Page 87 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“That doesn’t make it right,” he spat. “You knew going into our marriage that your writing could destroy both of us.”
“I . . .” What could she say? Nothing would exonerate her. All she could speak was the truth. “I wanted everything,” she admitted. “To write, and to love you.”
The wordloveseemed to cause a poisonous reaction in him. He reared back, a horrified look on his face. “Why?” he growled. “Why would you do something so foolish?”
“My books aren’t foolish to me,” she threw back, trying to make him understand. “Writing is who I am. I can’tnotwrite. If I did, I’d cease to exist.”
He looked unconvinced. “It’s pride that makes you say that.”
“Are you disgusted that I wasn’t the innocent you believed me to be?” she accused. Trapped, she could only lash out, like a wounded animal.
“No,” he answered hotly. “I’m disgusted that you blatantly lied to me and used me. That’s what you did, wasn’t it?” He jabbed a finger toward her. “Marry me for the protection of my name.”
“I wantedyou,” she insisted.
“Am I to be pleased by this?” His voice was low and soft, far worse than if he’d yelled. “You pursued me so ardently, and I was so bloodyflattered.I should have seen it. The edge of desperation in your urgency.” Pacing nearer, he spat, “It was because someone was looking for you, wasn’t it? BecauseIwas searching for you. That’s what pushed you toward me.”
“Partially,” she confessed, knowing he deserved, finally, the whole truth. “But—I wouldn’t have pursued you if I hadn’t cared for you. I could never bind myself to someone unless I thought I could love them.”
His mouth curled into a bitter sneer. It was so unlike him, so very different from the gentle, compassionate man she knew, that it made her heart wither.
“I cherished those moments with you,” he rumbled. “But now everything is tainted by your dishonesty.”
“If only you understood—”
“Makeme understand,” he demanded, almost desperately. “Because all I see before me is a woman who deliberately and without remorse imperiled herself, her family, and everyone around her.” He stared at her. “It’s like a shadow that envelops you, drawing everyone into its darkness.”
“You’re being melodramatic,” she said despairingly.
“Am I? Or have you purposefully blinded yourself to the harm you have and could have caused—and for what?” he added with anger and confusion.
“Formyself,” she cried, uncaring of whoever might hear her. What did it matter now, with everything smashed to pieces? “I wrote these books forme.BecauseI matter.”
Yet he shook his head. “I . . . am astonished at the level of your vanity.”
“Yes,” she said resentfully. “We all know how little you value yourself. Obeying your father like a frightened child.” The moment she said the words, she regretted them, but they could not be called back.
Genuine fury gleamed in Jeremy’s eyes. He whirled and strode to the fireplace. Bracing one arm on the mantel, he presented her with the wide, unmoving wall of his shoulders.
“I cannot ask you to leave,” he said lowly. “Not so soon after our wedding. But I cannot be around you right now.”
“Where will you go?”
He laughed bleakly. “This house is cavernous. I’ll find myself another room and sleep there.”
“Forever,” she said bleakly.
“I don’t know for how long. Don’t ask anything of me right now.” Voice rasping and sorrowful, he went on. “You’ve . . . broken my heart.”
She reached out for him, but he was already gone, the door open and swinging behind him. The carpet muffled his movements, but with each footstep, she felt her own heart crumble into dust. Silently, she moved to shut the door behind him.
No tears came. Her eyes remained dry as she managed to undo her own gown and slip into her night rail. She took down her hair but didn’t bother brushing or plaiting it. It hardly mattered if she failed to conform to the latest beauty standard.
Jeremy could expose her. Ruin her. Then she wouldhave nothing. She had to think. About how to proceed. Where to go from here.
But she could not plan for the future. She could think only of Jeremy and the boundless gulf that existed between them.
She gathered up the manuscript and walked it to the fireplace. Page by page, her face frozen into a mask, she consigned it to the flames. She felt as though she was burning her own flesh and blood.
