The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,49
ship he’d been traveling on had arrived a day late, courtesy of a storm that had caught them unawares in the Bay of Biscay, but after a tumultuous night of howling winds and raging waves, it had successfully made port.
Moving past other departing passengers who were glassy-eyed and green-faced, Stephen hailed a hackney and gave the driver an address, then leaned back against the threadbare cushions and stared blindly out the window at the city he’d done his damndest to avoid.
When was the last time he had been in London? Three years? Four? He hadn’t bothered to return for his father’s funeral. Why waste a month of his time on a man who hadn’t given him a minute of his?
He would have been well within his rights to despise his sire. But for all the sins Cambridge had committed against his only son and heir, Stephen didn’t hate him. He didn’t love him. He was…indifferent. And in the two years and three months since the earl had died, Stephen could count on one hand the number of times he’d bothered to think about him.
But he’d thought about Helena.
He’d thought about her a great deal.
The carriage slowed as it rounded a corner and turned onto a tree-lined street. Here the houses were narrow but tidily kept. Shutters were freshly painted, cheerful daffodils sprang from window boxes, and the pavement had been swept clean. Stephen smelled lilacs as he descended from the hackney; a distant reminder of boyhood memories best forgotten.
He tipped his hat at a trio young ladies as they walked past, then gave himself a deliberate moment to conceal his emotions behind a steely façade before he opened the gate guarding 310 Cherub Lane – ironic because the woman he’d come to see was no angel – and strode up the footpath with the regimented steps of a soldier ordered to the frontlines. He wrapped his knuckles against the door and had only a moment to wait before it swung open and a footman peered out.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I have come to see her ladyship, the Countess of Cambridge.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Cambridge isn’t in at the moment.” The footman started to close the door.
Stephen slapped his hand against it.
“Do you know when she will return?” He hadn’t traveled over five hundred miles and spent the past eight hours being tossed around the hull of a ship for Helena not to be in. And even though he hadn’t announced he would be paying a call, it annoyed him that she wasn’t where he wanted her to be. Where he expected her to be. Where he needed her to be.
For no matter how hard he tried or how far he traveled, Stephen had been unable to break the inexplicable connection he felt for the woman he hated. A connection that had endured far longer than it should have. A connection he’d come to severe once and for all. Except Lady Cambridge wasn’t in at the moment.
“I don’t know,” said the footman, shaking his head. “The countess does not keep to a specific schedule.”
Of course she didn’t.
“I will return later then.” Stephen turned to go, but the footman’s next words stopped him cold in his tracks.
“Best come back after the wedding. I’m sure she’ll have time to take callers then.”
Everything inside of him went impossibly still, except for the thud of his heart pounding against the wall of his chest. The Runner he’d paid handsomely these past twenty-four months hadn’t mentioned a wedding. Or a groom, for that matter.
His jaw clenched. Helena couldn’t be getting married. Not now. Not when he was this damned close.
“What wedding?” he snarled, and the footman’s eyes widened with alarm.
“I…uh…that is to say, Miss Haversham and Lord Winchester,” he blurted. “Miss Haversham is a close friend of Lady Cambridge. They’ve known each other…for…where are you going?” Perplexed, the servant watched as Stephen whirled around and stalked back down the footpath, slamming the gate shut behind him.
“To get a bloody drink,” Stephen muttered before he proceeded to do precisely that.
“Oh Calli, you are beautiful,” Helena breathed as she took in the sight of her friend in the gown she was going to wear for tomorrow’s wedding. Beside her the modiste, who had designed the pink dress, nodded in agreement.
“Très magnifique,” she chimed in her native language.
“You look like a princess.” This from Persephone Stillwater, the Duchess of Glastonbury, or Percy, as she was fondly known by Helena and Calliope.
They’d discovered the diminutive, dark-haired beauty one rainy night