by Lavinia Kent
He kissed the tips of her fingers with the softness of a butterfly’s wing.
She should pull her hand away. She could not bear the tenderness of his touch. They had already said their good-byes. None of this could matter now. She traced her finger along his lips. “You are wrong.”
“No, I don’t think I am.” He kissed her fingers again.
“You’ve focused your dreams on others for the most part, on your sister, on me. That is why you can’t bear for us not to have perfect lives. You want us to live your dreams.”
She bowed her head and did not look at him.
“But look at you,” he continued. “What did you say you wanted when you were a girl—a sun-filled enchanted kingdom? Look at this magical home you have created. I’ve never felt as contented as I have here. The cushions are soft, the linens fresh, the air always smells like lemons, or flowers, or biscuits, or something far different than the streets outside. Your servants smile, yet keep every speck of dust at bay. Your cook always has the perfect dish to set upon the table and she whistles while she does it. You have taken a dream and made it a reality.”
Could he be right? She’d come to realize how clearly he saw her, could this also be true? “I just like things to be comfortable.”
“You’ve taken comfort and made it an art.” He smiled down at her. “The only problem is you still dream of being the woman who takes London by storm. Perhaps that is why you chose to live the slightly scandalous life you did after Carrington’s death. You wanted the attention one way if not the other.”
“You could be right. I have never thought of it.”
“I will ask you then, Violet,” he said. “Do you still wish to move into that inner circle of high society? Is that what you dream?”
She drew in a deep breath and felt the question fill her. “No, it is not what I want any longer. I am happy with the friends I have, the world I have built.”
She stood suddenly, yanking her skirts from beneath him, treading over the fallen petals. Her skirts spun about her as she turned and began to pace. “For a moment I became so caught up in your words that I forgot Isabella. Maybe you were right. Maybe between you and Wimberley you can take care of Foxworthy. I would never have asked, but you are correct that it might be possible. But there is still the folly of your engagement. Whatever else happens, you are now bound to my sister.”
Peter lost his smile. She could see his mind spinning with thoughts, but it did not matter. They were still trapped.
She walked away from him, over to a small, carefully kept pool of golden fish, a gift from her first lover. Oranges and reds swirled about in the dark water, graceful and glistening. Did they know of their captivity or did they think the small, deep pool the world?
Was it better to know? Would she have been better if Peter had never come into her life and she had never smiled back at him?
“I can call it off. If it is known there will be a scandal and I will never be welcome in the inner circles of society, but we can be together, build our own circle.” He spoke cautiously.
“Could you really do that? Having given your word, could you take it back? I have never known you to break a promise.” The fish swarmed at her feet, eager for food. She stepped back, not wanting to tempt them with treats that were not to be.
She felt him come up behind her. The heavy safety of his presence surrounded her without so much as touch.
“I might,” he whispered into her hair. “For you I think I would sell my soul.”
She closed her eyes and dreamed. He was right. The dreamer did still live, but she had learned to make do with reality. She opened her eyes again and turned to face him.
“I cannot ask that of you. I know what your honor means to you, and there is still Isabella. There is a chance that no one will find out, but what if she has already told her friends, if Masters has consulted his lawyers? You speak of what the scandal will do to you, but what of her? People will always wonder and whisper at what she did that caused you to commit such an act. No one will want her.”
“The fact that I love her sister beyond all reason will not be seen as reason enough?” Even as he spoke the words she could see the knowledge of what must be simmering in his eyes.
“I am not the only dreamer.” She held out her hands to him. “Come and give me one last kiss. We will stay in this dream for but a moment more. Come and give me a lifetime of comfort and strength in a single instant.”
He inched forward, but still made no move to touch her. “Tell me, Violet, promise me and mean it. Promise me that you will not go back to Foxworthy. Leave me to deal with it. Let me do this one last thing.”
She could not make her mouth form the words.
“Will that make you promise?” he persisted.
“Will you promise to never let my sister know of us? To always keep Isabella first in your thoughts?”
“My thoughts, but not my heart. I cannot change my feelings, Violet. I do not know that I would if I could, but I cannot.”
“God, what a mess.” She leaned forward and rested her cheek against his chest. The sun had warmed his shirt, and the scent of spice and musk wafted from it. Not even all the flowers in the garden together smelled so good, filled her soul in such a manner. “I wish that I could want you to change your heart, but I am greedy. If my heart must ache, I want yours to also.”
He bent his neck and placed a light kiss upon her temple. “What are you saying, Violet?”
“I am saying that I love you, you fool. Now that it is too late and nothing can come of it, I am saying that I love you.” She tilted her face up to his.
Peter watched Violet’s eyes sink closed as she waited for his kiss. She loved him. His heart cried joyously. He knew he should feel despair. The situation was hopeless, but he could only bask in the wonder of the moment.
Violet had never looked more beautiful to him. The sun had brought out the peaches in her complexion. She looked ripe and ready for a bite. Instead he laid his lips upon hers with utmost gentleness. If this was to be their last kiss as lovers, he would make it linger. He didn’t press at all as he enjoyed the sensation of her satin skin so soft against his own. She pursed her lips, bringing them tighter against his. He was so caught in sensation that he could feel each muscle tighten and pucker. With only a puff of sound he completed the kiss and drew back.
He stared down into her eyes, deep purple and filled with passion. He kissed her again. Lightly. Sweetly.
“Is this how friends kiss?” he asked.
“I don’t normally kiss my friends,” she answered.
“We’ll have to do something about that.” He pulled her back into his arms. This time it was not gentle. He brought his lips down fiercely. He would have devoured her if he could.
She met him, opened for him. Her hunger was apparent in her every move, every touch, every stroke. Her hands slid around him, slipping under his jacket to caress him through the soft linen of his shirt. A trail of liquid fire followed her touch.
The desire to take her here, to push up her skirts, and let passion win fought through him. She would not resist. He could sense that for this one last time she was his to do with what he would.
One last time.
He pushed away. “We can’t do this.”
She stared back at him, her eyes filled with suppressed desire. He watched as reason slowly returned to her.
“Isabella.” She said the single word, and it lay like a blade between them.
He turned away, stepping toward the wall of climbing roses. He needed to put space between them. He was surrounded by beauty, but filled with blackness.
The sound of a door slamming echoed through the garden, startling him from his melancholy. He glanced back toward the mews. “I must not have closed it properly. The breeze has picked up.”
He stepped toward the trellis and sought the most perfect bloom he could find among the flowers dancing in the wind. Not too red. Not too pink.
None seemed to fit.<
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He heard her moving behind him, but refused to look. He focused solely on the flowers. Maybe a yellow one? Yellow symbolized friendship. And that is what they were to be: friends.
Yellow did not suit her.
White was too bland.
He moved back to pink. Romantic love. Could they manage the love that would always be there while avoiding the downfalls of the passion that could no longer be?
He could feel her breath on the back of his neck. The air was warm. The breeze steady. And still he could feel her, know how close she stood.
He reached up and plucked a deep coral rose from high on the bush, the petals edged in a color so deep it was almost fuchsia. Friendship, love, and passion. They could not be separated.
He stepped to the side, away from her, and turned to hold out the blossom. “We can’t do this,” he whispered, wanting to yell.
“You just said that,” she answered, stepping toward him again. The flower remained in his outstretched hand as she stared at it, then at him.
“No—I mean, yes, I did, but I meant something else. I mean you were right in the beginning. I cannot marry Isabella. How can we deny what is between us?”
This time she stepped away. “We will not ruin my sister’s life.”
He returned to the bench and sat, stretching his legs before him. “It is I, not we. It is I who would cry off. You don’t really have a say in the matter.”
She opened her mouth, and he could hear the anger of her reply before she even spoke a word.
“I only”—he cut her off as the first sound left her lips—“want you to realize that basic truth. For once it is not your decision. However, having said that, I realize that we must decide a future plan together. It is not my purpose to make us all miserable.”
She stepped farther away. He could feel the invisible wall forming between them.
She pursed her lips. “Come into the house. Let us sit in the parlor—with the door wide open—and discuss this like reasonable adults.” She turned, her skirts spinning out around her, and walked up the pebbled path toward the house. Red rose petals scattered in the breeze as she walked by.
Judging by the pace and the sway of her hips, he wasn’t sure how reasonable she intended to be—unless reasonable was defined as “doing things the way she wanted.”
He looked down at the bloom he had selected, cupping his hand around it. Was it really too much to want it all? He didn’t see that giving up even a single piece would make any of them happy.
Not even Isabella.
He leaned back against the trellis. He would give her a few moments, let his suggestion wrap around her—entangle her in its possibilities.
Finally, when he could wait no longer, he stood and turned to place the flower on the bench. No. He twirled the stem between his fingers as he checked the garden gate to make sure it had latched properly. Violet would not want any unwelcome visitors.
Violet walked into the house, resisting the urge to stomp. He had gotten them into this mess—well, that was not strictly fair, but she needed it to be. She needed to be angry if she was to get through this.
How dare he say they couldn’t do it? What choice did they have?
Choice.
She lived her life seeking choices and now she never wanted to hear the word again. She didn’t want to have to decide to do the right thing, the hard thing. Why couldn’t somebody else force the blasted issue?
Swinging wide the double doors that led into the parlor, she sailed into the room. She might have almost given in to passion in the garden, but that had been a momentary weakness. It would have been a betrayal of her sister.
From the moment Peter had asked for Isabella’s hand, he had ceased to be hers. His motivation did not matter.
She paced about the room awaiting his arrival.
Why was he making her wait?
She paced more.
She was almost ready to seek him out when she heard his heavy footsteps following her. The room offered many possible locations for their discussion. She chose a spot on the window seat with care. She spread her skirts wide. It would not stop him from sitting next to her, he had proved that in the garden, but it did send him a message. The window seat had been designed for solitary pursuits. The nearest chair stood a good eight feet away.
She almost smiled when she saw his expression as he took in the situation.
He looked at the chair, looked at her. He placed the rose he still held on a side table. Then he picked up the chair and turned it, setting it down only a few feet from her hems. She should have known he was a man to rebuild the situation to meet his own needs.
He sat, setting his feet squarely in front of him. The air nearly quivered with the intensity of his expression. “We can’t do this,” he repeated.
“Then what would you have us do? What can we do that will not ruin Isabella’s future?” She stared at the hands neatly folded in her lap. A viewer in the street outside would think she had no worries beyond choosing a pattern for embroidery.
“It is not even a few hours since I first put my proposition to your brother. He cannot have had time to make an announcement. In fact, I doubt he will do anything until he speaks to my man of business and is assured that all is as I have told him. We do not know whom Isabella has told. As of this moment only us few know of my proposal.”
She looked up at him. “That is true.”
“I would suggest I hurry back and prevent him from making any announcement. I can either tell him the whole thing is over or at least delay his announcement until I have a chance to speak with Isabella and see whom she had discussed the matter with. Then I will tell her the truth.”
“The truth?” asked Violet. “I am trying to spare her feelings.”
“For the most sensible of women you are being remarkably shortsighted. Do you truly think it is better for her to marry me? Do you think she will never notice the way we look at each other, the heat that springs up between us?”
“Then I will leave, go abroad.” Her heart screamed for her to accept his plan, but she refused to believe it. It would make the whole matter too simple. The solution could not be so easy. “I was considering it as I sat in the garden before you arrived. I would rather leave than watch you and Isabella.”
He leaned forward. “Then listen to me and think. Do you really wish your sister a husband who does not love her, cannot love her? I only propose that we give her the choice. I will explain the situation and give her the choice. Is that not what you believe, that people deserve choices? I have caused this tangle, let me straighten it.”
Choices. It was that haunting word again, but this time fragile hope rose in her breast. This was not the situation she would have wished, but perhaps Peter was right. It could not be fair to Isabella to condemn her to loveless marriage without giving her the chance to seek more.
Or was that only her personal desires speaking? Was she truly seeking the best for her sister or only giving in to what she wanted? Violet leaned her head against the window, relaxing the rigid posture of her back. Each bone of her spine shifted, and she sighed with the relief it brought.
Blocking out Peter and the bright room, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on nothing but Isabella. Love brought no promise. Isabella could marry a man of her choosing and still end up miserable.
If Isabella married Peter, Violet knew he would do his best for her sister. He would never deliberately hurt Isabella or betray her—but what about inadvertently?
She imagined Peter and Isabella years from now surrounded by their children, happy and—She could not picture them happy. She could see contentment and pleasantness, but she could not imagine Peter smiling down at Isabella as he did at her. She tried harder, but the image would not come.
How hard would it be for Isabella to be told the truth? If it had been she, Violet would have wanted to know. It was hard to imagine being tied to a husband who loved another. And he did love her. It had taken time to accept that reality, but now
that Violet had accepted it she could not turn back. “You love me.”
“Yes,” he answered.
“It is not lust or passing fancy. You love me.” She said it calmly as if reciting the evening’s menu to Cook.
“Forever.”
She sat up and bent forward toward him. “Then you had best go. If Masters has made an announcement, all this is moot. If not, I will concede that Isabella deserves a chance to decide.”
“I will be off then.” He stood.
“Wait, there is one more factor. I will trust you can take care of Foxworthy, but should you fail, I will do whatever is necessary to make peace with Foxworthy. Whatever.”
He stared down at her, his eyes fierce. “I understand; therefore, I will not fail. But you must understand I will do whatever I deem necessary to accomplish that. Whatever.”
A challenge. Violet felt her breath quicken. If anything had been missing in their earlier relationship it had been this—challenge. She wondered if Peter realized that in always seeking her pleasure he had almost lost her.
That was one secret she would never share. He could figure it out on his own. A woman needed to hold on to some advantages.
She nodded her agreement.
Peter replaced his chair and walked to the open door.
He stopped, turned. “You do realize my words are not permission for you to visit Foxworthy now?”
She looked away from him. Stared at the fireplace, the window, a book on the table—anywhere but at him.
“Violet.” He said her name firmly, with more command than she had ever heard in his voice. Something deep inside her shivered.
“Do you need me to actually promise?” She still did not look at him.
“Actually yes, I do. I will believe you if you promise.”
She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments. “I promise I will not go to Foxworthy—not until I know more.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.”
He walked back to her and took her hands. “We are a team, Violet. Do not do anything alone. I will be there with you.”
