The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,75

can’t tell him. Something I haven’t even told either of you.”

Percy and Calliope waited patiently.

Helena gathered her courage.

“I murdered my husband.”

Chapter Thirteen

“My lord?” Mr. Charleston, Stephen’s solicitor of the past five years, looked at Stephen expectedly, his quill hovering in midair. “Would you care for me to repeat the question?”

It was a testament to how far Stephen’s mind had wandered that he didn’t even know Mr. Charleston had asked him one.

“Yes,” he said brusquely, leaning back in his chair. “Again, if you please, Mr. Charleston. I apologize for my...state of distraction.”

State of distraction.

A good a name for it as any, he supposed.

It certainly sounded better than I can’t stop thinking about Helena no matter how hard I bloody try.

Shorter, too.

“It is of no issue, my lord, I assure you.” Clearing his throat, the solicitor glanced down at the paper before him, then back up at his employer. “As we’re reviewing your spending accounts for the next quarter, I wanted to know what you would like me to do about the rental property in Berkley Square.”

“What do you mean?” Stephen said blankly.

“I…ah…was under the assumption, given our last conversation, that you intended to end the lease. Furthermore, you mentioned wanting to stop your monthly payments to a one, ah,” – he consulted his paper – “Lady Ware. Is that still the case, my lord? If so, I would need to submit a notice in writing to the lessor before the beginning of next week and notify the bank, as–”

“No.”

Mr. Charleston frowned. “N-no, my lord? To what part, exactly?”

“To all of it.” Unable to remain sitting, Stephen stood up from behind his desk with the restless energy of a caged animal and began to pace the length of his study. Keeping his gaze on the wall, he spoke calmly and precisely, his cool, detached cadence a perfect foil to the hot rush of emotions burning inside of him. “I want to purchase the house in Helena’s name. Then I want a separate account opened in her name as well, and ten thousand pounds deposited in it by the end of today.”

The poor solicitor almost tipped out of his chair. “Ten thousand pounds, my lord? Are – are you certain?”

No, Stephen damned well wasn’t certain.

He hadn’t been certain about anything since he’d returned to London.

But he knew this was the right thing to do. The only thing he could do, after learning the truth about Helena’s marriage to his father.

Her forced marriage.

Her marriage that he should have stopped.

When his stomach took a sharp turn, he went to the window and stared out at the quiet, tree-lined street beyond. He couldn’t go back in time and change what had happened, but he could do this. He would do this. And even though it wasn’t enough, it was better than nothing.

It had to be better than nothing.

As guilt gnawed at him, he spoke to the solicitor over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Charleston. That will be all.”

A quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a door, and then Stephen was alone with only his bitter thoughts for company. For a full minute, he managed to avoid having those thoughts veer towards Helena, but the battle to avoid her wasn’t worth the effort. He could fight all day not to think about her, and as soon as he closed his eyes at night, her face was the only one he’d see. Her eyes, glittering like emeralds as she looked at him in annoyance. The small dusting of freckles across her nose that she tried to hide with powder, but he always knew they were there. The pink of her lips as her mouth curved in a smirk. All that red hair twisted and pinned and tucked beneath a hat when all he wanted to do was run his fingers through it.

On a heavy groan, he scrubbed his hands down his face.

Two weeks.

It had just been two weeks since he’d left the country and returned to town. Not even a full month, yet it felt like a year. Like two years. Two years of not hearing the little breath she made when she was angry with him or seeing the way her eyes darkened when she was aroused or feeling her soft, silky skin.

He missed her.

God, he missed her.

And he wanted nothing more than to go to her, but she’d been quite adamant that she wanted nothing to do with him. After what he’d learned, how could he blame her for it? If only he’d believed her