Page 4 of The Wallflower’s Great Escape (The Wallflowers’ Revolt #1)

W hat the devil was he doing?

Jason asked himself the question for the fifth—no, sixth—time as he descended the servants’ staircase at the back of Lord Willoughby’s town house with Georgiana in tow.

His hand tightened imperceptibly on hers. He should stop this madness now, march her back to the ballroom, and deliver her into her father’s custody.

But no.

Instead, he was here. Smuggling her through a dim stairwell, her skirts whispering behind him, her breath coming faster than he liked.

He risked a glance back at her and felt his jaw tighten. Damn . She really was beautiful.

Not in the too-polished, perfect way most Society diamonds were, but in some untamed, infuriating way that was neither helpful nor relevant to the task at hand.

Because he had one job. One . To keep her reputation intact.

Jason swallowed a bitter laugh. God help them both— he was the worst man alive to be trusted with such a responsibility.

His own reputation was hardly pristine. He’d spent the better part of a decade perfecting the role of solid MP by day and discreet libertine by night. He’d had a string of mistresses, each more manipulative than the last.

His last mistress in particular had made a habit of contriving fainting fits whenever she wanted a new bauble. She’d stop at nothing, sobs, theatrics, even once deliberately slashing her own hem to prove some absurd point about his neglect.

And that, come to think of it, was why she was now his former mistress.

Jason’s gaze flicked again to the young woman hurrying after him, her chin lifted stubbornly even in flight.

Was Lady Georgiana cut from the same cloth?

She had claimed to be betrothed to the Marquess of Henderville, after all. Which seemed quite dramatic, now that he considered it.

It couldn’t possibly be true. Could it? Jason’s lip curled at the thought. The Marquess of Henderville?

That decrepit old scoundrel was old enough to be her grandfather. Jason had seen him just last month at White’s, nodding off into his brandy and muttering about the glories of Bath.

Could she possibly be telling the truth?

He scowled at her back. Perhaps she was simply employing the oldest feminine trick in the book—dramatic falsehoods to gain her way.

Except…she didn’t seem the type.

And God help him, that flash in her eyes when she’d looked at him with an expression that clearly said, Now do you see why I’m trying to flee? Frankly, it had looked heartbreakingly real.

Jason forced the thought away. Irrelevant.

He’d promised Chadwick he’d watch over her, and he would. He owed Chadwick that much.

Jason stopped at the bottom of the staircase and glanced around. The servants’ corridor was empty, save for the faint scent of coal dust and soap. A row of cloaks and shawls hung on a pegboard along the wall.

“Stay here,” he ordered gruffly.

Georgiana raised a brow but kept silent…for once.

He plucked a plain dark scarf from the peg and, after a moment’s search of his inner coat pocket, left a pound note in its place—more than enough to cover the cost.

When he turned back, Georgiana was watching him with those large, clever eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asked finally, suspicion lacing her tone.

He stepped close—closer than he strictly needed to—and lifted the scarf. “Keeping you from being recognized.”

Before she could protest, he draped the scarf over her head, tucking it around her face until only a glimpse of her cheeks and lips remained visible.

“There,” he murmured. “Better.”

She opened her mouth.

“Don’t speak,” he cut her off. “You’ve already done quite enough for one evening.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Do you always order people about like a field marshal?” she hissed.

“Only people who try to climb out of windows,” he said flatly.

He took her arm—not roughly, but firmly—and led her out the side door into the night.

The air outside was crisp, laced with the faint scent of roses from the gardens and a distant tang of woodsmoke.

Georgiana stumbled once on the gravel path, and his hand automatically steadied her at the elbow. She looked up at him then, her lips parting as though she meant to speak again.

Jason didn’t even give her the chance. “I’m in charge here,” he said evenly. “And you’ll do as you’re told. Silently. Understood?”

She huffed, the faintest puff of breath fogging in the cool night. But she nodded.

He nodded back, satisfied, and led her across the lawn, keeping to the shadows.

They’d nearly reached the far wall of the garden when the unmistakable sound of laughter and footsteps spilled out from a pair of French doors leading from the house. Jason froze, tightening his hold on Georgiana’s arm.

A trio of drunken young gentlemen stumbled into the garden, all high spirits and flushed cheeks, their voices carrying across the moonlit grass.

“Damn,” Jason muttered under his breath.

Georgiana tilted her head up at him, her expression questioning.

He didn’t have time to explain. Instead, he backed her into the nearest shadowed alcove and pressed her shoulders gently but firmly against the cool brick wall.

“Stay still,” he murmured, bending his head close to hers.

“What—” she began.

“Quiet.”

He shifted his body to block her from view and—because he couldn’t think of anything else to do that wouldn’t draw more attention—he lowered his head until his mouth hovered just above hers.

To anyone glancing their way, they’d look like a couple lost in a scandalous kiss.

Her breath caught, and he felt it warm against his cheek.

“Pretend,” he whispered against her ear.

She made a sound in her throat—something between a protest and a sharp intake of air—but didn’t move.

Jason angled his head, letting his lips just graze the scarf near her temple.

The footsteps drew nearer.

He pressed closer, not touching anything he didn’t have to, but close enough to shield her completely.

Her hands, trapped between them, clenched briefly in the lapels of his coat. Her eyes flicked up to his, wide and dark and?—

Bloody hell .

He became suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how soft she felt against him, how sweetly she fit in the circle of his arms.

And just like that—he realized with a jolt of irritation and disbelief—he had a cockstand.

A wholly inconvenient, thoroughly inappropriate cockstand.

He closed his eyes for half a second, breathing through his nose and willing his body to behave itself. Why did she have to smell so blasted good? Like lilacs and soap and?—

The drunken trio paused a few paces away, their laughter low and knowing.

“Ah, leave ’em be,” one of them finally muttered. “Plenty of other places to drink.”

Their footsteps faded back toward the house.

Jason stayed exactly where he was for another beat—until he was certain they were gone—then stepped back, letting cool air rush between them.

Georgiana blinked up at him from behind the scarf, her lips parted slightly.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his coat to cover himself and desperately hoping the shadows hid more than his pride.

“Come on,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We’re not entirely safe yet.”

She didn’t move right away. “What was that?” she asked finally, shaking her head as if coming out of a trance, her voice soft.

Jason forced a tight smile, though his pulse was still hammering unpleasantly.

“That,” he said, “was improvisation.”

Her dark eyes sparkled faintly in the moonlight, and she gave a tiny nod. Then, infuriatingly, she smiled.

“Quite effective,” she murmured.

Jason ran a hand down his face and exhaled. What the devil was he doing? Whatever it was, he reminded himself grimly, it was for Chadwick.

Nothing else.

Nothing to do with her soft lips or her clever eyes or the way she’d fit against him in the shadows and smelled like a dream.

No.

He had one job. And he’d damned well see it done.