by Lavinia Kent
Violet walked toward the door, conscious of how close it would bring her to him. The thought of even brushing against him made her shudder.
She stepped forward, paused. There was a barely a foot of space between him and the doorframe. He would not make this easy.
She stepped forward again. He grabbed her, pulled her to him. She felt his lips before she sensed his intent.
“Something to remember me by,” he whispered.
The kiss was deep and wet. Vomit rose at the back of her throat.
Suddenly he pushed her forward, almost sending flying down the stairs.
Peter stood on the walk before old Foxworthy’s dark house. It was surely another fool’s errand. He’d already walked half of London trying to find her. He doubted this suggestion was any better.
Still, young Winchester had sounded sure.
He had called upon Winchester’s apartments to find that the man was entertaining, but Violet had certainly never giggled at such a shrill pitch.
Winchester had stood in the doorway refusing him entrance. He’d been tempted to push past and assure himself that the sounds were not Violet, but in his heart he’d known this was another dead end.
He turned away before Winchester spoke. “I’d check with Foxworthy. I have a feeling that’s where you’ll find what you seek.”
“What?” Peter turned back.
“I’ve a hunch I know why you’re at my door, and I can only regret that’s not who you’ll find in here.” Winchester spoke in a hushed tone and glanced over his shoulder.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I imagine you do.” Winchester looked him straight in the eye. “She wasn’t interested in me or Struthers—she wanted nothing more than a little flirtation. I might have settled for that if she’d seemed happy about it. I don’t settle for being any woman’s second choice.”
Peter’s mind raced to keep up with the words. It did sound like he was talking about Violet but, “Why on earth would I find her with Foxworthy? He’s old enough to be her father.”
Winchester smiled bitterly at that. “Well, with her history she does seem to like them young or ancient. All I know is when I saw her earlier this week she was just leaving a private room. She didn’t look happy and it piqued my curiosity. I wanted to see who had put our fine lady in such a state. Your current surprise equals my own when I saw Foxworthy leave the room not five minute after. I’ll suggest again you try his abode.”
Winchester stepped back.
Peter shoved his foot in the door just as it began to close. “Why tell me this?”
“What can I say? At least you’re not Struthers. Besides, I’d rather see her smiling.” Winchester spoke with an unexpected softness.
Which was why Peter stood there now, in the middle of the night, staring at a dark house.
He should leave. What would he gain by pounding on yet another door?
Even as he had the thought the door swung open and Foxworthy was silhouetted in the doorway. There was no mistaking that physique. The door open farther and an even more familiar figure appeared.
Peter watched as Foxworthy stopped her and then pulled her into a tight embrace.
The kiss seemed endless. Peter’s hands clenched to fists. He didn’t know what or who he was going to hit, but it was going to be hard.
The kiss ended and Violet was propelled through the door.
She stood for a moment at the head of the stairs. The solitary light from down the street lit her face. Her hair was a jumbled mass of fire about her shoulders. Her dress hung loosely, held up only by the slim white hand grasped tight to the bodice. Lips swollen by kisses quivered and clenched.
She stepped forward, almost tripping on her dragging skirts. The dress fell from one shoulder, leaving it bare to gleam in the moonlight.
He’d seen her look like this many times—always just after they made love.
Chapter 14
Violet pulled her dress more tightly to her as goose bumps rose on her arms and chest. Her mind seemed incapable of forming a clear thought. No stars were visible in the night sky. Darkness closed all about her.
She took a step toward the solitary light shining bright farther down the street. Was there safety in the light? Or was darkness a better friend? She should not be alone so late, especially not half naked.
The chilled air encompassed her. She drew it in, filling her lungs, wishing it would clear her head. The tall, dark houses rose high on either side of her, quiet monoliths witness to her shame.
The hem of her skirt caught under her foot, almost pitching her forward. She managed to pull her skirts higher with one hand while keeping the other clenched tight at her bodice.
She felt dirty.
So dirty she would never be clean.
She took another step forward, toward the light. All she wanted was to shrink into a corner and cry until there were no more tears.
What had she done? Isabella was in greater trouble than ever before. Foxworthy might have been an undesirable husband before, but now he’d be a vengeful one if he succeeded in his plans. She didn’t doubt for one moment that he would take out his injured pride on Isabella.
And what of Masters? Violet had tried for years to pretend that he no longer held power in her life, but the events of the last few days had proved otherwise.
And Peter. She would not forget his face as she drove him away. Another lover. Hah. Since she met him she’d wanted no other man in her bed. She might have flirted, but the thought of another man’s touch soured her stomach.
For all her vaunted strength she had failed. She’d given up everything and gained nothing.
Despair ate at her. She should give up.
She took another step forward.
Foxworthy and Masters could not be allowed to win.
She heard the tread of boots a moment before the hand came down on her shoulder. She turned swinging. She didn’t care if it was Foxworthy or footpads. She was done playing the victim.
Her fist connected, hard. She turned to swing back in the other direction, careless of the loose dress and skirts that swirled about her.
Her fist was caught, held.
She kicked out. Pulled a scream deep into her lungs.
“Stop.”
Peter. Here. Her foot stopped inches from another kick.
Peter. She stopped moving. Stopped breathing.
He could not see her like this, could not know her degradation.
Was this a rescue? Or a fast descent into hell?
She was so beautiful. It was the most inappropriate thought a man could have, but it filled his mind. She looked frightened, angry, despairing even, but all he could see was her beauty, her strength.
She stood caught in his fingers, one fist drawn back to punch, the other trying frantically to restore some modesty to her attire. Her mouth was swollen and damaged-looking. And her eyes. Her eyes were black in the flickering light. Not black with passion or black with fury, but just black.
He started to pull her toward him, but she resisted. She fought his hold, wanting freedom.
He granted it as he had sworn he always would. Even now, when she so desperately needed him, he let her go.
She stepped back. Her chest heaved with emotion. He raised one arm and carefully held it out to her. She jerked back, but allowed him to stroke her cheek, her lips.
They stood alone in the darkness. He brought his hand to his own lips and kissed the fingers lightly before returning to caress her lips again—the age-old cure of childhood ills.
“Should I kill him?” he asked, dropping his hand.
“What? Who? No.” Peter could see Violet’s thought process that prompted each response.
“I think I should.” He turned back toward Foxworthy’s house.
She reached out and touched his arm. “No. Just take me home.”
He held firm a moment. There would be much satisfaction in marching up to the door and pounding to a pulp whoever answered. He didn�
��t care particularly who it was. Somebody needed to answer for the look in Violet’s eyes.
“Please.”
He let his shoulders relax. He always claimed he was not the boy she called him. Responding with fists, not intellect, was the action of a boy.
He shrugged out of his coat and settled it about her shoulders. She looked up at him, trembling. “Take me home.”
He took her hand and placed it on his arm, leading her through the empty street with all the poise of a stroll through Hyde Park.
He started to speak once, but she shushed him with a shake of her head. Silence held for the remainder of their journey.
Dawn pierced even the heavy brocade drapes and shone in a slim path across the room. Violet held her eyes fast closed even as the silhouettes of morning moved across her lids.
She still was not ready. The day must be faced. Decisions must be made. But, please, not yet.
She felt Peter behind her. His deep, even breathing tickled the hairs at the nape of her neck. His arm draped about her heavy and safe. Marriage must be like this, waking in security—not worrying about sex, because there was tomorrow and tomorrow and the tomorrow after that.
She allowed herself to nestle back into him, enjoying for a few seconds the safety his warmth provided. His heart beat steady against her back. Even in sleep he was so alive.
It would be so easy to stay in this moment—to pretend this was reality.
But she was done with easy. She slipped sideways on the bed, letting his arm fall heavily to the cover. The wrinkled dress from the night before twisted about her as she moved. It was still unfastened and loose about her shoulders.
She stood, letting it drop to the floor, a heap of golden fabric, all its magic gone. She would never wear it again. She would have it burned. No, that was a gesture of weakness. It gave too much importance to the night. Perhaps one of the maids would take it home and find the enchantment of its glow.
She stretched, feeling the creaks and pains of her adventures. She stepped toward the dresser, eager for the splash of cool water upon her face. She felt so dirty.
Sharp pain radiated up her leg. She glanced down and stopped. Her bare feet were filthy. A large gash ran the length of her left instep.
She had left Foxworthy’s house without her shoes. She had walked through the streets of London barefoot and not even been conscious of it. It seemed a preposterous thing.
A loud snore rumbled through the room.
Peter had not realized it either. He would have insisted on carrying her if he’d known.
What was she going to do about him? About any of this?
She took another step to the basin and cupped the cool water to her face. Again. She would never feel clean.
It was not the dirt of the streets that covered her. It was a far more insidious darkening of the soul.
She pulled a light robe off the hook and belted it tight. She did not want to see her own nudity. Last night she had refused to label herself a whore. Today she felt one, a failed one.
She limped over and sank down upon the chaise, staring at the man on the bed. She sat and watched him breathe. She matched her own breath to his. In. Hold. Out. Hold.
She felt his first awakening, counted as the slow, easy breath of night grew more rapid. He reached for her. He didn’t even open his eyes before his arm moved out seeking and not finding.
She met his heavy glance as his lids lifted. The time for reckoning had come.
Where was she? Even as the thought filled his mind Peter saw her. She sat in her favorite spot, the well-cushioned chaise. The light of early morning snuck through the drapes, lighting the fires of her hair. Her eyes were heavy and shadowed from lack of sleep.
“You should have stayed abed longer,” he said.
“I couldn’t. My mind would not be still.” Her voice was somber.
He sat up in the bed. He was still fully dressed. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping in clothes. Even after the most drunken of evenings his valet would shake him out of his clothing and into fresh linen.
She stared at him. His mind wandered to the discomfort of sleeping in breeches, and Violet looked like her world had ended.
She didn’t say anything, she just stared. She never avoided confrontation, so why was she silent now? “Are you going to explain what happened last night?” he asked.
He saw the hesitation in her face, then the decision.
“I told you before. I took another lover. It is not a state secret. I’ll ring for tea.” She stood and wobbled slightly.
His gaze fell to her feet, to the grubby, bloody toes that peeked out from beneath her hem. His glance shot up to her face. She glared at him, daring him to say something.
He wanted to apologize for his thoughtlessness in not realizing last night. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her he would fix all her problems. Her eyes dared him, challenging him to make the move.
He swung his legs off the side of the bed. “Be sure you have the maid bring hot water and towels, as well. You know you hate to be dirty.”
She stepped back at his words. He’d struck a nerve without realizing he’d fired. He turned from her. She did not want him to see her pain, fine. He could play this the way she wanted.
Ignoring her, he stepped to the door and called for refreshments and water himself. “You should be seated. You don’t want to collapse before your first swallow of tea. It really would cause a frightful bother with the staff.”
He hoped for at least the glimmer of a smile. He did not receive it.
He sat across from her, waited until the maid arrived burdened with the heavy tray. He waited longer while Violet poured the tea. She took three spoons of sugar, sweetening the drink far beyond her usual.
She wet the towels and began to sponge her feet. Impulse drove him to offer his help, but he held his tongue, held the growing silence.
He could hear the tick of the clock with each move of its gears, hear the splish of the water each time she dampened the towel. If he listened hard enough he thought he could hear each beat of her stubborn heart.
Finally, she spoke. “Will you leave so I can call my maid and dress?”
“I never have before.”
“And if I insist?”
“Are you going to?”
She didn’t answer. He wished he could tell what she was thinking. Often her thoughts were plain upon her face, but today she was blank, a parchment without a single squiggle of ink to betray its purpose.
Her head dropped forward, hiding her face from him. She looked so weary. Desires warred within him. He should go, give her the peace and solitude she so desired. He should take her in his arms and hold her until time ceased to exist. He should argue with her, shout at her, demand she release the secrets hidden so deeply in her eyes.
“I will not insist,” she answered, at last. “I will ask. Peter, will you please go and allow me to dress with privacy? I will not demand you leave my house, just my chamber. Can you please do this for me?”
He stood. “I’ll send the maid to you. Do not bother to rise. I’ll await you below, at your convenience.”
Violet chose an older corset, one that still had slim whalebone stays. It had probably been chosen originally to fit under some court dress, but now she needed its feeling of strength and stability. Her spine lacked the strength to stay upright on its own today. And if ever there was a day for uprightness and strength it had come.
The time for choices was past. Her path was set.
She pointed to a dress of deep brown muslin. It was simple and severe, well in keeping with her mood. The waist of the gown bulged slightly below the overly tight stays, but she smoothed it as best she could, ignoring the clucking of the maid.
She instructed that her hair to be brushed tight and pulled severely back into a knot. She resisted the impulse to pull forward a fringe of curls. She could not afford softness.
Regrettably, her only choice of shoes was the softest pair of kid evening slippers
. She wished for sturdy half boots, but she was not willing to endure their discomfort this day. Enough pain swirled inside her without adding to it.
When she was ready she looked in the mirror. The dress was severe and matronly, despite the deep cinnamon the day’s light revealed in the brown. She ignored how it complemented her hair. Some things could not be helped. Her hair was one of them.
She spoke quietly to the maid.
A moment later a small array of crisp white caps were laid before her. She grabbed the nearest one and laid it over her hair. No. That was not she.
She was Violet, Lady Carrington, with all that entailed. She would not change who she was.
He was waiting below. He’d called for another pot of tea and settled in the sunny front room with the day’s papers. Each move he made, each page he’d turned had been relayed to her by a servant’s whisper.
It could have been the start of any day—her dressing above, him catching up on the day’s events below. They’d had many such mornings—they should have had so many more.
Glad of the corset adding steel to her spine, Violet descended. She made no pretense of heading anywhere but to him, to Peter.
She paused in the door. “Do you have the gossip sheets there? Do they speak of last night’s events yet?”
He looked up, his eyes sweeping over her stark appearance. His expression did not change. “No, they are still wondering why a certain Lady C found no pleasure with either Mr. W or Mr. S. There is some wondering with whom the fault lay. I suppose I should be grateful that we kept it so private that there is no mention of the cuckolded Lord P.”
Peter watched as she came and sat before him, knees only inches from his own, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “I believe you need to be married to be cuckolded in the traditional sense. And we were never married,” she said.
“No, we were not. But, then, neither were we traditional.”
She sat up straighter in her chair. He wondered if there was an invisible string running to the ceiling that drew her up in such a fashion.
“I will answer your questions, now, if you wish,” she said.
