

  “You’re correct,” Stanley replied. “I do not have a marriage license to wed Estella Cartwright.”

  “Then, what the hell are you talking about, man?” St. John demanded as he twisted in and delivered an uppercut.

  Stanley just barely avoided it and swung in, driving his left fist into St. John’s jaw.

  St. John groaned and staggered back. He flexed his jaw. “If you don’t have a special license to marry her, what the devil are you on about?” he demanded once more.

  Stanley arched a brow. “I have a marriage license to marry Eloise Edgington.”

  And with that, Stanley whipped around and his fist plummeted into St. John’s kidney.

  The pain blasted him, and he dropped to his knees.

  St. John grabbed onto the rope as those words hammered through his head just as the pain of the blow hammered through his body.

  The crowd let out a groan and a cheer then dispersed. Everyone heading back to their own training.

  Gasping for air, his back pulsing, St. John staggered to his feet and followed his friend. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.” Stanley lowered his fists. “I have a marriage license to wed Miss Eloise Edgington.”

  “How the devil could you manage such a thing? How do you even know?”

  “I’m the Duke of Stanley.” He jumped over the rope and headed for his discarded clothes. “I know everything. No one can get any scandal past me if I so wish to know the truth. I have spies everywhere. You think I wouldn’t find out who she was? I knew something was amiss. I immediately had my men investigate. It wasn’t particularly difficult. She’ll do perfectly for me. She’s from a good background. I like her well enough. She and I can be friends for years. And eventually, if an heir happens, I shan’t mind. But she’ll be my wife.”

  Stanley gave him a mocking smile as he toweled himself with a piece of linen. “You don’t want her. I’ll have her. She’s extremely talented. I wouldn’t mind having a duchess who was the toast of London. And soon, everyone will know. They’ll think she’s the most clever minx, having tricked everyone, if I support her.”

  Hollybrook swallowed. “You wouldn’t.”

  Stanley’s gaze hardened. “Oh, indeed. I would. You’re a fool, and soon, Eloise will be caught. People will find out the truth of her background, and it will be a great scandal. You and she both think she can rise above it. But unless she has a powerful supporter, she can’t. So unless you marry her or I do, she’ll have to face that tide alone. Is that what you wish? For her to face a rising sea?”

  St. John blinked. “I don’t believe you. Of course society will accept her.”

  “Society will not accept it,” Stanley countered harshly. “She’s supposed to be a member of the ton. Who would wish for more? And she’s abandoned it to become someone from the demimonde. They
will rake her over the coals.” Stanley skewered him with a disdainful glance. “What a fool you are, Hollybrook, to not realize such a thing.”

  “Now,” the duke continued, picking up his shirt. “I shall marry her tonight.”

  “You can’t,” St. John blurted. “She’d never marry you.”

  Stanley let out a dry laugh. “Oh, she will. It’s hard to deny a duke. I’m going to take her to a church after the performance.”

  “Take her?” St. John repeated, uncomprehending.

  Stanley explained with short patience, “She’s going to be whisked away into my coach. And we’re going to find ourselves at a small chapel. And I will present her with a scenario in which she will not be able to say no. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt her or force her. That’s not the kind of man I am, you know that. But she’s no fool. She’ll see it is the best option, especially since you’ve abandoned her.”

  “I have not abandoned her,” St. John ground out.

  “You have,” Stanley said flatly. “You’ve left her.”

  “I’ve given her money,” St. John protested, hating the sound of his own voice. “I’ve given her a house. I’ve given her horses.”

  Stanley laughed. “And you think that’s not abandonment? You’ve taken care of her, it’s true. But you’ve left her alone. That’s not protection,” Stanley said. “That’s merely comfort.”

  Stanley let out a sigh then pulled his shirt on over his head, working the cuffs back into place.

  “Now,” he said. “You can do what you please, come to the performance or not, ask her to marry you or not, but you know my plans.”

  St. John swallowed as pain engulfed him. She would be truly lost to him. . . which was what he’d wished. Truly. “I hope she marries you. It’ll be the best thing.”

  Stanley stopped as he reached for his cravat. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do,” St. John said tightly. “She’ll be safe with you.”

  “Safe with me?” Stanley said. “What a remarkable thing to say, considering the woman I love is dead. Yes, I’m so very safe.”

  Wordlessly, Stanley turned and strode out of the boxing club, not looking back.

  St. John stared after him, his gut tightening.