Page 25 of The Wallflower’s Great Escape (The Wallflowers’ Revolt #1)

T he study was quiet, save for the faint tick of the clock on the mantel and the low crackle of the fire in the grate.

Jason sat behind his oak desk, leaning back in the leather chair that had molded to him over years of late nights, the weight of the room pressing in around him.

It was a comforting space. Dark wood paneling, books lining every wall, the rich scent of old leather and beeswax mingling with the faint smokiness from the hearth. The warmth should have been reassuring. Once, it had been.

Tonight, it felt like a cage.

His glass of brandy sat on the blotter before him, untouched. He’d poured it when he’d come in, thinking it might dull the restless energy coursing through him, but instead it sat there, catching the firelight like amber, mocking him.

He stared at it a moment longer before dragging his hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose.

Lady Beatrix’s voice still rang in his ears, sharper than the foil he’d driven into the straw dummy earlier.

Nonsense. Pembroke shouldn’t have put his nose where it didn’t belong. No one asked him to interfere.

It hadn’t even been said to him. That was the worst of it. She hadn’t known he was standing there in the doorway. That made it all the more cutting.

No one had asked him to interfere. No one had wanted him to. Least of all Georgiana. And now she was shackled to him for life. And he was bound to a wife who didn’t want him.

He rubbed his temple and leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, feeling the familiar ache beginning at the base of his skull.

He still couldn’t stop examining the way Georgiana had barely looked at him during breakfast. She’d been polite enough, but there’d been no warmth in it. Her smiles had been cool, perfunctory. Already she’d asked for her own room. Already she’d retreated behind her polite mask.

And he’d been fool enough to think that suggesting she decorate one of the wings would please her…because his mother had loved it so.

But Georgiana wasn’t his to please. They might be legally married, but she was far from being his wife .

Damn him. What foolish, hopeful part of him had offered for her actually believing that they might turn out to be suited for each other? They’d shared a passionate kiss. True. But one kiss did not make a marriage.

He’d spent the entire night last night happily imagining how their marriage could be.

What if…just what if…Georgiana needed him?

What if she didn’t just think he was better than Henderville?

What if she might grow to truly care for him?

What if she’d agreed to marry him because she actually wanted to attempt to make it work?

Of course, he hadn’t been searching for a wife, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want one—or children, for that matter. It was simply that his past had left him too wary to even try. But with Georgiana…it was different. It seemed as if…she needed him.

Only now he realized, she didn’t. She’d had her plans made. She’d had her friends’ help. She hadn’t needed him at all. All he’d managed to do was interfere. No wonder she wanted her own bedchamber. Hell, she probably wanted the whole wing to herself.

Cursing himself, he pushed the glass of brandy aside and reached for the small velvet case in the top drawer. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he finally opened it.

Inside, nestled against the dark velvet lining, was the miniature of Evelyn.

His breath hitched despite himself, the familiar pang of grief and guilt slicing through him.

Her young face gazed back at him from the painted ivory—her dark hair curled loosely at her nape, her cheeks flushed with life, her green eyes bright with laughter, even though she’d been barely seven when the artist had captured her likeness.

The sight of her never failed to twist something inside him.

He remembered the day as though it had happened yesterday.

He’d been meant to watch her—just for a few hours, while their parents visited with neighbors. He’d promised her he would look after her.

He’d promised.

And yet…

He closed the case with a quiet snap, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He had been trying to save her ever since.

Every reckless duel, every ill-advised wager he’d interrupted, every woman he’d tried to protect from some fortune hunter’s designs—all of it, in some irrational corner of his mind, had been for Evelyn.

And now he’d gone and done it again.

He thought of Georgiana, the way her eyes had narrowed at him this morning when he’d dared suggest she take over a wing of the house, the stiffness in her spine as she’d asked for her own room.

She’d agreed to marry him, yes. But how much choice had she really had?

He’d swept in like some self-satisfied savior, thinking he was protecting her from ruin, but had she even wanted his protection?

Had she already begun to hate him for it?

He shoved the velvet case back in the drawer and stared unseeingly at the far wall, trying to quiet the churn in his chest.

He reached for the brandy out of habit and caught sight of the newspaper lying half-buried under a sheaf of letters on the edge of his desk.

He pulled it closer and flattened it with his palm, his eyes automatically scanning the headlines.

At first he thought nothing of it, the usual prattle about politics and duels and the Duke of Denly’s latest folly.

But then his gaze fell to it. The largest column in the Society section. Of course it was about them.

An Unexpected Union: Lord Pembroke’s Hasty Nuptials.

He stilled.

The words swam into focus. He read them hastily, his gaze sliding over them as if he could erase them as they went.

The brandy glass tilted in his hand, and he set it down with a dull clink before he crushed the newspaper in his fist.

To rescue the lady from further scandal! To save the young woman from her own recklessness!

Who in God’s name had authorized this version of events?

He’d gone himself to the publisher yesterday afternoon—slipped the man an obscene sum—to guarantee the paper printed the correct story: that Pembroke had been utterly shattered at the thought of losing Lady Georgiana’s hand to Henderville.

That his rash actions had been born not of folly, but out of pure, blinding love.

Perhaps a bit exaggerated, but certainly believable. And now, he realized, he’d failed to tell Georgiana of his plan. Not that it mattered. The bloody paper had failed him. They’d made it sound as if she were some fragile little creature in need of saving.

It was the precise opposite of what she’d wanted…

What she’d specifically asked of him, even.

“ I don’t want you to save me. And I certainly don’t want the ton to think you married me to save me .

” That was literally all she’d asked of him when she’d agreed to marry him.

After standing in that window with fire in her eyes, threatening to jump rather than let them drag her back to Henderville.

And he’d promised her, damn him. He’d promised her.

And failed her.

He cursed softly under his breath, his knuckles whitening. Good God, if she hadn’t despised him before, she was certain to now.