Too Wanton to Wed: Gothic Love Stories #4

by Ridley, Erica

  Freedom. And yet she still felt empty. It wasn’t her freedom she was worried about, she realized slowly. It was Lily’s. The moon was not the sun and the colors of the garden were dulled by shadow, but would that make the panorama any less magical to a little girl who yearned to greet the world at large, if only for a stolen moment? Mr. Waldegrave meant well, but it was wrong to imprison a child.

  Dewdrops glinted like diamonds atop the endless green of shrubbery and blades of grass. The abbey was perhaps too remote to discern the rustle of the River Severn as it rushed toward the Ironbridge Gorge, but the night held plenty of other delights. Nocturnal creatures prowling the garden for their supper, the creak of a branch supporting a nest high overhead, the call of an owl somewhere far in the distance.

  She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp, clean air. This was what Lily needed. Violet was sure of it.

  Tucking her fingers into the warmth of her pockets, she picked her way toward a stone path. While she was out, she might as well take a turn about the abbey, and imagine the view as Lily might see it.

  When she reached the rear of the abbey, a muffled metallic snip pulled her up short. Violet scanned the tree line, the garden, the shadows between the buildings. She clapped a hand to her chest in relief.

  Foxes were not the only nocturnal animals taking advantage of the moonlight. There, on bended knee among the roses, was Mr. Waldegrave.

  She hesitated. If she continued her circuit about the abbey, she was bound to disrupt his solitude. Perhaps he preferred to be alone with the night, caring for his roses by the light of the moon. Her heart reached out to him. As a man who suffered sunsickness, this was the only time he could tend his garden. She doubted he would be pleased by her interruption. Their conversation in the catacombs had not gone well at all. Perhaps she should turn around and tuck herself back into bed. Perhaps—

  “If you’re going to stand there staring at me all night, you might as well come closer and have a clearer view.”

  She started guiltily.

  He had not looked up, not before nor during his speech, but he had known she was there all along. She shook her head at her own foolishness. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be about at this hour of the night, so she supposed she had not been treading particularly silently. And now that she had been caught, he was right—she might as well join him.

  As she neared, she glimpsed the rectangular white stones she’d fallen upon that very first day. These roses were more than mere jewels of his garden, then. They marked his wife’s grave. Did he fetch fresh roses for his daughter in order to bring her some beauty? Or did he frequent the roses so often because he was still mourning the loss of his long-dead wife?

  “Good evening, Miss Smythe,” he said as she reached his side. His focus remained on the flowers, but his scissors ceased their rhythmic shearing.

  “It is a good evening,” she agreed, seating herself on the dewy grass beside him, the soft blades crunching pleasantly beneath her. “The moon is beautiful tonight. Very nearly full, I daresay.”

  At this, he looked over at her with a wistful half-smile. “I’m afraid you’re a day late, Miss Smythe. It was full last night, and beautiful indeed.”

  “I did miss it, then.” She took a deep breath before her courage fled with the wind. “You know who else missed it?”

  His face hardened as he turned away. “That topic is closed.”

  “Not for me, and not for Lily,” Violet pushed on. “She could use some beauty in her life. We all could. Look at you, for example.”

  “At me? What have I to do with anything, other than being the one person who wants to keep her safe?”

  “You’re outside,” she explained simply. “You are here to keep her safe. And as you’re not affected by the light of the moon, there’s nothing to fear.”

  “Nothing to fear?” he repeated with a disbelieving chuckle. “Miss Smythe, there is far more to fear than moonlight. What if my daughter runs away, as she’s done every other time I’ve brought her out? There are gates, but… what if she doesn’t run away, but someone sees her, suspects something afoot?”

  “Who would be out here at this time of night?”

  “You yourself arrived without warning or premeditation. All it takes is one person, Miss Smythe. Once the secret is out, there will be no more safe haven for Lily.”

  “But you took her out once to look at the stars!”

  “And I learned my lesson at my daughter’s expense. I no longer take foolish risks.”

  “Even if someone catches sight of a girl and her father out admiring the stars, they would have no reason to suspect Lily’s condition. She would be safe. She—”

  “As I recall, you punctuated your arrival by tripping over my daughter’s false gravestone, did you not? Everyone who has heard of the Waldegraves is also quite aware that I do not have a daughter with whom I might admire the stars. To see me with a child in hand would inherently put Lily at risk. Perhaps they would think, ‘Who is this young girl with Alistair Waldegrave? He has no daughter—we must rescue the girl at once!’ Or worse, ‘Look, the daughter is not dead after all. What could be so monstrous about the child that necessitates her being kept secret?’”

  Violet’s fingers clenched. “Lily is not monstrous.”

  He tossed his shears aside impatiently. “I know that, and you know that. But until recently, not even all my staff were in agreement on that score, so what makes you think suspicious neighbors would be any more accepting? Even the scientists and physicians I’ve consulted want to do exhaustive tests in their laboratories. They want to expose sensitive skin to direct sunlight just to document the results. That’s why they all must believe I—”

  “That’s why they must believe you’ve lost your daughter,” she finished softly. “I do understand your position. I’m just not certain that keeping her imprisoned is the only option. Here’s an idea. If someone should chance upon us, why don’t we say that she is my daughter? No one in Shropshire knows me, and—”

  “Lily,” he interrupted, his eyes distant, “is not your daughter. She is the image of her mother, as anyone who knew her would see at a glance. And, no. I will not allow her to be taken from me. Not by superstitious neighbors nor by laboratory-dwelling scientists. I appreciate your concern for her artistic soul, but my concern is for her health and safety, which must come first. There is nothing to discuss, Miss Smythe. The topic is closed.”

  Sighing, she fingered one of the shorn leaves that had fluttered to the ground. Although she couldn’t help but disagree with the execution, she could hardly find fault in his motives. And as he’d pointed out twice now, what did she know of motherhood, least of all mothering Lily? A crude reminder, perhaps, but nonetheless correct. He was right. Some risks weren’t meant to be taken.

  “Father does know best.” She gave him a lopsided smile, trying to lighten the moment. “I’m just the governess. I’ll remember my place from now on.”

  “You are not just the governess.” He leaned forward and gripped her shoulders, his expression shockingly intense. Her body thrilled at feeling his touch once again, dared to hope for more. “That is not what I meant at all. Your place is here, with... Lily.”

  Her heart quickened as she gazed up at him, his eyes mere inches from her own. “I should stay in the sanctuary?”

  “You should be here,” he answered gruffly. He pulled her to him and brushed his lips against hers.

  Before he could change his mind, she grasped his shoulders, his hair, pressing their bodies ever closer and reveling in the sensation. She had longed for his kisses. Longed for him. Dreamt that he longed for her, too.

  If the night held a chill, she no longer felt it. Her senses were flooded with a thousand heady delights. The hard muscle of his arms, the warm breath against her lips, the stroke of his thumb against her cheek. He made her feel like she belonged. He made her feel needed. As if he, too, could not bear to be apart.

  She opened her mouth beneath his,
letting him taste her, devour her. Anything to stay in his embrace. To feel cherished. With her arms locked about him, she tumbled to the ground, pulling him with her. She was pinned beneath him and still wanted more. He truly was magical.

  Hoping he would not pull away, she ran her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, down the small of his back, to the tight curve of his breeches. His lips never left hers. She dreamed they never would. One strong hand softly cradled her head, whilst the other brushed against the lapel of her pelisse. Beneath the layers, her nipples responded, as if they could feel the touch of his fingers through the thin linen of her nightdress and the thick wool of her cloak. How lovely it would be if their clothes could just disappear, leaving nothing between them but their hearts and the night sky.

  Perhaps he felt the same. With his mouth still on hers, kissing, licking, he pulled away just far enough to allow passage for his hand to rip open the pelisse and cup the sensitive breast beneath. This was what she had been longing for. She gasped in pleasure. Her back arched, pressing her body more fully against his.

  At the sound of her gasp, his eyes flew open in horror. He jerked his hand from her breast and threw himself from her as if she were an explosive in danger of detonating at any moment. To be sure, she had certainly felt as such. She reached out for him before it registered that he was staring at her in dismay, not desire.

  Bereft, she fought the tightness in her throat. Her hand fell limply to the grass.

  “Forgive me.” He looked away, then just as quickly back to her. “I should not have done that.”

  “I did not mind.” She wrapped her arms about her chest and tried not to let him see her distress. For him, nothing had changed. Even though his kisses reached the deepest, loneliest part of her soul. She had experienced a true connection, and her heart yearned for more. For him. But he did not feel for her as she felt for him. He did not want her after all.

  He reached for her. No—not for her. For the edge of her pelisse. To cover the bosom exposed by her drooping nightrail.

  “I can do it.” She jerked upright, overlapping the edges of the pelisse and securing the ribbon. She could definitely feel that night chill now. The cold seeped into her very bones.

  His black gaze glittered in the starlight. “You are clearly not ‘just the governess.’ Not to Lily, and not to me. But that does not give me the right to take advantage of you.”

  Violet’s voice shook. “You did not take advantage. You did not take anything I didn’t freely give. Did you not feel me kissing you in return?”

  He thumped his chest, eyes flashing. “Of course I did. I feel your lips on mine every time I close my eyes, every time I settle abed, every time I look at you. That’s my problem. One of my problems,” he amended, casting his gaze briefly heavenward. “Your arrival here was quite literally the answer to my prayers. You’ve been nothing short of an angel sent from God. It is my duty and my privilege to protect you, not despoil you.”

  She nearly choked. She was the furthest thing from an angel she could imagine—and she had quite an imagination. If he had any designs on “despoiling” her, well, he was about fifteen years too late. And yet here he was, calling her the answer to his prayers, begging her forgiveness. Trying to protect an innocence she’d likely never had.

  And yet, foolishly—selfishly—the idea of actually being the pure and innocent maiden he imagined her to be was so beguiling that she couldn’t bring herself to disabuse him of the notion.

  She was not, and never would be, up to his standards. That much went without saying. But for as long as the illusion lasted, she would pretend there could be a future.

  “I feel very protected,” she said softly, wishing she could touch his face. “I have never felt unsafe with you.”

  “And you will not,” he promised. He pushed to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. “My lady?”

  His lady. She placed her palm in his and forced a smile to her lips. How she wished it were true. How she wished it were possible to be true.

  But he was a good man. Rich, landed, educated. Born on the right side of the blanket. He prayed. His god even answered prayers, sent down angels to help those who deserved it. He was even idealistic enough to believe she was one of them.

  She was none of those things. At a young age, her instinct for survival had fast outstripped any concern for ethics. Life had taught her good things simply did not happen to people like her. Hope was always snatched away.

  She’d been penniless, homeless, right from the start. Born in a gutter, like as not. Definitely abandoned there. If she couldn’t secure the love of her own mother, how could she even dream of being worthy of anyone else’s love? She was patently not one of God’s chosen. He scarce concerned Himself with her prayers. He’d given her the Livingstone School for Girls and just as capriciously taken it away.

  She gazed over at the man who placed more value in her imagined innocence than in his actual desires. Until this moment, she would never have believed such a man could even exist. Violet let out a slow breath. Soon it wouldn’t matter. The Waldegraves were yet another gift she could never hope to keep.

  Chapter 20

  The following evening, Violet rejoined Cook, Mrs. Tumsen and Mr. Roper for another night of card-playing. Although the trio was full of good humor—Mrs. Tumsen was in particularly rare form, since she had spent the afternoon “visiting Ginny”—Violet’s heart was not in the game. Long before midnight, she excused herself and rose to leave. She was almost to the door when the sound of a scraping chair gave her pause.

  “Wait, dear, I nearly forgot!” Mrs. Tumsen called out. She fished a small parcel from inside a cloak pocket and hurried to Violet’s side.

  As she pressed a small stack of twine-bound missives into Violet’s palm, Mrs. Tumsen’s bloodshot eyes were oddly serious. “It’s yer... correspondence, miss. Also something else in there ye really oughta see.” Her voice dropped, and her next whiskey-spiced words were faint against Violet’s ear. “I can mind a secret if ye need me to, dear. All of us can.”

  Frowning, Violet gave her a quick nod and escaped from the room with her heart beating unaccountably fast. Had Mrs. Tumsen read her petitions? There was nothing to be learned except that she was in the market for a barrister, which Violet had already confided in order to obtain the list of directions in the first place. She had been purposefully vague. So what on earth was Mrs. Tumsen referring to? Had it just been the whiskey talking?

  Violet was concentrating so closely on picking apart the knot binding the folded missives together that she nearly bowled over Mr. Waldegrave as he emerged from the catacomb tunnels.

  “My apologies,” she stammered in embarrassment. “I didn’t see you there. I was just... How is Lily?”

  “Asleep, thankfully. Gave me plenty of time to study this delightful little read.” He indicated a heavy tome trapped beneath his arm. “And you? How was your evening?”

  She tightened her grip on the small stack of folded parchment. “Lovely, thank you.”

  “It’s actually good that we ran into each other. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  “Have you?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I—” He stared at her for a moment then let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I deserved that, I suppose. You’re right. I have been distant. Not because I wish to avoid you, understand. Quite the opposite. But I’m trying very hard to be a good... employer.”

  “I know.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “That is who you are. You strive to be a good employer, a good man, a good father—”

  “Precisely,” he interrupted vaguely, as if he hadn’t been attending her words. “Which is what I wished to discuss. Do you recall me mentioning having invited the greatest minds in Britain to convene here at Waldegrave Abbey to pursue a cure for acute sunsickness?”

  “Oh.” She forced a smile. “Of course.”

  What had she expected? That he desired her presence for something other than the improvement of his daughter’s
environs?

  Even if he were not trying so desperately to be a good man and a good father and a good employer, the chasm between them was more than mere class differences. He required goodness from himself because what he expected from others was nothing short of perfection. He would expect even more from a woman like her. No one would ever take the place of his long-dead angel of a wife, and no imperfect scrap of a woman could ever be good enough for his daughter.

  She continued to be amazed every morning she awoke beneath a velvet tester and every month when heavy coins were pressed into her palm. She had no illusions about the impermanence of her stay here at Waldegrave Abbey. Even if she did manage to clear her name, she would never be good enough for him. Even though her foolish heart still longed to try.

  “Prepare any questions you might have. The retreat will be upon us before we know.” His voice rang oddly loud among the awkward silence that ensued. “I suppose I ought to get back to my studies. I see you’ve reading material of your own to attend to.”

  “What? Yes. These are... letters.” She flipped open the only sheet not sealed tight with wax, intending to feign some friend or relation had penned amusing anecdotes or inquired about her health.

  “So I see. I shall leave you to them. Good night, Miss Smythe.”

  But Violet barely heard him. Her veins thrummed with fear. Her shaking fingers were almost too clammy to keep hold of the parchment trembling in her hand.

  This was not a response from a London barrister. This was a large, hand-inked Wanted bill, with her wild-eyed likeness staring out from dead center.

  Her skin suddenly icy, she stumbled backward against the wall and tried desperately not to panic.

  How could she not panic? “WANTED FOR MURDER” screamed right across the top, followed by “VIOLET WHITECHAPEL” and “DANGEROUS FELON—£100 FOR WHEREABOUTS OR CAPTURE.”

  She had to get out of here. She had to get out of here now.

  No—no, no, no. She couldn’t go anywhere. Not one step. If Mrs. Tumsen had picked this up right here in Shrewsbury, it meant Violet couldn’t so much as peek outside the abbey without risking discovery and capture.