Impossible, said the voice inside her, whom she had taken to calling Wicked Violet. Wicked Violet yearned for all sorts of impossible, very bad things. Wicked Violet must be ignored at all costs.
“I prefer Flowerpot to Charles.” The duke cocked his head, considering. “Speaking of which, how do you think this paragon would feel if he knew I have kissed you twice, and you have been within my chamber on no less than two occasions? And further that I am also the recipient of his seed pouch? Forgive me, Lady Violet, but you do not kiss as if you have a betrothed.”
She flushed, guilt skewering her anew. Of course, it was not any condemnation she hadn’t already heaped upon herself, but the reminder was no less jarring. She had never before been faithless with other suitors nor with Charles. What was it about the Duke of Strathmore that rendered her so?
Look at his mouth, cajoled Wicked Violet.
She would not. She would not.
She did.
And heat unfurled in her belly, and it was wrong and traitorous, and unwanted. But it would not go away. Nor could she remove her gaze from Strathmore’s lips now she had settled it there once more.
“Lady Violet?” Those lips tilted upward into a smirk.
He was amused by her flustered state, the cad.
“The…kissing was a mistake, and it shall not be repeated,” she forced herself to say, frowning at him. “And you may return the seed pouch to me if it pleases you.”
“It does not please me. I am keeping it. I find myself rather fond of the thing.”
She could not be certain if he wanted to keep the seed pouch to vex her, or if he truly meant to use it for some purpose. “Keep it then. I shall make Charles another.”
“And will you tell him you are aiding me in the quest to clear all suspicion from my name?” He raised a brow.
“I will be honest with him. If he asks, I shall answer.”
“And if he does not, you shall remain silent,” Strathmore guessed correctly.
Drat him.
“What I choose to tell my betrothed is none of your concern.” She moved away from him, trying to escape his masculine scent and the disturbing way his nearness affected her. “Now that we have established those particular boundaries, it is time we discuss the reason I am here.”
“Ah yes, the evidence of my treasonous villainy.” Bitterness laced his voice, and she suspected he made no effort to hide it.
“You do not seem like a traitor to me,” she observed. “What evidence has my brother found against you?”
Lucien had been deliberately vague about the reason for the Duke of Strathmore’s sudden residence at Lark House. He had merely said Strathmore was under investigation for treasonous behavior, that armed guards would be posted at all doors leading outside in an abundance of caution, and that Violet was to have no interaction with the duke.
“I am surprised Arden has not shouted it from the rooftops so all London can hear,” drawled Strathmore. “He discovered correspondence purportedly between myself and John Mahoney in my study. This unearthing occurred after my home had been broken into by an intruder. If I had caught the swine myself, I would have killed him, and I would not find myself in my current predicament.”
John Mahoney had been a dangerous Fenian ringleader who had recently met his end. According to The Times, he had been in possession of all manner of trappings for disguising himself, a number of armaments, and descriptions of plots to lay bombs all over London. The mere mentioning of the man’s name was enough to instill fear and anxiety in the hearts of anyone. If Strathmore had indeed colluded with such an evil man, it would be damning.
But Violet found herself inclined to believe in Strathmore’s innocence, and not just because of her undeniable attraction to him, but because there was something about him that seemed genuine. She was drawn to him, and she could not deny it regardless of how much she wanted to. He possessed wit and wisdom and charm—smug charm, it was true, but charm nonetheless.
“Does Lucien know someone was in your home?” Violet asked, her mind quickly spinning the facts he had presented. She was relieved for some distraction, for one thing, but she was also genuinely intrigued by the mystery before her.
The opportunity to spend more time gazing upon Strathmore’s mouth does not hurt, Wicked Violet reminded her.
“Of course he does. I told him as much the moment he turned up the forged documents, but he does not believe me. He thinks I ransacked my study myself just before his men arrived.”
Strathmore had wandered nearer to her now, for his scent had once more invaded her senses. He emanated raw, virile heat, and she felt that too, permeating the shield of indifference she had attempted to wrap herself in.
Who was she fooling?
The shield would not function. No woman could be indifferent to the Duke of Strathmore.
She forced herself to consider what he had revealed to her. “He supposes you have an accomplice then, within the League? A man who was able to warn you of the imminent arrival of my brother’s men?”
The duke nodded. “Either an accomplice or a friend.”
Violet did not follow Lucien’s logic and reasoning.
“But if you had time to tear apart your study, would you not have also had time to destroy the damning evidence instead? And would that not have been more efficient?”
“I suggested as much myself.” Strathmore raked his fingers through his dark hair, leaving the strands ruffled. “I may have been unable to hold my tongue, and I may have also said some regrettable things to Arden. Suffice it to say, my words were not well-received, and given the evidence against me, here I stand.”
“Regrettable things?” Her interest was piqued. “Such as?”
His lips thinned. “They are not fit for the ears of a lady.”
She blinked. “That only makes me wish to know more. Now you simply must tell me.”
He sighed. “I may have called him a Judas who would undermine the ranks of an indomitable organization by refusing to listen to reason. I also may have mentioned his coveting of the League from our former leader Carlisle was akin to cuckolding, and that the only reason for his ludicrous suspicions of his own men was his small…”
Here he allowed his words to trail off, apparently thinking better of completing them. She loved Lucien, and she knew her loyalties ought to lay firmly with him, but she also knew how overbearing and stubborn her brother could be. In the end, her curious nature got the better of her.
Violet could not help but wonder what he had been about to say. “Small mind?” she guessed.
“Something like that,” he grumbled, passing a hand over his face.
He appeared weary in that moment and far more vulnerable than she had seen him yet. Though he had only been in residence at Lark House for less than a week and she had known him for a handful of days, Violet fancied she could read him. He had a rakish air and an undeniable wickedness, but there was more to him than he allowed her to see, and she knew it.
And there was something about the Duke of Strathmore. Something undefinable and inexplicable. It was not just that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. It was more. Far more.
“You believe my brother suspects you because he does not like you,” she said, rather than allowing her mind to further probe the way she felt about the duke. It was complicated and unnecessary, and thoroughly unwanted.
“A combination,” he answered frankly. “I believe he suspects me because there is no love lost between us, and also because someone is doing his damnedest to make it appear as if I am guilty.”
It occurred to her, for the first time, she was the sister of the man who had imprisoned him, and that he was openly divulging his suspicions to her. She would never share what he had revealed to her to Lucien, regardless of how close she was to her brother. In his suspicion of Strathmore, Violet could not help but to feel Lucien was wrong. And she knew, better than anyone, just how unforgiving and persistent her brother could be.
“You can trust me,” she
told Strathmore. “I will not share anything you have told me with my brother.”
“Naturally not, or I will be compelled to tell him about your repeated visits to my bedchamber and the kisses we have shared.” Once more, his tone was brutally honest.
She winced, for he did not need to counterbalance her with the threat of such a revelation, but at least they had established clear boundaries and she knew where she stood. Or she thought she did. “Very well. That is perfectly fair. You may rest assured of my silence, and I can rest assured of yours as well. Have you any inkling at all as to who may be attempting to lay the blame at your door?”
He nodded toward the writing desk where he had been sitting when she entered. “I am drafting a list.”
“Excellent. Finish your list, and we shall go over it together when next we meet.” Already, she had lingered in his chamber for far too long, and she could not afford to risk being caught by remaining. Her brother would be furious with her, and Aunt Hortense… She shuddered to think of the repercussions should that august lady discover her treachery.
He nodded. “I want to be freed of this godforsaken burden more than you know, my lady, and I want my name to be cleared of any and all wrongdoing. I don’t give a goddamn what your brother thinks of me. But I do care that the world does not believe me a traitor. I did not devote half my bloody life to the protection of England and her citizenry to be cast into gaol because your brother is too quarrelsome and arrogant to see what is plainly before his nose.”
The duke’s words vibrated with a deep, passionate wealth of emotion. And she believed him. She believed in his innocence. She wanted to help him, and she vowed to herself, then and there, she would.
Because you want to kiss him, chortled Wicked Violet.
No. Because she believed in fairness. Because she believed in what was right, and because she knew all too well that her brother found forgiveness the most impossible act to master of all. He had never forgiven their mother for leaving them, and he did not seem inclined to extend an olive branch to anyone else either.
Lucien may have done Strathmore wrong, and she felt the burden of righting that wrong upon her shoulders now. “I understand you completely, Strathmore. Between the two of us, I feel quite confident we shall be able to isolate the culprit and remove any blemishes shadowing your name.”
“I wish I had your confidence, my lady,” he said grimly.
She met his gaze. “I know my brother better than you do. Better than anyone does. That ought to give you all the confidence you need.”
He inclined his head. “You should run before your brother descends upon my chamber and demands I wed you. After all, you have Flowerpot to consider.”
Charles.
How horrible of her to once more think of him only as an afterthought. A reminder accompanied by guilt and a pang of regret. Regret that she did not keep him foremost in her thoughts where he belonged. Guilt that she wanted the man before her more than she had ever desired her own betrothed.
She curtseyed, forcing an air of formality into the moment. Perhaps if she ignored what had happened earlier, she could forget all about it. “I bid you good evening, Your Grace.”
He bowed, equally formal and elegant. But his expression was all wicked when his gaze met hers. “Until our next kiss, Lady Violet.”
The air left her lungs, and she wished it was from outrage rather than anticipation, but she would not lie to herself. Nor could she ignore the answering spark his words sent to her core, turning into a pulsing, molten heat that rippled outward, a heaviness between her legs, an ache of need.
“There will not be another,” she snapped, before grabbing fistfuls of her skirts and making her retreat.
“Do not fool yourself,” he called after her, laughter in that sinner’s voice. “There will be many, many more. It is inevitable.”
Violet very much feared a clash with the dowager Countess of Almsley, Charles’s beloved mother and Violet’s chief nemesis in life, was inevitable. An uncomfortable silence had descended upon the dreary drawing room of Peyton House, her betrothed’s Belgravia townhome.
Violet was seated, with Aunt Hortense and Charles flanking her on each side, Lady Almsley opposite them all. The seating arrangement was rather symbolic of the relationship Violet shared with her future mother-in-law. She opposed Violet with the cutting calculation of a general facing an enemy army in battle. His mother was the reason, Violet was certain, why he had never settled down and married prior to courting her.
If one did not know better, one would suppose Lady Almsley did not wish for her son to take a wife because she wanted to assume the role herself. It was an unkind thought, and Violet knew it, but she could not banish it from her mind as she faced Charles’s mother now. The woman’s disapproval was as deafening as it was obvious as she sipped her tea and settled her cup back within its saucer.
“It was good of you to pay us a call,” Lady Almsley said without a hint of sincerity. Her tone, like her expression, was an undisguised composite of grim and sour. She looked at once as if she had sampled a spoiled dish at her greatest friend’s funeral dinner.
“We thank you for your kind hospitality,” Aunt Hortense answered with ease. “Do we not, Lady Violet?”
A curmudgeon though she may be, Aunt Hortense was a social warrior of decades, adroit at managing complex situations like a guerrilla soldier. She possessed not only grace and poise, but scorching condemnation and a generous helping of patience, all of which were required if one wished to spend more than five minutes in the presence of Lady Almsley.
Which, Violet was reasonably certain, no one, save Charles, ever truly wanted to do.
She blinked, summoning up a smile she did not feel. “Yes, of course. You are always so good to me, and I am grateful indeed to have found a betrothed with a mother who embraces me as another daughter.”
Lies, said Wicked Violet with glee. She is a harridan and you know it.
Lady Almsley’s jaw clenched, her expression shifting from displeasure to discomfort. “Indeed,” she murmured, before losing herself in the convenience of another sip of her tea.
Though Violet and Charles had been engaged for nearly six months already, his mother had not warmed to her as she had hoped she might. Instead, her ladyship made every effort to sabotage their budding relationship.
She had expressed her opinion on numerous occasions that Violet was too old at four-and-twenty to make Charles a good wife. Lady Almsley feared Violet was past her prime child-bearing years. She also frowned upon Violet’s grandmother, who had hailed from Spain, often remarking upon Violet’s dark hair and unseemly complexion. And in general, she also frowned upon most things Violet said and did, both those within her power to change and those not, as though her ladyship had been ordained by the Lord Himself to judge Violet and find her woefully lacking.
That had been before Violet had ever kissed the Duke of Strathmore. Before she had been within his bedchamber, alone with him, tempted to throw all caution to the wind and allow him to have his wicked way with her. How wrong of her it had been to commit such stunning sins, even if they had seemed worth every second during the commission of them.
If Lady Almsley should ever learn Violet’s trespasses, the woman’s wrath would be of biblical proportions. Indeed, if she had half an inkling of the bent of Violet’s thoughts now, Charles’s mother would expel her from Peyton House without a moment’s hesitation. The plain truth of it was, when she married Charles, Violet would also be marrying his mother, for her ladyship had insinuated herself into every part of his life, as creeping and clinging as ivy vines, and every bit as suffocating, without any of the lovely effect.
Violet could not help but feel the stinging censure of Lady Almsley’s stern regard with the precision of a knife’s blade. She averted her gaze, lowering it to the tepid tea in her cup for fear if she met her ladyship’s icy stare, her guilt would shine through.
She would throw her tea in your face if she knew you were kissing
the Duke of Strathmore only yesterday, Wicked Violet reminded her.
Yes, it had been just yesterday that miraculous mouth had been upon hers, and yet, it may have been a lifetime ago for all the differences between the scene in which she found herself now and the evening before, closeted in the privacy of Strathmore’s chamber. A sharp yearning to return there struck her, and she banished it as unworthy and impossible.
Here was her future, with the man seated at her side. Strathmore was a cause at best, and a means to entertain herself at worst. He was not the man she would share her life with. He would never be her husband.
More’s the pity, whispered Wicked Violet.
Drat her feeble, wandering mind.
His mouth was lovely, and he kissed like an angel and a devil combined, but that was mere physical gratification. Charles loved her. Love trumped all else, and she needed to remind herself of what was most important. She needed to arm herself, to use her reason like a shield. She could not—nay, she would not—kiss Strathmore again. It was wrong.
Additional silence ensued, interrupted only by the gentle clink of Sèvres porcelain in saucers and the ominous ticking of a mantle clock. Time passed in stilted silence. Aunt Hortense made a rumble that sounded as if it were either a choke or a snore. A quick glance in her direction, however, confirmed she was still awake and appeared hale and hearty as ever.
Charles cleared his throat. “Perhaps I might show you my dendrobium ochreatum, Lady Violet.”
Finally, a reprieve from his dragon mother’s censure.
“That would be lovely,” Violet said hastily, eager to be free of the smothering air of the drawing room, even if she had no earthly notion what a dendrobi-nonsense-ochrea-whatever was.
“Alone in the conservatory?” Lady Almsley demanded, her tone steeped in disapproval, possessing the stern lash of a whip. “I cannot think it wise, my lord.”
Of course she did not think it wise. Violet compressed her lips as she forced herself to hold her tongue. How she would ever survive with this managing, controlling woman interfering in her life with Charles she could not say, other than that the future seemed bleaker with each passing moment.
Dangerous Duke Page 5
