Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

He made her a cup of tea without asking how she would like it. He just knew .

It made her chest ache all the same as he stepped in front of her, blocking the morning light as he stared down at her.

"I don't know where to begin."

"That's funny, given your…"

"Well, it has to do with that."

His thick eyebrows rose in confirmation. Alfie was her oldest friend in this world, the duke next door. And for years now, they were forced to keep their friendship a secret.

It wasn't the only secret.

He turned and made himself a cup of tea. She swallowed, realizing she had been staring at him. His dark hair stood up this way and that, his curls unruly. And his usually sharp jawline was covered in dark stubble. And yet, he was handsome.

There had always been something magical about Alfie.

She turned, draping her arm over the chaise and tilting her head toward the sun. Why hadn't he answered any of her letters in all these years? He must help her. She had no one else. Her parents certainly wouldn't.

"A manuscript of mine was stolen."

Alfie stopped stirring his tea, then gently placed it down.

"And was published under a different name," she continued.

"Not M. E. Gastrell?"

"No, Lord Chadwick actually."

For a moment, the room fell silent, but Marjorie could practically feel the air swell around her. She reluctantly opened her eyes to find him standing in front of her. Then he bent down, the light striking his face just so, and she discovered a scar by his temple that was new.

She reached up to touch it, then snatched her hand away.

"France," he said matter-of-factly before his eyes darkened. He nearly growled. "He stole your manuscript, then published it as his own?"

She nodded, focused on his lips. So close. She hadn't really ever considered kissing him before. Friends didn't kiss. So why suddenly was that all she wished to do?

"I attended a salon in London where he was reading. I went…" She blushed, too embarrassed to admit she had missed the viscount. "Everyone in London has been buzzing about the new book. And I sat there and listened as he read my words back to me. I couldn't say anything. I was too afraid. Too angry…"

Tears burned her eyes, the rest of her words catching in her throat. Rage had coursed through her then, but she was too tired now. She was left only bitter.

And set on revenge.

Alfie leaned forward, closing the space between them, and wiped her tears away with the pad of his thumb. Such a soft touch.

"And you came back for me?"

She nodded, pressing her face into his palm, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time since walking into that salon.

"I've no one else, Alfie. And you are the only other person who knows the truth. I'm not sure I can do anything. I don't…"

Five years ago, Marjorie had happened upon Alfie fishing in the river by her estate. She had been out walking, stuck on her manuscript, and the truth had spilled out when he asked her what she was doing. She hadn't a reservation then and didn't now.

She sat up, pulling herself from her trance, and wiped her own tears. "I won't cry over him. I won't."

"He's a blackguard. Always has been."

"I suppose you wish to tell me you told me so?"

"No, I'm not interested in being righteous. I want to be your friend. I've always been your friend."

The small hitch in his voice didn't escape her notice. Nor the way her heart had raced when he had pressed his thumb to her cheek. Such a small, stolen touch born out of nothing else but earnest concern.

"My friend," she repeated, but even she wasn't sure at the moment. What a strange feeling that had swept over her upon seeing him after all these years. "Why haven't you written back?"

He straightened, turning for his tea and strolling to the window.

In the time since she'd shared her secret with Alfie, they'd written one another, conveniently using her pseudonym, so even if she was away in London or he was away at school, they were in communication. And his parents wouldn't know.

She didn't take his parents' dislike toward her personally. She understood being a part of the Merryweather family came with certain… limitations. Yes, she enjoyed a comfortable life because of her parents' acting careers, but she was never accepted by the ton . Her father had purchased the estate next to Alfie's ancestral seat, but it by no means made him a member of the peerage. He was the son of an Irish traveler who spent his childhood performing for others. It wasn't until her father met her mother in a West End production that he first caught the discerning eyes of the London critics.

"We didn't part on the best of terms, did we?"

She glanced around his room, at the careful stacks of books, the way his favorite armchair was beginning to show wear on the arms, and the potted plants dotted along the way. Then there were the statues and the paintings and the tall ceilings stretching up to her favorite part of all—a beautiful fresco of a summer sunset over the large park of Hollyvale.

All of it familiar and all of it a memory. Crawling into his window was like falling into a dream. And still, that did not explain the way her heart seemed to crack gazing upon him.

"No, but it doesn't explain why you…" She stopped.

He had left for France.

"You came here for a reason."

She sighed, feeling them push closer to the precipice. Closer to why they had ended their friendship. The truth always weighed more than the lies, and it pressed heavy against her chest now.

"I will not let him succeed because of my hard work." She draped herself across the chaise and stared up at the ceiling, losing herself to another possibility. Another summer, long gone now.

"And you shouldn't. So, what have you decided? Death by a thousand paper cuts?"

"Not an efficient use of my time when I have another manuscript due soon."

She groaned, slamming her eyes shut and allowing the blood to flow to her head as she shifted, hanging upside down.

A manuscript she was already behind on before her discovery. Now? She felt like a fraud.

"Why don't you write to him and tell him you know the truth?"

She lifted herself back to sitting upright as the room spun around her.

"You know the viscount well enough to recognize he will deny it."

A bitter grin pulled at his mouth. The very sight of it turned her stomach sour. And just as quickly, it disappeared. "Yes, I know the viscount. But he wasn't the one who asked you to be his wife. I did."

* * *

He shouldn't have said it, but the words poured out of him after being trapped inside for years. And maybe it was because he was stuck in this damn room and was an arse, but his usually fine manners lapsed for a moment.

She had been in love with one of his best mates from Eton, and Alfie had been in love with her since he saw her reading a book in the large oak by the river one summer day when she was ten and he was twelve. Her long brown hair had cascaded down her waist, and she'd been eating a peach.

He had made an upsetting discovery that day—he could be jealous of a piece of fruit.

She had grinned down at him, happy to discuss the merits of Aristotle, and they had spent the afternoon together walking along the wall dividing their respective estates.

"You are in love with him," he corrected himself as her shock registered.

"Well, not now." She threw her arms up into the air frustrated. "And certainly not when he left me the way he did."

Marjorie Merryweather should come with a warning. Or maybe he was just in need of a reminder that no beautiful woman would climb into one's bedchamber window without a catch.

"The two of you are excellent at many things. One is ignoring my letters and pretending I do not exist. Easy, I know. I'm a wallflower with perpetually ink-stained hands who writes what the voices in her head tell her to."

He placed his teacup down, careful not to toss it to the floor, then strode over to his dearest friend in the world. The very woman he had thought of night and day since leaving her, even after she broke his heart. Alfie sat beside her, fighting the urge to scoop her up in his arms.

He was still mad at her, wasn't he?

"Let me be clear. Percy loves no one but himself. His actions are no reflection of you and your worth. You are…"

"Frustrating, terrible." She sniffed back a few tears. "Pig-headed, odd, shy?—"

"Stop."

She glanced up at him. Her gaze lingered on his lips before finally meeting his eyes. Brown wasn't the right word to describe them. They were nearly obsidian. Dark like the wet earth she loved to trudge over just so she could pluck a handful of wildflowers after a rainstorm.

"Pig-headed maybe, but I object to the rest. For someone who is a skilled wordsmith such as yourself, you are lacking some fitting descriptors."

"Do you have suggestions?"

He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Are you flirting with me, Jo?"

"Aren't you?"

Clever girl.

His heart was a traitor, no matter how much he knew logically she didn't love him.

"You're magnificent, skilled, courageous, kind. But that is only the beginning. You are the damn sunshine, even hidden behind the clouds. You are there shining, unwavering in your passion. And to hell with anyone who doesn't see it."

"That's most of London," she quipped.

"No, I won't allow you to do that any longer either."

She rolled her eyes, attempting to brush off his attention.

"If others can't speak kindly of you, then at least speak kindly to yourself."

"Alfie, I need your help," she whispered. " Please . Hate me all you wish."

"I never hated you."

"I let you down."

"You followed your heart. I can't fault you for that."

"And look at the good it has brought me."

It brought you to me , he thought to say, but he couldn't. Instead, he stood once more and forced himself away from her, slowly rebuilding the wall that distanced his heart from hers. Yes, she broke his heart, but they had been young, and it had been foolish to believe they could have run away to be married. He had admired his father too much to have ever gone up against his wishes.

But now?

That temptation tugged at his chest. He could spin around and pull her to him and kiss her, well and thoroughly, until she was left breathless. He needed her to understand the way he was desperate for her.

The truth was more important.

"I'm not sure how I can help you when I can't help myself. I can't leave this room, love."

Marjorie scoffed as though she believed him to be making a jest. He swallowed the lump in his throat, worried the panic would begin creeping up his spine once more until he was frozen, and terror swept over him.

"I can't begin to imagine what you've been through. I wrote but?—"

"I wasn't ready to put it into words. Nothing prepares you. Harry was missing, and I couldn't stand my parents' misery at the news. I was on my way home with his body when I had my own accident." He paused, sighing as everything within began to tense. "I woke up in France, not far from Waterloo as men screamed and were dying, and I thought I would too. But life wasn't kind enough for that."

"And you admonish me for speaking ill of myself? Don't say such things, Alfie."

"It's been hell."

"I believe you. But you're here. You've come back, and I am so happy for it."

Because she needed his help. Because his best friend, the man she admittedly loved, had been a cad and stolen her work. Because she knew he would help because he was still as hopelessly and recklessly in love with her as he had been as a schoolboy.

Alfie folded his arms and turned his attention to the rear park of Hollyvale Manor. "What is this grand scheme of yours?" he asked at last.

"I want to go to London and make a scene. I want everyone to know he stole my manuscript."

"Doing that may mean your true identity will be revealed. Are you willing to risk everything for one book?"

By some miracle, he didn't turn as he heard her step closer, didn't reach for her when she stood beside him, didn't dare draw the back of his fist against her soft as silk cheek, or stare overly long at her perfect rose lips.

He remained still, watching over his estate, pretending as if he weren't a prisoner to his own mind, stuck in this room, and feet away from the one woman he would do anything for.

But could he help her now?