It wasn’t difficult to see how genuinely affected Miss Thistlethwaite was by the dismissal of her former suitor at the hands of her callous brother, and as Violet was uncomfortably mindful of the fact that her own preparations were no more than a farce, she was eager to allow Miss Thistlethwaite to channel her own thwarted dreams into Violet’s wardrobe.
“Oh, my dear, but it is easy to see why Max loves you so.” Miss Thistlethwaite dabbed her eyes with a scrap of lace before running her admiring gaze from the hem of Violet’s swathed satin skirt to the veil of finest netting. “You are a vision. A vision in your daily attire, but what will he think when he sees you have become the fairy tale princess of his dreams?”
Violet felt it, too. The exhilaration of becoming, even more, an object of admiration and desire. She wanted Max to see her as a princess, a lady. Not what he knew her to be.
“Yet what are clothes when it’s all in the heart?” Miss Thistlethwaite tapped her chest. “I’d have happily forgone all the trappings my brother considered necessary to a person of my standing.”
From the French modiste to Lyon’s teahouse on the second day of their furious pursuit of clothes, Miss Thistlethwaite showed as much eagerness as if she were the intended bride, prompting Violet to ask, “Is it true that your brother refused to sanction your marriage because he deemed your suitor unworthy, despite your feelings?”
Miss Thistlethwaite nodded. “My Richard went to see him, cap in hand. I was sure Septimus would relent, eventually. It wasn’t as if there were any other prospective husbands lined up. I was twenty-five. Decidedly on the shelf and possessed of neither wit nor good looks.” Her smile was wry. “It’s hard to imagine my handsome Max is my own flesh and blood. Such a magnificent creature. Oh, but you and he will be so happy together!” She clasped her hands together. “Tell me, how did he propose?”
Violet’s lighthearted mood had been swept away by the thought that the kindly woman opposite her had spent the past three decades lonely and disregarded. Now the weight of duplicity was added to her burden.
“Max hasn’t told you?” she asked cautiously.
Miss Thistlethwaite shook her head. “He hasn’t, no, though it’s clear enough how happy he is.” Again, her eyes filled with moisture. “What a pleasure it is to me to see true love shining from both of you like a beacon of hope. It’s my compensation,” she added softly. Then, more eagerly, “But do tell me, Violet.”
Violet lowered her eyes to her hands that were fidgeting in her lap. Lying didn’t sit well with her, but she supposed it was in a good cause. She smiled, remembering. Yes, remembering the way Max had drawn her from the bed and into his arms, tenderly waltzing her, naked, about the room, describing the scene as he’d offered her his pretend marriage proposal.
She could see it in her mind’s eye as if it had really happened. Except that she was…
“…wearing a lilac gown I’d made myself, Miss Thistlethwaite, and the orchestra was playing Brahms.” She smiled, closing her eyes, shivering as if she really could feel the soft pressure of Max’s hands upon her waist and shoulder. “Max had taken me to this marvellous place, and I thought myself the luckiest young woman in the entire world. Even luckier when he asked me to marry him, for I knew I…didn’t deserve him.”
“My goodness, enough of such talk. You, Violet, are the most deserving young woman I’ve met. You work hard; you never complain, and…you love Max. That is all that is important in my mind. That my darling Max enjoy a union where love blooms mutually.” She patted Violet’s hand for Violet knew her expression had closed. Deserving was not a description that sat comfortably with her, either.
“Max lost his mother so young. He’s been looking for love ever since and, like Septimus, I suppose, I thought Mabel was his perfect match. They’d known one another since they’d been children, and they seemed to get along like a house on fire. They were always so comfortable in one another’s company. But that’s not romantic love. I should have realised that. But tell me, exactly how long have you known one another?” Miss Thistlethwaite looked like an eager dormouse with her bright eyes seeking from Violet crumbs of happiness she might feast upon in her mind when she returned to her, no doubt, lonely apartments in her brother’s townhouse.
“A little over a year. He first took me to see a play,” Violet said slowly, thinking about an interest the two of them shared. “The play was set in exotic lands and, as you know, Max loves adventure—”
“Oh, he does indeed. Mabel didn’t, which is why it’s not so surprising she left him. That takes spirit, in my mind. But we won’t talk about that. It’s all worked out for the best. You now, Violet, are a woman with an adventurous spirit. One can see it in your eyes. So, what was this play about? Was it set in Africa or India, two of the very places Max is so eager to see?”
“In India. It was set in India, which is where I was born. He was interested to hear that and it…it brought us closer together because I could describe it to him. The colours, the vibrancy.” Violet looked through the window and remembered how much she’d loved India.
But Miss Thistlethwaite was prodding her for more information. What had she been telling the old lady? She’d forgotten. The life she’d led in India was so different from the one to which she’d been consigned in England. Harder, but free in a way she wasn’t, here. It had been a life of discovery and exploration. The curiosities her father had discovered. The reverence with which he’d shown Violet and her sister. Exquisite butterflies of cobalt blue with yellow markings. Emily had cried when she’d accidentally crushed one in her chubby little fist. Violet had said its spirit had been released in a new world and not to despair.
Emily had asked if her spirit would do the same one day. Violet wondered if it had.
“My dear, you are crying! But of course, a proposal is a time for tears, is it not? I remember how I cried, too.” Miss Thistlethwaite’s tone changed. “But you are sad? Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You were saying you were born in India. You told Max about it. Tell me, do you miss it?” Miss Thistlethwaite was speaking fast now, trying to deflect Violet but her words only made it worse.
“I miss it terribly.”
“Then Max will take you back there. He wants to see India, and he’d do anything in his power to make you happy. I could see it in his eyes the way he looked at you. You can see your family again. They are there, now, are they not? That is why you’re so sad. You miss them.”
Violet shook her head, and the tears that she’d managed to delicately contain were suddenly unleashed in a torrent.
“They’re not there. Or rather, they are buried there.”
“Oh, my poor girl.” Miss Thistlethwaite put her hands to her cheeks. “Both of them?”
Violet nodded. “Yes, both of them. They were murdered in Cawnpore.”
Chapter 7
Max fiddled with his cufflink as he stood in the theatre foyer and waited for Violet to appear. Aunt Euphemia had bought tickets for them all to attend a performance of As You Like It at Drury Lane. She would be bringing Violet in her own carriage as Violet had insisted she’d get herself to Miss Thistlethwaite’s townhouse—or rather, her brother’s—due to her ‘working commitments’.
Of course, Aunt Euphemia had understood Violet’s meaning in quite a different way. However, to Max, standing alone for the moment as he toyed with the gold monogrammed studs at his wrists, the idea caused him more angst than it ought.
Violet was a charming creature he’d essentially bought for her services for three weeks. The fact she was proving so bewitching in every way to him, and apparently so delightful to his aunt, should be neither here nor there. A very generous sum had been agreed upon for the whole transaction. And that didn’t even include his aunt’s largesse in terms of clothes and meals in fine restaurants and teahouses.
The moment Max and Violet had said their fictional vows and gone their separate ways, Violet would receive the second and final part of the agreed-upon sum in a nomina
ted bank account which Max had set up.
He couldn’t help but admire Violet’s surprisingly specific stipulations. Of course, she’d never been in receipt of funds in this manner before; however, she’d been quite specific in terms of how she was to be paid—into a bank account that Max had set up in her name of which she, alone, was the signatory. Very novel.
However, this was the only way she’d have access to a line of credit that Madame Chambon could not touch, much less be aware of.
Violet Lilywhite was a surprising creature in so many ways. And the more Max learnt of her beyond the bedroom, the more there was to admire.
Which was extremely discomforting when he actually had time to reflect upon her as a person beyond the narrow scope to which he’d initially relegated her.
Yes, it was extremely discomforting that an image of her sparkling blue eyes kept intruding into his consciousness whenever he had a moment’s reflection. Or that he’d find himself wanting to seek her out for her opinion.
Or run his hands over her satin-smooth skin and lose himself in her embrace.
Which, of course, he couldn’t even do now, despite wanting to very much, as she swept into the foyer at his great-aunt’s side; tall, slender, majestic, those exquisite eyes lighting up at the sight of him. She was altogether the most magnificent woman he’d ever encountered.
But he had to remind himself very forcefully; he was not looking for a wife.
And if he were, she was the most unsuitable wife he could have chosen. Society would vilify them all if he made any kind of proposal that transgressed the boundaries carved out in stone. Boundaries beyond which not even the boldest cavalier thumbing his nose at convention would consider stepping beyond.
Now she was placing her hand upon his arm, an action that instantly aroused every nerve end.
That’s why he must remember she was not wife material. She was a woman whose calling was to create this very sensation in men.
All men. It was her job.
Still, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d rather be here this evening with her than in any other company.
“Doesn’t your fiancée look beautiful?” Aunt Euphemia demanded, as if he were lacking in gallantry.
His aunt looked better than he’d seen her look in a very long time. There was a healthy glow to her skin, and her voice was strong and eager.
“Words failed me for a moment, Aunt Euphemia.” He smiled at Violet after a brief look of acknowledgment at the old lady, then lowered his voice, his intimate tone both as much for his aunt’s benefit as the obvious recipient, “How lucky I am that I’ll be able to call you my wife in a couple of weeks.”
“Yes, you are, Max. Lucky, indeed.” His aunt encompassed them both in a look of great fondness. “Violet and I spent a very pleasant afternoon yesterday having tea after her final fitting for her wedding gown.” She sighed. “Only ten days until your wedding. Truly, I will miss her when you are gone.”
Clearly, a look of dismay must have shown itself in Max’s face, which Violet misinterpreted for playacting when, in fact, he was digesting the fact that after ten days, he would never see her again.
“Your aunt has asked me all about our wedding tour, darling. To the Continent.” Violet’s smile was meaningful. “I know only of plans for Venice but apparently there’s a great deal more to look forward. Naturally, those are details only you are privy to.”
“Yes, of course.” He looked at Aunt Euphemia. “Shrouded in mystery, I’m afraid, Aunt. I’m making all manner of clandestine plans so that Violet is completely caught by surprise and delight. You know she’s never been out of England?”
“But…I thought Violet said she’d been born in India.” Aunt Euphemia’s brow creased. She looked, in fact, quite distressed as she turned to Violet. “I thought you said that’s where your parents are buried.”
Violet nodded as she put her hand on his aunt’s. “I’m sorry if I upset you with my story yesterday, Miss Thistlethwaite. Actually, I haven’t told Max everything I should have about my life. I like to pretend it began, and will finish, here in England. Those years in India were colourful but, ultimately, painful.” She smiled at them both and turned the subject. “Now, I believe the play is about to begin.”
When Max finally had her to himself, as they chatted in the dim window embrasure during the interval while his aunt spoke to several acquaintances whom Max had made sure were far enough away they’d not be introduced to him, he said, “You were very adept in the way you deflected my aunt who was clearly troubled by the discrepancy in our stories. Or rather, our knowledge. Just shows how much I need a clever wife like you to guide me.” He grinned at her and couldn’t help but reach out to touch the bare skin at her wrists. It was, sadly, all that he could be satisfied with at this juncture. “I must say, you’re working out very well in this role. You’ve been very sporting. I hope you’re having fun.” He scanned her face. “It’s not too much pressure on you to keep up such a deception?” He didn’t expect a rebuttal. Violet had been nothing but a pleasure during the ten days they’d been involved in their charade. If anyone had been under pressure, it had been Max. He’d seen her every day in his aunt’s company but, alone, only at Madame Chambon’s the night he’d met her, and that one gloriously abandoned afternoon at the discreet house of assignation to which she’d taken him.
Yet even while his body had throbbed for her, something at the back of his mind had warned him that to get any closer could be disastrous. Perhaps it was his gentle aunt’s inevitable horror that he’d been using the girl in such a way. Yes, he was paying her well, but to do a specific job that did not entail buying her body. That went against the grain when it came to any notion he held of being an honourable man. If no money had changed hands, Max would have availed himself of her willing charms with as much enthusiasm as the next unscrupulous fellow.
And, besides all that, he realised he was becoming dangerously addicted to her company.
“All part of my job,” she said smoothly. “I aim to give satisfaction.” Her lovely eyes sparkled, and her mouth quirked before she added with an edge of seriousness, “Though if I am guilty of any transgression, unwittingly though it would be, you must tell me. Your aunt is a dear soul, and I would hate to think that what started as such a kindly motivated deception might cause her pain.”
“She is very fond of you so yes, another slip-up like the one a little earlier could cause her a great deal of pain, not to mention shame and embarrassment. I should hate that. However, it’s been a pleasure to see how much she’s enjoying herself.” He couldn’t help smiling at the simple pleasure of reflecting upon how much his aunt was throwing herself into turning Violet into the bride she’d never been. He cleared his throat. “She told me she thinks of you as the daughter she never had.” He had mixed feelings about this. Max loved his aunt dearly, and he only hoped that when he and Violet supposedly left the country on their protracted wedding tour, Aunt Euphemia would not be too bereft. Still, he was sure that both she, and he, would settle back quickly into the old routine. Violet would only have been a part of their lives for a few short weeks and Max was off to Africa in less than three weeks.
“My dear Violet, the only pain you’ve caused her was by possibly overstretching the mark with your little story about your parents. Murdered?” His mouth quirked. “My aunt does love a dramatic story, but that was perhaps doing it a bit too brown.”
He’d glanced a moment over her shoulder at a cluster of theatre patrons near the door, but when he looked back at her, he saw her face had drained of colour, and for one ghastly moment he thought he was the cause by suggesting she’d fabricated the story. Good God, was it true?
Then her hand was clutching her heart and she was clearly trying to keep her equilibrium as she whispered, “Lord Bainbridge is on the other side of the room, and he’s seen me.”
Max turned, an unaccountable spurt of pure jealousy curdling his earlier pleasure. Foolish, really, when there was no deception bet
ween Violet and himself or any of the men in her life, including Lord Bainbridge.
“Should I be concerned?” he asked drily, and was ashamed by the look she gave him. She’d have no idea how carefully he’d effected his tone of unconcern.
“Do you mean have I offered him exclusivity?” she asked, intimating that keeping company with Max would give Bainbridge grounds for calling him out. “No, I have not.” She sighed and sent Max a rueful look. “But I have been hoping he’d ask for it. Still.” She brightened. “Perhaps you will be more useful to me than I’d imagined. A little jealousy on his part might be the impetus he needs.” Under her breath, she added, “Just make sure your aunt doesn’t arrive at the wrong time. Ah, good evening Lord Bainbridge.” She turned. “I trust you are acquainted with Lord Belvedere?”
Max was impressed. Her poise was admirable as was her skill in managing a conversation that might have fired discontent in either gentleman’s breast. By the end of a few minutes Lord Bainbridge was backing away, clearly reluctant to relinquish the hand he’d bent over to kiss in farewell.
“You have him just where you want him, my beautiful vixen,” Max complimented her reluctantly. “I think you need have no fear that your future is not secure beyond…” he hesitated, not liking to put into words the fact that Violet’s tenure in his own life would be ending so soon. A frisson of something hard to identify—regret, concern—made him want to launch into a volley of questions he’d not thought to ask before when their association was in the nature of business only.
It was hard to remember that sometimes.
“I don’t take anything for granted, Lord Belvedere.” He’d expected her tone to be light, but she was staring after Lord Bainbridge with a strange look in her eye.
And once again Max found he desired greatly to know what she was thinking.
But now was not the place to ask. And, really, it was not his place to ask.
Chapter 8
Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances Page 54
