Christmas with THAT Duke: Regency Romance (Regency Scandals Book 3)

by Arietta Richmond

  Then, as she half dozed by the fire, the door had opened. When she realised it was Kit, she sat, as still as possible, praying that he would not notice her. But, of course, he had.

  Now, as she stormed out into the hallway, her lips still warm from his kiss, she was furious with herself.

  She should have left the room the moment that he’d entered it, she should not have allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and definitely should not have said as much as she had. If he had abandoned her then, he did not deserve to know the details of the situation that he had put her in – if he had not cared ten years ago, he certainly had no reason to care now.

  She was moving blindly, consumed by memory and self-recrimination, oblivious to her surroundings – until, a few steps along the shadowed hallway, she collided with someone.

  “Violetta! What’s wrong?”

  It was Dash, his face full of concern.

  “I…”

  She half choked, tears threatening for the first time in many years. The grief of so many parts of the past swamped her. How different might her life have been, if Kit had been there, that night long ago?

  “Here, come in to my study, I’ll pour you a brandy.”

  Dash tugged her gently through the nearby door, kicking it shut after them, and guided her to a couch by the fireplace. She went, suddenly too tired to argue, to fight, after so many years of being strong. He poured her a sizeable brandy, and brought it to her, settling onto the seat beside her. She sipped, letting the warmth of it steady her.

  “Dash, I’m sorry, I…”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Violetta. Obviously, something has upset you badly – do you want to talk about it? Can I help, even if only by listening?

  Did she want to talk about it? She didn’t know.

  She had never talked about it, not to anyone, not since that terrible day – at first for fear of what her father would do, in addition to what he had already done to her, and after that, because she had wanted to forget, because there was nothing she could do to change it. The weight of it dragged on her and, in a moment of impulse, she made a decision. Dash was the person she trusted most in the world, even though they had not seen each other for years.

  “Yes. I… I don’t know where to start. I’ve never… spoken of any of this, to anyone. But… I need to.”

  “Then do. I give you my word that I will not betray your confidences. I will hold whatever you say close. If you do not know where to start, then begin with the earliest thing you can remember, which is in any way relevant.”

  “Relevant? That’s a hard thing to define. But if you want the earliest thing, I suspect it is something that you guessed long ago, although I never told you, directly. My father was a violent man – not just a stern disciplinarian, but truly violent. He would hit my mother when he was frustrated about anything, for the slightest perceived infraction. He rarely touched Harrington, for Harry was the son and heir, the golden child – and was lucky enough to be shipped off to boarding school, and out of Father’s reach. I know that you helped Harry, later – did you suspect?”

  “I did, although I hoped that it was not bad, or that I might be mistaken.”

  “You were not mistaken. He began to hit me too, once I reached the age of twelve, and my mother would put herself in his way, to save me. The day before she died, in the process of losing the baby which would have been my sister, he had hit her.”

  “Oh Violetta! Why did you not say something, then?”

  “What could I have said? It would have been my word against his, and a wife and the children are a man’s property – they have no rights of their own. It could not have been proven that his actions caused her miscarriage and death, for that happened the next day. And I was only fifteen – I had no way to escape. So I determined to do everything he wanted, to never give him cause to hit me. Mostly, I succeeded – but it was living a half-life, a life full of perpetual fear. I lived that life for three long years. Until my coming out. And then, I met Kit.”

  “Kit?”

  “Christophe Bourdain.”

  “Ah. I’ve not heard anyone else call him Kit.”

  “That’s because no one else does.”

  Dash regarded her quietly, as if thinking through the implications of that simple statement.

  “And what happened when you met him?”

  Violetta laughed, and sipped more of the brandy. Talking of such things felt strange, after so many years of refusing to, and yet it was a relief.

  “We fell in love. Dramatically, absolutely, and completely. During the early part of my Season, he danced with me often, and called upon me. My father did not approve.”

  “Not approve? When he was the son of a Duke? Whyever not?”

  “Because Father held frugality above almost all else as a virtue, and both Kit’s father and his grandfather were utterly profligate with their fortune. Father would not contemplate me married to a man who might follow in their footsteps.”

  “What did you do? For I cannot imagine you giving love away easily.”

  “You have always understood me, Dash, far better than most people. When my father forbade him to call, we could speak to each other only when dancing at Balls – for father could not forbid that without causing scandal. And slowly, we worked out how we might slip away to spend time with each other. I became an expert at subterfuge, and all of those years of doing only what father approved of were worth it – for father never thought that I might do such a thing as disobey him.”

  Dash grinned at her.

  “I cannot imagine you being so obedient – it must have been hell for those three years!”

  “It was. But worth it, as I said, once I began sneaking out late at night, to meet Kit. And once I did… our love became physical too – Kit showed me that love making without violence existed. Neither of us could imagine a future without the other, and we began planning to escape one night, and run for Gretna. And the day when we were to do that was when everything went wrong, when my life fell apart.”

  “What happened?”

  Violetta swallowed. This was the part which was hardest to speak of, for so many reasons.

  “I realised, that morning, that I was increasing. We had been so swept away by love that we had not considered… Once I realised, I was not really concerned, for we were going to marry. I went through the day as I had intended, and once my maid had gone up to her room to sleep, I packed a valise, and well after midnight, slipped out of the house, and to the back lane. Kit was supposed to meet me there, to have a carriage waiting, for us to set off in.”

  “Was supposed to?”

  “He never arrived. I stood there for hours, and when I finally faced the fact that he wasn’t coming, I went back into the house. My father caught me, valise in hand. He beat me, as he’d used to beat my mother, and even worse, he realised that I was increasing – he’d seen the signs in Mother often enough to know, even before I had realised myself. He snarled at me, as I lay bruised at his feet, something about ‘having made sure that I’d never get the chance to run away with that profligate’s son’, then locked me in my room. Within two days, I was married to Caldicot, by Special License.”

  “That’s terrible Violetta! But the child…?”

  “I lost the child Dash, a few weeks later, after having pains and bleeding every day from when Father beat me. And I never conceived another, even though William bedded me. I… I am almost certain that I’m barren, as a result of losing that child.”

  Chapter Ten

  The conversation with Dash had been somewhat cathartic, and his final words to her stayed with Violetta over the next two days.

  He had taken her hands in his, and asked her, very gently, if Kit had ever known that she’d been carrying his child. When she’d shaken her head, no, he had asked her why not – and she’d pointed out that he had abandoned her – what would have been the point of telling him? Dash had spoken very softly, but the next words had rung in her mind with
great clarity – ‘Are you sure that he abandoned you? Do you know the details of why he did not arrive?’.

  It was a very good question. One which had seemed unimportant, back then, when she was trapped in a loveless marriage, but which, now, had assumed far greater significance, especially given the odd contradictions of the things they had said to each other, in their days at the Inn.

  She wanted to know the answer. But she had no idea how to ask.

  She had successfully managed to avoid Kit for two days – she watched him, as he went about the day, talking to others, the picture of geniality, all while making sure that they never came close to each other. Their eyes met at times, and he looked almost puzzled at her avoidance – but she made sure that he had no chance to get her alone. Even though, internally, she found herself almost wishing it – for if they were never private, she would never ask that question of him.

  Even if she did, she faced the fact that he might refuse to answer, or give her nonsensical words, as he had at the Inn. Still, she was becoming convinced that she had to try.

  What if… there was a reason, a truly valid reason, that he had not come? After all – he could not have sent her a message, not with her father’s prohibition on them communicating.

  It shocked her to realise that she had never, truly, considered that possibility. She had been so caught up in her own pain and bitterness, that she had assumed the worst of him. And locked away by her father, bruised and hurt, she had not had any chance to speak with anyone outside the household, until the moment when Caldicot had arrived, Minister in tow, to marry her.

  It was, now that she considered it from ten years distance, a very self-centred reaction. She had been young, and had not thought it through. And she had clung to that immature reaction ever since. It was time, she told herself, that she grew up. Grew up, and faced the implications which resulted, if she allowed herself to contemplate the possibility that there had been a reason – a good reason – for Kit not being there.

  For, if there had been a valid reason, if he had been prevented from coming to her, in some way, then all of her anger at his ‘betrayal’ was wrong.

  If he had meant to come to her, had even perhaps tried to, and something had stopped him… Was everything she had thought about Kit for ten years wrong? And if it was, what then, did that mean, for now?

  That was an unanswerable question.

  She needed to know what had happened, to him, for him, on that night. The truth of it, no matter how much that truth might hurt, or how much it might make her hate herself, for her assumptions. She went down to dinner, determined to find a way to be alone with Kit, to turn the conversation somehow, to a point where she could ask that question.

  At dinner, she found herself seated opposite Kit. He was speaking to the man beside him, and Violetta simply watched, attempting to set aside everything which she had believed for so long, and simply observe him, as he was, now. What kind of man was he? Did she have the slightest indication of that?

  He turned his gaze to her, as if he had felt her eyes upon him. She did not look away. The moment stretched, and, tentatively, she smiled. He looked startled, and then, for just an instant, his face softened, and he smiled in return. When he smiled, he was just as devastatingly handsome as he had been ten years before, perhaps more so.

  She looked away, and concentrated on eating, but her mind was still considering him, considering all of his actions, since the moment that she had fallen through the door to that Inn. Certainly, he had been cruel, and spoken bitterly – but he had also rescued her from a potentially dangerous situation in the Common Room – she might not approve of his method, but she could see, if she looked at it differently, that it had still been an act of courtesy. How much else of him might seem different, if considered from a changed angle?

  She suspected the answer to that question might be ‘everything’.

  After dinner, when the men joined the women in the parlour, Violetta chose not to avoid Kit. She did not actively seek him out, for ten years of habit and bitterness were not easily put aside, even temporarily, but neither did she move away from him. If she was to have a chance to ask him for the truth, then she would have to allow conversation, to begin with. That seemed, somehow, harder than asking the question might be, after days of avoidance.

  In the end, he solved that problem for her.

  As she stood near the fireplace, sipping a glass of Madeira, he casually wandered over, and stopped beside her.

  “Violetta, are you well? After two days of ignoring me, you smiled at me.”

  She laughed – genuine laughter, amused by his words, and he smiled that brilliant smile in return.

  “Perhaps I have suffered an aberration of the mind, and chosen to be pleasant to you, to see what reaction that might elicit?”

  “An aberration of the mind? Does it take madness for you to not hate me?”

  “I have never hated you, Kit.”

  She realised, as she said it, that it was true – she had been bitter, had cursed him for betraying her, but she had never hated him – far from it.

  “If not hate, then….?”

  “That is for you to discover.”

  “And how might I do that?”

  Violetta felt her heart begin to race – this was her chance to ensure that she would get the opportunity to ask him for the truth.

  “Talk to me. Without prevarication.”

  “Only if you will do the same.”

  “Yes. But not here.”

  Her voice shook slightly as she said it. It was as blatant an invitation as she was willing to give. He raised an eyebrow, and smiled again, a smile which made her remember, so many things. The excitement of meeting clandestinely, when no one else knew, the pleasure of lying with him, sated, talking for hours.

  “Where then? And when?”

  If she waited too long, she would lose her resolve, would avoid the moment – but if she did that, she might never know the truth.

  “Tonight. Late. In the place you would expect to find me, at that time of night.”

  He raised that eyebrow again, higher, as he contemplated the meaning of her words.

  “How could I refuse such an invitation from a lady? I will appear, as you have commanded.”

  With that, he sketched her a slightly mocking bow, and left her, wandering over to speak to Selina’s husband, Alex Fortescue, the Duke of Southolton. She discovered that she was shaking, and finished the Madeira in one gulp.

  For ten years, she had cursed him, and now, she had invited him to her rooms.

  *****

  Kit’s mind was not on the conversation. No matter how interesting it might be, it could not compete with what Violetta had just said, had just done. It would be hours before he could do as she had asked – hours in which he might go completely mad, thinking of the possibilities, thinking of what she might really have meant, when she spoke of ‘talking’.

  Perhaps he was already mad, to have agreed to it.

  But he had to know what she wanted to speak of, had to know if this was a ploy to strike out at him in some way, or a genuine attempt at changing what lay between them. Was that possible? Could either of them forgive the past? Did he want to?

  He no longer knew.

  Once, he had loved her, more than life. Once he had trusted her. And now… now, he desired her, as much or more than he had, ten years ago. But whether he could trust… that was a different matter entirely. What he would do tonight was something he did not yet know, but that desire drove him towards it, layered with his desire to understand the truth of the past, to be free of it.

  The hours passed and, somehow, he managed to converse with others, to appear ordinary, all the while being acutely conscious of Violetta. Finally, people began to retire, winding their way up the stairs past the Christmas boughs and ribbons to seek their beds. Kit waited until everyone else had gone up, nursing a brandy, and thinking of the hours to come.

  Around him, the house dropped into silenc
e. The maids cleared away the empty glasses, and left him there, undisturbed. The clock ticked on, infinitely slowly.

  Once the brandy was gone, and the silence filled the house completely, he rose, and went up. He knew where her guest suite was – he had seen her, a number of times, as she had gone through her door. It was at the far end of the wing, past his rooms, and more. The hallway seemed endless, but, eventually, he stood before that door.

  Was it madness? Should he turn away? What could he possibly learn from this ‘conversation’? In the depths of his mind, that little voice whispered - ‘The truth – that truth which you said that you wished to know, that truth which might lay bare what really happened, ten years ago’.

  He tapped on the door.

  She opened it.

  She was attired as she had been all evening – elegant, beautiful, but respectable, certainly not the attire of a woman bent on seduction. He was in part relieved and, surprisingly, in part disappointed.

  He stepped inside, and she pushed the door closed again. He stood in a small parlour, which opened, on one side, to a bedroom. The door was open, and the bed lay waiting for her, with the covers turned back. The sight sent a shiver of memory through him.

  She waved him to the couch near the fire, and sat beside him. Her nearness was as heating as the flames, that damnable perfume of hers coiling around him. Neither of them had spoken, yet all that was between them swirled about, a cloud of memory, mistrust, and hazy desire. He turned a little, to face her. She met his gaze, and in that moment, he desired her as he had so long ago – simply for herself, with no bitterness or rancour colouring it. The sensation stole his breath.

  He lifted his hand, and gently ran his fingertip across her cheek, across the fullness of her lips. She quivered at the touch. He let his hand fall back to his lap.

  “I am here, Vee, as you asked. What did you wish to speak of, without prevarication?”