Page 6 of A Wallflower Never Forgets
“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” she said. Now, that was a bald-faced lie because she remembered every single time he’d saved her life.
“And while we’re at it…when have you ever called me my lord?” Jonathan said lightly.
“We aren’t having that discussion. It has been many years since we have seen each other, and I am no longer a child,” she said. “I was merely being polite.”
“Well, then I give you leave to call me Jonathan. Given that I am certain we shall be seeing more of each other soon.”
“Oh really? And you are certain of that?”
“Quite certain.” He grinned.
Lord, I need to leave now.
She’d been on her way to the bookstore to purchase a book she needed for her research and possibly pick up some Christmas gifts for her friends before returning to her brother’s townhouse in Mayfair. She’d never expected to quite literally run into the one man she’d worked so hard to try to forget. Of course, she couldn’t go there now. She should return home.
“If I were a betting man, I might think you were on your way to King Street Books and Curiosities. Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you to the bookstore tomorrow?”
Her mouth opened to answer him; instead, she closed it. Why was she hesitating? The man she had dreamed about for years was standing here…asking her to accompany him to look for books…tomorrow. She nodded. “Yes. Tomorrow.” Surprised by his invitation. Unable to think of a reason to decline, she had agreed to join Jonathan DeLacey for an outing the next day.
Chapter Three
Curzon Street, Mayfair ~ The Next Day
The bright sunshine filtering through her pale-yellow drapes woke Melanie, and she stared at the lovely white crocheted canopy above her. Her maid, anticipating her awakening, had already opened the drapes. That would explain why her head was under her pillow when she awoke. Rachel had already been in the room. She suspected the woman had stoked the fire. She could hear the crackling sound of the fire and smelled the scent of wood as it warmed her room. Feeling heat emanating through the room made it easier to contemplate stepping from the bed onto the cold floor. This was the same bedroom she’d had before leaving for Scotland.
“Meow,” the small kitten cried out, and Melanie realized the little rascal she’d rescued yesterday had tucked himself under her arm.
“Hello, little fellow. You seem no worse for wear.” She smoothed the kitten’s soft head with her finger. “That black carriage almost flattened us, my little friend.” An involuntary shudder shook her as she recalled the near brush with death. If it hadn’t been for Jonathan swooping in, her life would have come to a screeching end in that street yesterday.
Four years ago, Melanie had been only two balls into a Season—her first Season and was attending with her best friends, Lady Lydia Yarstone and Lady Lilian Harlow—twin sisters to Viscount Jonathan DeLacey. Since she had been a young girl, Jonathan DeLacey had been her hero, the man of her dreams. But as he clutched the hand of the woman he had just declared himself betrothed to, Melanie’s heart shattered.
And now, she had agreed to go to a bookstore with him. For all these years, she had focused on forgetting him. She had always been chatty, almost giddy when she was around him. How would she act around him? And worse…what would she say? Confusion, sadness—and if she was honest, a small amount of thrill were all feelings she wrestled. She had moved on. But here he is, still a bachelor and back in London. It didn’t mean a thing. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, summoning her resolve. She had her own life and purpose, and he was happy with his, at least according to rumors. Jonathan was a man with many mistresses.
Scotland was arrestingly beautiful, but nothing made much of a difference to Melanie. Sure. It had given her solace and a renewed sense of family—but that faded after the death of her mother. Except for her brother, she felt alone. How had it all happened? Her mother’s death had been unexpected. A woman who had never been sick became deathly ill. And not even the doctors understood what happened to her. She missed her mother. She would do anything to have one more day—one more conversation with her mother. Shrouded in loneliness, Melanie burrowed herself in books, transported by different authors to a different time and a different world. Best of all, she had discovered her talent as a writer. And even better, Gavin supported it. Her mother had never seen anything she’d written, but she knew wherever she was, she was happy for her.
“Mewww,” the kitten cried, stretching his legs playfully around her long curls. Rachel would be in here any moment with her morning chocolate, toast, and raspberry jam. She had shared the same “breakfast” with her mother in Scotland every morning. Melanie began to tear up as she remembered how encouraging her mother had been of her writing, always encouraging her to try. “Melanie, darling. You can tell a story much better than many people. You should try,” she’d say. Even though her first Season had been a disaster, Melanie didn’t regret moving to Scotland with her mother and spending those last years of her mother’s life with her.
If given the chance to do it all again, Melanie would have been more biddable for her mother. She would have forced herself to enjoy that Season. They had been in Scotland for a year when her mother suddenly became ill. The countess died within months. The only thing she could not fulfill was her mother’s wish of settling down—which to her parents, meant marriage and having children. She wished she’d been able to give that to her mother, but she hadn’t, and suddenly there was no time. Even though she hadn’t found someone to share her life with, her parents had put their faith in their daughter’s sensible approach to life. Her parents had ensured she had the option to have her dowry accessible to her if she married or when she reached the age of twenty-five, whichever came first.
At twenty-one, Melanie was content to pursue her passion for writing her gothic mysteries under her assumed pen name, M. R. Stephens, and continue to read her mysteries and gothic novels. Women authoring books was frowned upon by Society. He kept her secret, telling her it was her secret to tell.
Melanie smiled as she gazed down at the adorable kitten now sleeping next to her, tangled in her hair.
Even with a cheery blaze crackling in the fireplace, she knew that once she emerged from her warm cocoon, her room would be frosty. Needing to start her day, Melanie spent a few moments more absorbing the warmth of the sheets and blankets, as she mentally prepared herself for her day.
A light knock on her door brought a light sigh to her lips. Her day was about to start. She looked up when Rachel entered her room with her silver breakfast tray. “Good morning, milady,” Rachel said, setting a small bowl of milk on the floor, accompanied by a plate with two rashers of bacon.
“Morning, Rachel,” Melanie said, stifling a yawn.
The kitten’s ears perked up and his nose wiggled as he rolled over and sat up. “Good morning, Smoot.” She’d named the kitten yesterday when she introduced him to Shep. “I see the only thing that could tempt you from this warm haven is your belly, eh, little one?” She giggled, tapping the little fur ball’s nose.
A sharp bark retorted from behind her pillow letting her know that her white, fluffy puppy had always slept on her pillow and was no fan of the intruder. She had her work cut out for her. Melanie blew out a breath. “Shep, you need to get along with your new brother. Smoot needs your guidance, especially since he wandered onto a busy road and almost got himself killed,” she admonished in a gentle but firm voice.
Shep’s huff of resignation, along with the jingle of his collar and name tag, was his answer. She glanced at her beautiful puppy and burst into laughter. Shep lay with one paw over his head—a clear sign of his exasperation.
Smoot waved a splinted paw as if challenging the dog. On three legs, the kitten hobbled from his warm spot next to her pillow to the floor and began lapping the milk.
“I didn’t even have to ask.”
