Page 16 of The Wallflower’s Great Escape (The Wallflowers’ Revolt #1)

J ason had told himself a hundred times on the way to the church this morning that he was not doing this for her.

He wasn’t here for her.

Not really.

Not to interfere, not to watch her, not to stop her, and certainly not to help.

And yet, here he was, leaning against a pillar at the back of St. George’s, watching the entire farce unfold with his arms folded tight across his chest and his jaw clenched so hard it ached.

And—though he’d never admit it aloud—he was already restless.

He’d told himself—firmly, repeatedly, like a prayer—that he was attending this wedding out of courtesy.

To Chadwick.

To Society.

To common bloody decency.

Fine. He’d risen earlier than necessary. Dressed too quickly. Left the house too soon.

And, inexplicably, had stopped by the mews for a mount rather than his usual carriage.

The stable boy had looked at him oddly when he’d swung into the saddle in his morning coat and cravat, but Jason had ignored him.

When he arrived, he’d tied the horse to a post just outside the church and told himself it was for convenience.

Not because he expected anything. Not because he intended to involve himself. Absolutely not.

He hadn’t even undone his coat and barely had time to greet Chadwick, when the murmur began to ripple through the congregation, the kind of uneasy, scandal-tinged whisper that prickled at the back of his neck like a warning.

Jason’s eyes lifted to the aisle just in time to see Georgiana’s white skirts disappearing through the side door.

Her mother’s sharp cry— “Stop her!” —echoed in the vaulted ceiling.

For half a second, he stood frozen, watching the chaos begin to unfold. Miss Montfort darted about, while Lady Beatrix Winslow sat in perfect, unruffled composure near the front, and the elderly groom fumbled with his cane while barking for order. Lady Chadwick was nearly apoplectic.

He watched all of this as if in a blur. And then—against all reason—Jason moved.

He shoved off the wall, shouldering past startled guests and emerging into the pale spring sunlight just as Georgiana’s skirts flashed around the corner at the far end of the church.

He turned swiftly toward his mount. His horse snorted and danced as he swung into the saddle.

“I’m not doing this,” he muttered aloud, his hands already gathering the reins. “I’m not?—”

But then he caught sight of her—a flash of white as she hurtled into a plain black coach waiting at the curb—and that was it.

By the time more shouts came spilling from the church doors behind him, he was already mounted and turning the corner at a full gallop.

The London streets flew past in a blur of brick and cobblestone. His horse’s hooves thundered over the stones, the cold wind biting at his face as he leaned low, his eyes fixed on the black coach ahead.

It barreled down Oxford Street, its driver urging the horses faster, weaving through morning traffic as startled pedestrians leapt out of the way.

Jason urged his own mount harder, the leather reins biting into his palms. Somewhere behind him, he could still hear faint cries—of outrage, of confusion—as wedding guests spilled into the street, presumably in varying states of horror and disarray.

He caught only a glimpse of them—Lady Chadwick gesticulating wildly, Miss Montfort pretending faintness, the groom tottering down the church steps like an indignant tortoise—before Jason turned the corner and left them behind entirely.

The black coach careened around another bend, the wheels skidding dangerously on the damp stones.

Jason followed without hesitation.

He didn’t stop to question himself, didn’t stop to think about how idiotic it was, how it would look, how it would end.

He simply followed.

The horse’s breath came hot and fast beneath him, its muscles bunching and stretching as it ate the ground between them.

Through Cheapside.

Across Ludgate Hill.

Past the river, the smell of coal smoke and bread mingling in the air as the coach hurtled on.

It was headed—just as she’d told him—toward the coaching station.

Toward the Bath road.

Toward her plan.

Of course it was.

He swore under his breath and leaned lower, urging his horse into a final burst of speed as they rounded the last corner.

And there, just ahead, was the coaching station.

Dust and commotion and the sharp scent of horses thick in the air as passengers bustled about, porters shouting and heaving luggage onto waiting carriages.

The black coach clattered to a halt near the farthest post, and he saw Georgiana emerging in a swirl of white satin and determination.

She’d already discarded her veil, and her hair was coming loose from its pins, wild in the morning sun.

Jason didn’t stop to think.

He swung halfway down from the saddle before his horse had fully stopped.

She saw him at the last moment, her eyes widening as he reached her, her lips parting to speak.

But he didn’t give her the chance. One arm looped around her waist, he lifted her clean off her feet as she let out a startled gasp.

He swung her up and into the saddle in front of him in one smooth motion, her skirts tangling with his boots as she clutched at the reins in surprise.

“Jason—!” she began, breathless.

But he was back up into the saddle behind her, gathering her firmly against his chest with one arm while his other hand gripped the reins.

He could feel her heartbeat hammering through the thin fabric of her gown, her breath warm against his jaw as she twisted to glare at him.

“What do you think you’re?—”

“Quiet,” he growled.

And then he turned the horse and kicked it into motion, galloping away from the station just as the driver of the black coach and a few bystanders began to shout after them.

They tore through the streets of London again, hooves ringing over stone and dust kicking up behind them, Georgiana’s skirts fluttering wildly in the wind.

Jason didn’t look back.

He didn’t dare.

He just held her steady in front of him, her body pressed against his, her scent—something faintly floral, maddeningly warm—filling his senses as they flew through the city streets.

And for the first time all morning, perhaps all damn week, he stopped telling himself he wasn’t involved.

Because, clearly, he was.

And there was no turning back now.