by Lavinia Kent
He bent down to one knee. “Will you, Miss Isabella Masters, do the honor of agreeing to become my wife?”
“Yes.” The smile that finally escaped to fill her face was radiant. Her whole demeanor changed in a moment, relaxed but brimming with happiness. Peter could see in her what must inspire Violet’s devotion.
“You have filled me with joy,” Isabella continued.
“I was scared you didn’t really like me. Lady Smythe-Burke said you claimed affection, but it seemed so unlikely. I’ve been so scared that—Oh, none of that matters now—please, kiss me and make it real.” She leaned forward, lips parted, eyes wide open.
The house was just as imposing as ever, tall, thin, dark—it seemed to overpower the more delicate abodes surrounding it. She had lived there for a few months before her marriage to Dratton. The house had seemed incredibly grand, then. It had been her only trip to London and she’d been busy planning how perfect life would be once she was a married lady, one who would take London by storm.
She stepped onto the path to the house. The plantings were neat, but unassuming—carefully manicured greens, so different from the bright colors and scents surrounding her own home.
The door was a neatly painted red, the knocker polished to a high gleam. She lifted it once and let it fall.
The door opened.
“I’d like to see my brother please, Jones.” It was the same porter who had served all those years ago. Masters never liked change. She stepped forward, giving the startled man no choice but to grant her entry.
She waited while Jones went off to find her brother, then followed. She would not give Masters the chance to refuse her, if she was going to risk the dragon in his lair, then by God she was going to have the chance to fight.
She halted at the library door. Jones had passed the room by, but she knew what the closed door meant. Masters was inside. Jones probably had instructions not to admit her and was simply putting on a good show. She must have been right about her brother all along.
She filled her chest with air and turned the handle, swinging the door open with vigor. She was strong. She could face her brother, face anything.
Telling her brother what her life had been like should not be too difficult. Then she would beg him to tell her the truth behind Isabella’s engagement to Foxworthy. There was something not right in what Foxworthy had told her. Maybe for once she and Masters could work together to find a solution.
Yes, she could face anything. She pushed the door wide.
She could not face this.
If Medusa had stood before her she could not have turned to stone with more surety.
Peter was kissing Isabella, perhaps not with the enthusiasm to which Violet was accustomed, but kissing Isabella all the same. As Violet watched, her sister wrapped both arms around his neck and drew him closer, slender fingers threading through his dark curls.
She wanted to breathe, wanted to release the air that filled her lungs, but stones did not breathe. All she could do was watch Peter, strangely posed on one knee, while her sister, the sister she had given her all to protect, pressed herself toward him like a limpet to a rock. As she watched, he raised his arms and placed them around Isabella.
Finally, life returned to her feet as she stepped back—right into a firm male chest.
“What are you doing here?” Masters asked, his tone flat and unemotional.
She couldn’t find the words to answer.
“Do you want to wish your sister well on her upcoming nuptials?”
Violet couldn’t form another thought. She needed to be gone. She glanced back at the couple. Peter was turning toward her. Horror shone on his face. It only made things worse.
Peter heard Masters’s voice. He twisted his head around, his heart plummeting into his boots as he saw Violet standing there stiff and proud. He’d known she was there even before he saw her. He pried Isabella’s fingers from his hair and moved her aside just in time to see the skirts of Violet’s dress disappear behind the bend as she fled.
He started up after her, only to find himself sandwiched between Isabella and Masters. Neither one looked ready to let him leave. Looking as expressionless as ever, Masters stood in the door barring his way.
It would have proved a simple matter to push him aside, but Peter held back. This maturity was not an easy business.
“Why are you running off? Did I do something wrong?” Isabella’s tone rang with hurt innocence—genuine, if he was not mistaken. He turned to look at her.
Questioning hazel eyes filled her face. A new fiancé was not supposed to break away in the middle of a kiss. He should still be learning her lips, not dashing from her arms. She placed a soft hand on his sleeve.
He wanted to run off to Violet to tell her—to tell her what? He couldn’t very well tell her she hadn’t seen what she’d seen or that she’d misunderstood it.
She hadn’t.
He was betrothed to her sister.
He had been kissing Isabella with passion, or at least trying to.
He could tell her that he had not enjoyed the kiss, that his body did not respond as it had with hers, that he would much rather be in her bed, in her arms. Somehow, he doubted any of that would help.
She had told him it was foolish for him to marry Isabella, that she did not wish to trap either him or her sister in a loveless marriage. He began to wonder if she had been right.
The prospect of years of thought-out kisses was hard to imagine. Would he ever manage to lose himself in passion with Isabella as he had with Violet? It seemed impossible.
No, he would endure, and even if he faked passion he would be sure that Isabella never knew.
She pulled lightly at his sleeve, and he realized how long he’d stood without speaking. “I am sorry, my dear. I was surprised by the interruption and reacted badly. These matters are difficult for a man.”
“Oh, of course.” Isabella smiled patiently, but she looked unsure.
Peter turned to Masters. “Was that your other sister I saw in the hall? She left quickly.”
“Yes, she did,” Masters answered. “She came to speak to me and then she wished to congratulate the two of you. Unfortunately, she remembered a forgotten engagement and needed to leave. I am sure she’ll return later with well wishes.”
Peter was not so sure. He could only nod.
“We should celebrate. Might we have champagne, Masters?” Isabella had recovered from her momentary lapse and shone with high spirits.
Masters looked down at his sister, his expression un-readable. “If you wish, dear sister.”
“Doesn’t that sound wonderful?” She smiled up at Peter.
His stomach sank. How could he celebrate when he felt closer to tears than he’d been since leaving the schoolroom behind? He put on his best smile. “I am afraid that you’ve reminded me I also have an appointment. I wasn’t expecting everything to move with such speed this morning.” He watched her lips begin to quiver. “Of course, nothing would please me more than to spend the afternoon delighting in my good fortune. A man has arrangements to make if he’s to take a wife.”
“But where are you going? You should take me with you. It is not proper for us to be parted now. You must stay.” Isabella’s voice shook.
“I am afraid I really must go—alone.” He moved toward the door.
Isabella caught at his shirtsleeve. “Where are you going? Is it a secret?”
“I am sorry, my dear, but I must be off. I’ll explain later.”
He nodded to Masters, kissed Isabella’s hand, and made it through the door. He almost stumbled on the steps. The whole world seemed to sway before him; it had become a most unsteady place.
He wondered how many measures of whiskey it would take to steady things up.
Chapter 17
The back garden looked as beautiful Violet had ever seen it. The roses were at the peak of bloom, full, lush, heady. Simply breathing was enough to transport her away, away to someplace magical. A place where wis
hes came true, families loved each other, and hearts never cracked.
At least it was a nice thought. It wasn’t quite working that way, but Violet kept trying. She leaned her head back against the trellis, uncaring of the thorns that pulled at her hair and stared up through multi-colored blossoms. The gardeners had done amazing things. Several different bushes grew together along the trellis, each gifting a different color, a different scent.
If anyplace on this earth could have brought her peace and safety, this would have been it. She inhaled again, hoping for the magic of her fantasies. She was home. She was safe.
It made her even more melancholy. She’d been happier married to an eighty-two-year-old man she’d wed for his fortune than she was now. Than she ever expected to be again.
Emotion trickled back into her. Closing her eyes, she fought against the image of Peter wrapped in Isabella’s embrace. The image only grew brighter.
Bah. She opened her eyes and sat forward, letting the tangled thorns pull her hair from its pins. Self-pity would not be allowed.
She was back to choices.
She pushed all thought of the last hour from her mind.
She could decide to sit here and mourn something that could never have been or she could take action.
Only what action?
Peter was marrying Isabella. There was nothing she could do about that.
Running from the house had been the coward’s way out. She should have stayed and congratulated them. If only it had not been so unexpected, so painful.
She leaned back again, tilting her face up to the sun, wishing the warm light would wash away her troubles. The scent of the flowers was overpowering, maybe the scent would force her to faint and she could lie asleep while the world went on around her.
Her lips curled at the thought.
She drew in one more breath. No fainting, not even a little light-headedness. Pushing up, she looked again at the perfection of her garden, and prepared to return to the house.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Peter’s voice called from the back corner of the garden—the gardener’s entrance from the mews.
“I am not receiving,” she answered, trying to school her features into nonchalance.
“That’s why I didn’t come to the door. I’d hate to embarrass your servants by refusing to leave. They still haven’t quite figured out what to make of me.” He walked toward her. He smiled, but his eyes did not.
“You should not have come. Thank you for the reminder. I’ll make sure that the staff knows exactly how to treat you should you ever try my door again.”
“So hospitable.”
She turned to face him fully. “You proposed to Isabella. You could not listen to my advice?”
“I listened, but decided that for once you needed to be taken care of. I wanted to help you.” He stopped only a few inches from her, blocking the sunlight. On any other day this would have led to kisses and grass stains.
“It does not help me at all.” She turned from him.
“You don’t have to trade yourself to Foxworthy now,” he said, reaching for her.
“Perhaps—perhaps not. I have not had the chance to consider the whole situation. What matters now is that you have affianced yourself to Isabella.”
“And you have difficulties with that?” There was a belligerent note to his voice.
She turned to stare at him. “Difficulties? I know you are not an idiot. Do you truly not understand what a mess you have created?”
“I understand completely the price I will pay and the one your sister may pay. It is my choice. You always speak of choices—well, this is mine. If the only way I can grant you freedom is to marry your sister then that is what I will do.”
“So you purchase my freedom with yours and my sister’s? I never wanted that. And I am not even sure it will work. Who knows what Foxworthy will do now? Through my own actions I may have made him even more determined. He could still be dangerous.”
“Then don’t you think it’s time you tell me the whole story in detail?” Peter reached out and snapped a full-blown rose from the stem. He looked like he wanted to crush it in his palm.
“God, it seems a little late for that now. Perhaps you should have waited to find out everything before taking action.” Violet edged slowly back to her bench.
“I’ve already told you that Foxworthy holds more than money over my brother. Foxworthy claims Masters has invested unwisely—some might even say traitorously. I am not sure the extent of the treachery—although I do believe my brother unknowing. He is a cold fish, but not a traitor. Foxworthy mentioned a noose, but I doubt it would come to that. Masters is too highly placed and there are many who do not want their finances examined closely.”
“Why is Foxworthy involved?” Peter plucked a petal and dropped in her lap. It stood like a bead of blood on the pale fabric of her skirts.
She caught the petal between her fingers, shredding it. A stain spread faint crimson across their tips. “I don’t know how, but he has proof of the transactions—whether he laid a trap or was merely lucky I am unsure.”
“I thought you did not care for your brother—and after our encounter this afternoon I daresay I understand. Why would you try to protect him?” Peter dropped another petal, his large hands pulling it from the stem with utmost delicacy.
She remembered an early fascination with his hands—so large and capable. They looked like they should be holding a cavalry saber but they could perform the most intricate of tasks with ease and gentleness.
She loved his hands.
She left this petal to lie. “I am surprised to find I do actually care, but that was not the reason. I do it for Isabella. Masters would have sold her to protect himself, and even if he did not, his good name is her good name—to ruin one is to destroy the other. And now”—she smiled bitterly—“now I may have made everything worse in trying to protect Isabella. If Foxworthy decides to attack it is my duty to protect you all. It would not do for the Marquess of Wimberley’s younger brother to be wedded to treason. Can you imagine the gossip? The cartoons? You’d probably fill a window at the barber.”
Peter answered forcefully, “So again you chose for us all—the willing martyr. Does it matter that I would willingly give up my reputation and position—should it come to that—for you? And your brother is capable of paying for his own mistakes. I think he may even have his own plans.” He dropped two petals.
“And what of Isabella? In asking for her hand you have taken responsibility for her. You do not decide simply for yourself, you decide for her. What has she done to deserve to be linked to treason? Where is her choice?”
“I think your sister is more capable then you credit her,” he said.
“How can you say that? She is but a girl.”
“She may be young.” He ripped the remaining flowers from the bloom with one hard pull. “She may be innocent. But she is not naïve. If you would only stop and listen to yourself I think you would see this is not the disaster you paint it. I think you would be surprised by Isabella’s strength of will and her ability to plan her own life.”
Violet spread her skirts and waited for the petals to fall. “I don’t want her to have to be strong.”
He looked down upon her steadily. “As you were once forced to be strong.” He let the petals flow down like rain. “But that is part of maturing. Do you not want her to grow?”
“Yes, but at her own pace.” She stared down at her lap full of the crimson petals. In other circumstances romance could have blossomed in the pile—now all she saw was their stain.
“Do any of us grow at our own pace?” He pushed aside her answer. “Was I ready when my father died? I was still in my teens. Was my mother ready? Were any of our young men who went off to fight the French ready? I don’t believe you’ve thought this out calmly. Is this about your sister or what was done to you?”
Violet tried to ignore the latter half of the question. “So you think I should have left her to Fo
xworthy? Is that what you think?” She shook her skirts, and the petals settled on the white gravel about their feet.
“No, but you didn’t have to handle it alone. Do you think I wouldn’t have helped? Haven’t I shown by now that I would do anything for you?” He stared down at the remains of the rose.
“Yes, I know you would have helped. I understand now what you would do for me.” It tore at her heart how deeply she now understood. “But what could you have done?”
“I could have beaten the bloody man to a pulp, killed him if necessary. Oh, I see in your eyes that is not the answer you want, but I promise that if he survived he would have thought twice about threatening mine again. And as for the rest, what of my brother? I think Foxworthy would think twice before interfering with the family of a marquess—and that would have held just as true had I married you.”
She paused at his words. She could feel their truth—but wanted to ignore it. With all that she had suffered it could not have been so simple. “I am not your brother’s problem. And it might be that Foxworthy would use this as a chance to gain power over him too.”
“Do you think so little of him, of yourself? Wimberley is more than able to care for himself, and my brother cares for you, as does his wife. And they want my happiness. You are that happiness. Why can you not let us help?”
“I’ve never depended on anyone for help. I have always been enough.” She had to look away from him.
Peter suddenly sat on the bench beside her. She had not seen the move coming and so had no defense against it. She tried to move aside, but he sat on her skirts, trapping her, thigh to thigh.
He reached over and lifted her red-stained fingers to his lips. “Do you know I’ve finally realized the problem? You work so hard to be strong. In fact, you are stronger than any woman I’ve known. But deep inside you are still a dreamer. You spoke of how hard it was when you were married to Dratton, about how the part of you that believed in enchantment disappeared or died. It didn’t. It is still there at the core of you.”
