Page 4 of Winning the Wallflower’s Heart (Revenge of the Wallflowers #46)

CHAPTER 3

She left the club the next morning with a stomach full of scones and strawberries and too much tea, determined to return home and rescue her few remaining belongings.

Even though Ellis had warned her against it.

Try as she might, Georgiana had tossed and turned most of the night, knowing she was about to lose the last few remnants of her old life. It wasn’t much—a battered jewelry box that had belonged to her mother, two volumes of poetry she cherished, and Romeo, of course. She hated the thought of walking away from those pieces of herself without a fight. Her life had already been shattered in so many ways that to leave what little she had to her name behind felt like admitting defeat.

And she wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.

She tightened her shawl around her shoulders as she slipped through the busy city streets, the morning chill biting at her cheeks. She kept her head down, moving quickly until Pickins House loomed ahead. The two stone stairs at the stoop were crooked, the foundation underneath crumbling away. The windows were shuttered and dark, but it was barely past dawn, though she knew better than to expect the house would be empty.

Her brother might be inside, either dead to the world in a drunken stupor or nursing a biting headache.

Ellis had tried to tell her, in that calm, infuriatingly reasonable way of his, it was better to wait. But she couldn’t bear the idea of him sweeping in and fixing everything. She’d survived this long on her own, hadn’t she?

Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. This wasn’t just about the letters and trinkets. It was about control. Taking back some small part of her life that hadn’t been decided by someone else. Because that’s what Ellis had done, hadn’t he? Swooped in like a hero, turning her carefully laid plans into rubble.

She had left Pickins House to auction off her virtue to the highest bidder, determined to create a new future for herself. And now she returned, hoping to grab the last remnants of an old life so she could be married to the one man she had hopelessly and recklessly loved for years, even while knowing full well, he had never felt the same.

With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and climbed up the steps, then fumbled with the latch for a moment. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. Finally, it gave way with a soft click, and she eased the door open, holding her breath.

The house smelled of stale liquor and decay. She crept inside, the floorboards groaning underfoot.

“Came back, did you?”

She froze, pulse stuttering.

Sam was leaning against the doorframe, his lanky frame blocking her path down the hallway. His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt stained, and the familiar reek of gin clung to him like a second skin.

“Didn’t think you’d dare show your face here,” he sneered, pushing off the frame and swaying unsteadily. “Figured you were too busy being some rich man’s whore.”

Her heart pounded in her throat, but she forced herself to stand tall, meeting his gaze. “I only came for my things, Sam.”

“Your things?” He barked out a cruel laugh. “You don’t own a damn thing in this house, Georgie.”

Rage flared hot and sharp inside her, mingled with a helplessness she hated. “Please, just?—”

“What?” He took a step closer, his expression twisting into something ugly.

Her stomach twisted. She shouldn’t have come here. Ellis had been right.

“I’m not afraid of you, Sam,” she said softly, even though her pulse was racing.

He snorted, eyeing her with contempt. “You should be.”

He lurched forward, and instinctively, she stepped back, her foot catching on the threshold. She stumbled, grabbing for the doorframe to steady herself.

“Get out, Georgie,” he snarled. “Before I throw you out myself.”

Her throat tightened, and for a long moment, she couldn’t breathe. But then she straightened, lifting her chin. “I’ll leave,” she whispered. “But I’ll be damned if I go empty-handed.”

Ellis didn’t wait for the carriage to come to a stop. He jumped, racing over the pavement to reach Pickins House, and burst through the front door as his best friend dragged Georgiana across the floor.

In the space of a hair’s breadth, the man who had once been his dearest friend snapped his attention toward Ellis, just long enough for him to see the tears on Georgiana’s face, before he dove forward, rage consuming him.

He threw his fist against the man’s jaw, his knuckles meeting flesh and bone. The blow sent Sam staggering, enough for his grip to loosen on Georgiana. She slipped away, crawling backward against the tattered rug.

“Don’t you dare touch her, Harland.” He forced his arm against his friend’s throat, driving back against the wall. Though he attempted to strike Ellis, his movements were too sloppy. “Do you understand?” he shouted, pushing his arm tighter against the man’s throat.

Once, they had been schoolmates. Once, he had spent nights with him in London finding mischief as all young bucks do. But he barely knew the stranger glaring back at him now, reeking of alcohol, with glazed empty eyes and spittle at his pock-marked mouth. His auburn hair hung around his shoulders, thin and stringy.

“Have the damn whore, then,” he sneered. “Bought her, didn’t you? You coward. You couldn’t?—”

“Stop!” Georgiana screamed.

The pain in her voice was enough for Ellis to make one vital mistake. He didn’t see the bottle before it crashed over his head, didn’t feel it slice his scalp until his fingers returned bright red.

Sam collapsed against the wall, the broken bottle still clutched in his hand and snarled. “Pretend to be tough all you like, but you’ll always be a lord. Soft like us all.”

Bait. That’s all it was.

But the confrontation had fizzled as her brother turned and staggered into the empty sitting room, collapsing instead onto a stained mattress in the corner by a dying fire.

“Come on,” Ellis said, reaching out a hand to usher Georgiana farther into the house to gather her things. “We will be quick and be rid of this place once and for all.”

She crossed her arms, glancing over to her brother. “This is my home.”

“Not anymore,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “It’s with me. And you’re safe.”

It wasn’t lost on Ellis how she remained stiff under his touch, or how she sniffed back tears as she led him up to her room.

“There isn’t much,” she confessed, stopping in the upstairs hallway, as though embarrassed.

“We’ll bring whatever you want.”

She raised her eyebrows and pushed through the door, gasping when she walked in to find the room in disarray.

“My things!”

Her bed was broken, her curtains torn down, and the few sketches that had been fixed by the small desk near the window ripped and tossed to the floor. In the corner, an orange cat backed away to hide under the discarded bed linens.

It was striking to see—the hand painted details, that of a little girl and a woman—the flower vines painted inside the window casing. The swans and princess over by the desk, a flush of flowers and birds by her door. Each so incredibly detailed, it must have taken years to have covered the walls.

The hurt in her eyes was too much to stomach. He turned to her, bent down so she could see his eyes, and evened his voice. “Let’s grab your things, and we’ll be on our way.”

“But your head!” Her fingers reached out to his temple, but he shook her touch away.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding, Ellis. If he comes and you’re passed out…”

He couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t —allow that to happen. Ellis grabbed the bed covering, then strode over to her wardrobe. “Toss your things in here. Dresses, any books…” His eyes scanned the room, so thoroughly ransacked.

He’d left her here at Pickins House, thinking the mortgage payments he’d arranged were enough—a distant way to honor a friendship that felt more like habit than connection by then. But Sam had been drifting, his charm dulled by debts and drinking, never quite willing to reciprocate. Still, Ellis had hoped. Now, standing here with Georgiana, he felt the weight of his mistake. That distant attempt at help had left her stranded, alone, without the safety or care she’d truly needed.

Suddenly, a sharp bitterness flooded his mouth, and he ran over to the window, yanking up the sash and sticking his head out, tossing up his accounts.

“Georgie, your things,” he reminded her again, spinning around to see her wide-eyed and clutching the fat tabby cat.

“I can’t leave him,” she whispered.

“Then he’s coming with us. Have everything? We need to go.”

Ellis grabbed her hand, even as the world wobbled around him, and the sharp metallic bite of blood filled his mouth. There wasn’t much for her to take, and yet guilt consumed him as her large eyes studied the place.

“This is home,” she whispered.

He shook his head, dragging her out into the hallway. The orange tabby squirmed in her arms, and she squeezed, even as the feline dug its claws into her shoulder.

“Not now, Georgie. It’s time to leave this all behind.”

She hesitated, glancing over shoulder, down the dark, cold hallway. He felt the resistance in her posture—the quiet anguish beneath her silence.

This place, this life—it had been everything to her, no matter how awful it was. The only home and family she’d ever known. Asking her to walk away was like asking her to cut out a piece of herself. But she needed to leave. He couldn’t let her stay trapped here, vulnerable and alone.

“It won’t be easy, Kitten, but I won’t let you fall,” he said softly, his voice steady. “You’ll be safe with me.”

He reached for her, aware of the distance between them even now. For years, he’d been just out of reach, a figure from her childhood who swooped in only to disappear again. He hated that. Hated that he’d let her believe she was always on her own.

But this time was different. This time, he was taking her with him. Even if she didn’t understand yet, even if she was still staring at him with that look in her eyes—hope and disbelief tangled together.

Because he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. Needed more. And somehow, he’d have to find a way to give it to her.

He gestured toward the hackney in the front of the house when they stepped outside. She was watching him again—eyes wide and uncertain, as if he were some impossible dream. But he wasn’t. He was flesh and blood, standing there, his head bleeding and his hand outstretched toward her. And he’d damn well prove it.

“Come on, Georgie,” he murmured. “This time, I’m not going anywhere.”

Safe .

He could at least promise her that.