The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,65
cupped her chin in the palm of her hand in an effort to appear bored, but the tension in the slender line of her neck revealed she wasn’t nearly as apathetic as she’d like him to believe.
“Curiosity, lamb.” With a sharp smile hovering along the edges of his mouth, he leaned towards her. “And I’d like to warn whatever poor bloke you intend to sink your claws into next.”
She looked at him with all the disgust one would convey for a piece of horse dung on the bottom of their shoe. “Does it take effort to be so repulsive, or does it just come naturally to you?”
“You didn’t find me repulsive by the fountain,” he reminded her.
“I was a silly girl,” she said dismissively.
“No.” He reached across the table and managed to catch her wrist before she could guess his intention and yank her arm away. Sliding his thumb beneath the laced edge of her glove, he felt the rapid flutter of her pulse. “You weren’t.”
“What – what are you doing?” she gasped when he lifted her hand to his mouth and trapped the tip of one finger between his lips. “We’re in public.”
They could have been in the middle of a bloody ballroom, and he wouldn’t have cared. Not that anyone was paying attention to them tucked away in the back of the crowded shop. Partially concealed by a wooden partition of crates topped with potted plants, they were all but invisible.
“Would you care to go somewhere private?” he said huskily.
“That’s not what I – Stephen.” She tried to pull back when he began to slowly remove her glove…with his teeth. “You’re being ridiculous.”
It didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt…right. To be this close to her again. To touch her again. To taste her again.
Rising halfway out of his chair, he traced his tongue along a thin blue vein on the inside of her wrist and then kissed the heel of her palm. Helena’s skin was impossibly soft and smooth. Like rose petals spread across a bed of silk. Their eyes met over the sloped curve of her hand, and lust hit him like a punch to the gut when he saw her pupils darken with desire.
“This is a mistake,” she warned him.
“I know.”
“It’s not going to change anything.”
“I know.”
“I still immensely dislike you.”
“I know.” He nipped her knuckle, and she scowled at him.
Then she stood up.
“Excellent. Since that has been established, there is an inn right around the corner. From my understanding, one can rent a room by the hour. If you go around the back, I shall meet you at the front.”
Stephen stared at her as something unpleasant churned in his gut. He wanted Helena, true. God only knew how much he wanted her. But not like this. Not in a way that felt dirty and cheap.
“I’m sure we can find someplace more accommodating than an inn,” he said tightly.
“My carriage?” she suggested.
He let go of her hand. “Helena–”
“Or there’s the hayloft above the livery yard. I’ve heard the maids whispering about it, and–”
“Helena.”
Her brows drew together. “What?”
“I am not going to make” – he lowered his voice – “love to you in a damned hayloft! This isn’t going to be some hidden, tawdry affair.”
“Then what is it going to be?” she asked, visibly confused.
It was a good question.
“I don’t know.” Raking an agitated hand through his hair, he shoved his chair back and repeated, “I don’t know.”
“Then perhaps you should return when you’ve decided,” she said in a voice that was noticeably cooler than it had been a second ago. “Or better yet, don’t return at all.”
“That’s not what I want,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Oh, darling.” Her expression vaguely pitying, she trailed a fingertip down his cheek. “Haven’t you learned yet that no one ever gets what they want?”
Brushing past him, she sauntered out of the coffee shop without looking back.
Chapter Nine
“What’s wrong?” Percy asked as soon as Helena walked into the solarium. Bright and sunny, it served as the perfect studio for the duchess to work on her art.
“Nothing.” Discarding her bonnet and gloves, Helena sat on the velvet armrest of a chaise longue and then slowly slid into it. Turning her head towards Percy, she mustered a long, rather dramatic sigh. “Everything.”
“Tell me.” Setting aside her paintbrush, Percy pushed her stool out from behind her beloved wooden easel and frowned sympathetically at her friend. “I hope you do not mind me saying this, but you look terrible.”