“Yes, Your Grace. As you wish – I will move my things now.”
Carlo looked rather shocked, but was far too professional to say anything further. Kit found that darkly amusing too.
No doubt Carlo was nigh on fainting, thinking that his master had finally brought a woman to his rooms, for the purposes of carnal entertainment. Once… but certainly no more. Kit pushed memories aside, and led Violetta to a chair by the small table, taking the seat opposite her for himself.
Violetta. When she had fallen through the door downstairs, he had thought for a moment that he had drunk far too much, that he was seeing things. But no, she was real. Older, her curves filled out a little, which only made her the more attractive, and somehow both utterly the same, and terribly different at once.
She looked at him, and a shiver took her – from the remaining cold, no doubt. Her voice was crisp, a little harsh when she spoke.
“I see that things have not changed. You were cruel, Kit, down there. I should not have expected anything else.”
Kit felt himself frown – what did she mean, that things had not changed? He had not been the cruel one – that dubious honour had fallen to her. It might have been ten years, but every moment of it was still knife edge sharp in his memory. Yet his name on her lips was sweet to his ears – she was the only one who had ever called him Kit. He might think of himself that way, but that was because of her, not because anyone else had ever used the name for him.
“Perhaps you deserve it Vee? Have you changed? I know nothing of who you are now.”
“Do you care to know? For I do not think that I care to know anything of who you are now. Downstairs was an ample demonstration of character, I think. Your amusement at my predicament was not the act of a gentleman. This arrangement we are forced to, of necessity, does not require conversation.”
Kit was shocked to realise that her words hurt, a little. He steeled himself against that sensation.
“As you wish, my Lady. I will retreat to my bedchamber, and leave you here. They will bring your food up soon.”
He rose, and bowed, a mockingly deep court bow, with enormous flourish, then turned on his heel, and left her there.
Moments later he heard Carlo speak to her.
“I’ll sleep downstairs, my Lady, so as not to disturb your use of this parlour. His Grace can ring for an Inn servant to let me know when I should come up to assist him in the morning. Have a good evening.”
The outer door closed, and Kit sank onto the bed, suddenly overcome by a rush of memories.
Chapter Two
Once the valet left the room, Violetta sat, staring into the flames, the carriage blanket wrapped around her as if it might stave off the chill which filled her. That was a vain hope, for the chill came from inside her, from the part of her which had been frozen and bitter for ten years now.
The fire crackled merrily, and, very faintly, the sound of cheerful conversation downstairs came to her. Conversation which was still, most likely, about her.
She found herself listening, seeking some sound from behind that closed door, some indication of Kit. Knowing that he was so close, and yet knowing nothing of what he did, what he thought, was deeply disconcerting. She should not care – she despised him, after all, for what he had done.
But, alarmingly, she found that she did care, at least a little. Perhaps it was just curiosity – he had certainly not behaved well downstairs, which had only reinforced what she had heard of him, what she had known of him, for so long.
But then, she thought, her true nature reasserting itself, she had to be fair, she had not behaved well either, greeting him with words which implied that she preferred death in the blizzard to his company. If anyone had asked her, even last week, she would have said that she would choose death – but now, seeing him again, she knew that was a lie.
Her body had reacted to him, when he had so proprietarily taken her hand and placed it on his arm, when the scent of him had surrounded her. An aching desire had filled her, the like of which she had not felt for a very long time. A desire which still filled her, making her clothes feel like unnecessary bonds about her.
It made her angry to think that, after so long, after what he had done, he could still affect her, still make her want his presence, and more than just his presence. She cast the blanket aside, and rose, pacing the room, her mind in turmoil. Her pacing was interrupted by a tap at the main door.
“I’ve your food here, milady.” She went to the door and opened it, letting the maid come in and set the tray on the table. “I’ll be back in half an hour, milady, with the bath tub and some heated water.”
With that, the girl curtsied, and was gone. Violetta closed the door and locked it. The food smelled good – it had been many hours now since she had eaten. After pouring herself some wine from the jug provided, she ate – making no attempt at elegant manners, or decorum, simply sating the body’s needs – well, that part of her body’s needs, at least.
Even eating brought back memories.
Memories of shared food, of Kit feeding her morsels from his plate, of meals abandoned for more pleasurable activities.
She thrust those thoughts aside. It had all been false. When she had needed him most, he had not been there.
She poured more wine, and swallowed it rapidly, seeking to dull the memories, to dull the tangle of old pain which simply seeing him had raised within her. The food had eased the chill within her, but not the ache of bitter regret, or that of renewed desire.
And still there was no sound from the room where Kit was, yet she could feel his presence there, feel it as if a finger traced her skin. Anger flared, and for a moment, she was tempted to fling the wine glass against the door – but only for a moment. She would not grant him the pleasure of seeing her lose her dignity so.
A tap came at the door.
“I have the bath here, milady.”
Violetta opened the door, and two footmen carried in a large copper tub, followed by two more staggering under the weight of huge buckets of water, from which steam rose in lazy spirals. They paused, and she realised that they were waiting to be told where to place it. And equally, she realised that she had no idea what awaited her on the other side of the door to the room in which she was to sleep.
“In that room please.”
She indicated the appropriate door, and then followed them into the room. It was small, but well appointed, with a bed larger than what one might normally expect in a country Inn. There was room for the tub, as well as the bed, small desk, and chair which the room held, but only barely. The fire was at least lit, so the room was reasonably warm. They set the tub down, and emptied the buckets into it.
“We’ll be back very soon, milady, with more water.”
The footmen left, and the maid turned to her, a curious expression on her face.
“Milady, where is your trunk?”
Violetta gave a rather brittle laugh.
“In my carriage, out there in the blizzard. I will have to make do with the clothes I stand here in, until it can be recovered.” The maid looked extremely shocked by that idea, but gave no further comment. The men returned, tipped the second lot of water into the tub, and departed. Violetta turned to the maid. “If you would assist me?”
Thank goodness there was a maid available, she thought, as the girl undid the buttons on the back of her travelling gown, and then unlaced her stays. If there had not been… what would she have done? Traitorously, the small voice in her mind whispered ‘you could always have asked Kit, it’s not as if he hasn’t unlaced you before’.
Just the thought heated her, and her anger with herself stirred again. She could do better than this - she’d had ten years practice at not caring one whit about Kit Bourdain, and she wasn’t going to allow him to discompose her now!
She sank into the water, and the maid handed her a block of poor quality soap.
“I’m sorry milady, it’s all we’ve got.”
“It is better than not
hing – it will do.”
“Thank you, milady. I’ll wait in the parlour, shall I, so’s I can help you dress after your bath? Only…” she paused, obviously embarrassed, “…please don’t be too, long, for I’ve so many people to look after…”
Violetta looked at the poor girl, who obviously expected to be berated for her temerity in asking. But it wasn’t the maid’s fault that the Inn was full to overflowing.
“I won’t be – and thank you.”
The girl dropped a drying cloth onto the chair, and left the room, leaving Violetta to her all too unruly thoughts again.
The heat of the water soothed her, and she lay back in the tub, sliding down until the water just managed to cover her shoulders, without exposing her bent knees too badly. But the touch of the water on her skin only made her more aware of the sensations which Kit’s touch had triggered within her. Determined, she rubbed the soap over her body, trying to think of nothing more than cleanliness – and failing miserably at that intent.
Damn it, she wanted it to be his hands all over her, not her own! Had she learnt nothing from the past? Apparently. But she was no longer eighteen, no longer desperate to escape her father’s house, and no longer so easily taken in by his charm. She soaped herself roughly, rinsed it off, then stepped out of the tub, and reached for the drying cloth.
The cooler air touched her, and her nipples peaked, aching, reminding her of what she could not have. Irritated, she wrapped the cloth around her, drying herself as fast as possible, then slipped her chemise over her head, and called for the maid.
When the girl came in, and lifted her stays, Violetta shook her head.
“No, just help me with the gown, and even then, don’t do up all of the buttons, or I’ll not be able to undress again to sleep. I may ring in the morning to seek your assistance then, but I would not trouble you further tonight.”
“Thank you, milady.”
The girl set her stays back down on the bed, and lifted the dress, helping her into it, and doing up only the top few buttons, and the lowest few, all of which Violetta could reach by herself. Then she assisted her on with the cropped jacket which covered her shoulders, and the bodice of the gown. With that in place, no one would know that most of her buttons were undone.
Violetta moved her stays to the small armoire which sat to one side, and set about exploring the tiny room. There was very little to see – a chamberpot pushed under the bed, a basin and jug on the small side table, and a book lying in an otherwise empty drawer of the dresser. As she was about to lift it out, the maid returned, tapping on the door, and ushering in the footmen, who carried away the tub.
She lifted the book, and followed them out into the parlour, then locked the door after they had left. That silence surrounded her again – the one filled with Kit’s presence, the one that inexorably drew memories forth.
Irritated, she went to the armchair by the fire, and dropped into it. With her mind like this, she would not be able to sleep. Instead, she would read, given that a book was fortuitously to hand. For the first time, she looked at the rather worn volume she held, opening it to see what manner of book it was.
A soft snort of laughter escaped her. It was a well-thumbed copy of ‘The Memoirs of Fanny Hill’. It would appear that Kit’s valet liked salacious reading, or that some previous occupant of the room had abandoned the book. Violetta rather thought that the valet was the more likely owner. It was not the sort of reading she would have chosen, when trying to distract herself from Kit’s effect on her, but it was all she had. She went to the table, poured herself another glass of wine, then returned to the chair.
Turning to the first page, and settled in to read.
*****
Kit stared at the door, wishing wholeheartedly that he did not remember so sharply, clearly, every moment that he had ever spent with Violetta.
But he did.
Frustrated, he rose, and shrugged out of his jacket, then pulled off his cravat, depositing them both on the small chair in the corner. Then he undid the buttons of his waistcoat, allowing it to hang open, revealing the linen of his shirt. He stared at the door again, feeling trapped.
He could not, would not, go out there.
But if he stayed in here, with nothing to drink, nothing to amuse himself with, what was he to do – apart from indulge in maudlin reminiscences, of course? After some consideration, he went to his trunk and pulled out his journal, and a pencil – pencils were far more practical when travelling than pen and ink – less chance of spills and stains, for a start.
He would sit in the armchair by the fire and spend the time making notes on his plans for the coming years improvements to his estates. There was so much to do, so much still to repair, after both his father and his grandfather’s neglect of their properties and fortunes. In four years, Kit had managed to bring them back from the brink of ruin, and turn the operation of the estates to profit.
He was proud of that achievement.
It had freed his mother to be happy again, and freed him to move in society, without debt hanging over him.
He opened the journal, and regarded the blank page. His mind, unusually for him, felt as blank of ideas as that page. Contemplating crops, new farming methods and the like was apparently impossible when Violetta was in the next room.
He could swear that he could smell her perfume from here, despite the closed door between them. It was the same, still the same, after all these years – a heady mixture of violets, orange, and sandalwood – on her skin, it was enough to make a man drunk with desire on the first sniff. He should not be surprised, he supposed, for he still wore the same cologne as he had, back then. Did she cling to the past for a reason – ‘as I do’? The thought whispered through his mind, and he rejected it, forcing himself back to the contemplation of the page.
Out there, he heard a tap on the main door, then voices – her food being delivered. He listened, despite himself. Soon, the voices stopped, and there was barely any sound – just the small clinks and gurgles of wine being poured, and food being eaten. The image rose in his mind, of food on Violetta’s lips, lips so utterly kissable, lips he had…
Irritated, he forced himself to write, to list the properties he needed to plan for, on that damnable blank page. But doing so did nothing at all to distract him from thoughts of the woman in the next room. His body ached in response to those thoughts – that her presence could bring him to arousal, so easily, even after all these years, after all that she had done to him… he hated himself for his weakness.
The minutes stretched, until there came voices again, the delivery of her bath, it seemed. And that was enough to drive him quite mad, for it brought the image of her naked, bathing.
He groaned, set the journal aside and rose, to pace about the room. Despite the fact that a blizzard still raged outside, despite the fact that the fire barely heated the room, past the area of its close proximity, he felt overly warm. He knew, already, that he would likely not be able to sleep. Why had he done this to himself?
There was only one answer. Because it was Violetta.
From the other room, there came the sounds of doors opening and closing, of water being poured, of voices again. Then silence. A silence full of what he could not hear or see, but could so easily imagine – Violetta shedding her clothes, Violetta sinking into a tub of water, Violetta washing herself…
Kit groaned again, and dropped back into the chair, his head in his hands. He should remind himself of everything she had done to him – perhaps that would convince his foolishly lustful self that thinking of her with desire was madness.
She had been his lover, had claimed to love him above all else, and had, when fate had stepped in to prevent him from coming to her, then blithely moved on and married an older, far wealthier man, as if there had never been anything between them. She had used him for her pleasure, all the while playing the society virgin, and then abandoned him.
He remembered, very, very clearly, the relish with which hi
s father had told him, when Kit had wakened from the drugged haze the damned doctor had kept him in, of her betrothal and hasty marriage, crowing over the fact that he had been right to claim her not worthy of Kit, from the start.
And in the ten years since, she had not once made any attempt to see him, there had never been any letters, never anything at all, except the aching scarred void in his heart.
He could not allow himself to care about her again, would, in fact, be quite insane if he did anything but keep her at arm’s length, and be as cold to her as her actions had been to him, so long ago.
Chapter Three
Time passed – perhaps hours, perhaps minutes – Kit had no way to tell – his pocket watch had not been wound, and there was no clock in the room. The passing of time did not bring sleep – in part because he had not undressed, had not even really tried to rest, but had risen, over and over again, to pace.
It had been silent in the outer room for a long while now – could he hope that Violetta was abed, asleep? Memories drifted to him again, of the vulnerability of her, when she slept, of the feel of her body against the curve of his, deep in the night.
He growled under his breath. Why was he torturing himself?
He went to the door, and pressed his ear to it, listening.
Nothing.
Good. It seemed that she slept. He could go out there, and see if there was any food left or, even better, wine. Perhaps, after a glass or two of wine, he would be able to sleep.
Christmas with THAT Duke: Regency Romance (Regency Scandals Book 3) Page 2
