The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,39
a heart.
“Now, now,” he said, making a tsking sound under his breath. Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Is that any way to greet your benefactor?”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Description
Books by Jillian Eaton
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
The Winter Duchess
Chapter One
Description
Helena gave up on love the day she was forced to marry a lecher four times her age.
Fortunately, the Earl of Cambridge did her the great service of dying on their wedding night. Unfortunately, she was stripped of all her worldly possessions and thrown out onto the street by Stephen, her late husband’s heir, an arrogant rogue with a heart of ice and the most piercing blue eyes Helena has ever seen.
Saved from starvation by a mysterious benefactor, Helena has done her best to put her past behind her. Until her benefactor shows up in her parlor and his identity brings old feelings of mistrust and new forbidden passions swirling to the surface. Because the man who cast her out is the same one who rescued her…and Stephen has come to collect his due.
Chapter One
“You do not like dancing either, I take it?”
Miss Helena Holton blinked in surprise when a handsomely dressed gentleman materialized out of the darkness. With his hands tucked into the pockets of his black jacket, he joined her behind the large stone fountain where she’d been hiding for the better part of an hour, after Lord Glenburn trounced on her instep yet again.
And to think her mother actually considered him to be a good prospect. Another waltz like the last one and she was almost certain to walk with a limp for the rest of her life. Which was why she’d dared Lady Holton’s wrath and escaped out a side door, leaving the loud, glittering ballroom behind for the quiet privacy of the gardens. With the exception of a couple whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears on a bench around the bend, she was alone. Or at least, she had been alone.
If a young lady was standing by herself next to a fountain, did it become a man’s sole purpose to bother her?
“No, I do not like dancing,” she answered curtly, her stare fixed on the trickle of water spilling from the cherub’s mouth at the top of the fountain. The portly little fellow was completely nude save the bow flung over his back. Yet for all his vulnerability, his expression was defiant. Perhaps even a little angry.
Helena knew precisely how he felt.
“I also do not like strangers,” she added.
Unfortunately, the gentleman did not seem keen on taking her not-very-subtle hints to go away. She could feel his gaze upon her like fingers gliding through her hair before lightly squeezing the nape of her neck.
“Then let me introduce myself.” His voice was husky and deep; rough velvet wrapped in a whisper. “Stephen Darby, Viscount Ware. And you are…?”
“Not interested.”
That, at least, gave him pause.
Alas, his silence didn’t last nearly long enough.
With a soft chuckle, he joined her in looking at the cherub. “Why do you think it is that fountains are always adorned with small, naked angels?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said stiffly. Under normal circumstances Helena was much more engaging, but she was tired, and hungry, and her feet hurt. Hardly the ingredients for a harmless flirtation in the garden. Not that she was naïve enough to believe there was anything harmless about the man standing beside her.
For the first time, she slanted a glance at him as her curiosity demanded she put a face to that wickedly sensual voice. The nearly full moon was behind him, covering his profile in shadow. But it couldn’t conceal the startling blue of his eyes, or the stern set of his jaw, or the high, slashing cheekbones that revealed aristocratic blood.
He towered at least six inches above her, his body all lean muscle cloaked in an elegant tailcoat and snowy white cravat with a gold pin run through the middle. She couldn’t determine the color of his hair,