The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,61
his ale, then signaled one of the curvaceous barmaids waltzing around the dark, dingy tavern for another.
“And a bowl of the stew,” he added, belatedly realizing he hadn’t eaten anything since early this morning when he’d left London.
“Anything else, love?” the barmaid purred as she rubbed up against his thigh.
The invitation was obvious.
So was his body’s response.
Or rather, its notable lack of a response.
“No,” he muttered. “That will be all.”
With a disappointed pout, the barmaid plucked up his tankard and sashayed away. Stephen studied her hips, willing himself to feel something. But the only thing he felt was disappointment that the barmaid wasn’t Helena.
Curling his hand into a fist, he thumped it on the table in muted frustration. He’d genuinely believed that by confronting Helena, he could purge her once and for all. From his mind, from his heart, from his blood.
Instead, he’d made everything infinitely worse.
And this time there was only himself to blame.
When the barmaid returned with his food and drink, he ate quickly. Shoveling the last spoonful of stew into his mouth, he chased it down with the rest of the ale and threw a handful of coins into the empty tankard. The legs of his chair scraped against the wooden floorboards as he stood up, the sound drowned out by the loud swell of voices from the other patrons in the tavern as they fought to outshout one another. Pushing his way out the door, he stepped to the side and drew in a lungful of cool spring air, his gaze automatically drawn up to the stars glittering like diamonds in a black, velvet sky.
The same stars had looked down on him the night he’d met Helena. Slipping his hands into his pockets, Stephan inwardly marked off one constellation after another, beginning with Orion and ending with Cassiopeia. Named after a beautiful and vain Ethiopian queen, Cassiopeia cut a jagged line through the inky darkness. It was Helena’s favorite constellation, he recalled. Although he couldn’t remember her reason.
He had been too busy admiring the moonlight in her hair.
God, how she’d taken his breath away. He’d never imagined he would be the sort of fool who fell in love at first glance, but all it had taken was one look at Helena and he had fallen so hard and so fast, he was still trying to catch his breath four years later.
If only he hadn’t left on his damned tour. If only he’d stayed in London. If only he’d courted Helena properly.
If only.
If only.
If only.
With a shake of his head, Stephen set off towards the small house at the edge of town he’d rented. There were rooms above the pub, but he liked his space, especially at night when he couldn’t sleep for thoughts of a certain green-eyed temptress. In his private chambers at home, his midnight pacing had worn a path in the rug beside the bed. Every time he looked at it in the light of day, he was filled with self-loathing, and he always promised himself that tonight, tonight would be the night he wouldn’t dream of her.
But despite his claim to the contrary, Helena wasn’t the only one who couldn’t keep promises.
Bloody hell, he needed her out. Out of his dreams, out of his head, out of his heart. She was like a splinter stuck under his skin. One he’d allowed to fester for far too long. It was only a matter of time before infection set in if it hadn’t already. And then what the devil would he do? Continue to obsess over her every day for the rest of his life?
He couldn’t think of a worse hell…or a sweeter heaven.
Having reached the gate that guarded his temporary accommodations, Stephen wrapped his hands around the smooth iron bars and closed his eyes. He shouldn’t have felt this way. Helena had married his father, for God’s sakes. Of all the men in England, she’d chosen him.
And despite that, Stephen would still choose her.
His traitorous heart would always choose her.
Which was why he needed to rip the damned thing out of his chest, one broken splinter at a time.
Chapter Eight
If there was one thing guaranteed to boost Helena’s spirits, it was shopping. Which was why, at half past nine the following morning – a deplorable hour for anyone to be awake, unless they were, in fact, shopping – she set out for town, leaving Percy behind to work on a painting she’d begun the day before.