Oh, how foolish she felt by the murky light of the afternoon three days later, when the world outside was gray with fog and drenched by drizzle. Why had she thought Strathmore would suggest himself?
She dropped a stitch and cursed again. Her distraction was getting the better of her.
“My lady, is anything amiss?” asked her current guard, a tall and menacing-looking man named Pye, of all things, from the threshold of the small morning salon she had chosen to crochet within today.
Lord, how she hated crocheting.
And Lord, how she detested being watched.
It rendered sneaking into the Duke of Strathmore’s chamber impossible.
Oh dear. There she went again, thinking of him.
She frowned at the errant thought and Pye both. “I am merely growing frustrated with my crocheting. I am not very adept at the art, I am afraid.”
“My mother is a deft hand at it,” Pye informed her helpfully from the doorway. “Perhaps I can ask her for some advice and pass it along to you, my lady. That scarf looks right lovely though. Anyone would be pleased to wear it.”
“What about you, Mr. Pye?” she asked on impulse. “Would you care to wear it?”
Pye, who looked rather rough and brutish, flushed and shuffled his feet. “I would be honored, my lady.”
Was he flirting with her? Yes, she rather fancied he was, and she did not mind. The attention buoyed her sagging spirits. Charles did not need the scarf. Perhaps his mother ought to crochet one for him.
That was rather spiteful of her, and most unbecoming, and she knew it, but Wicked Violet was like an epidemic, and plain old Violet was growing vexed with everyone in her life, from her brother to her betrothed to her…to the Duke of Strathmore. For he was nothing to her, she forced herself to acknowledge. Perhaps not even a friend. She had offered him aid, and he had accepted. He had kissed her, and she had liked it.
But none of those things meant anything at all, did they, if not bolstered by actions?
Marry anyone else.
Perhaps she would marry Mr. Pye, just to spite every other man in her life, and he would proudly sport her misshapen scarves made with string the color of dung. There was no other means of describing the hue of the scarf she’d been distractedly crafting, and she knew it. She had chosen it with Charles in mind, for he loved brown, as it reminded him of the soil, and he adored dirt.
Is this what you want for the rest of your life? Wicked Violet chose to re-emerge and ask in that moment. Crocheting scarves for Charles, living in the shadows of his mother and his plants?
No, of course not. The answer was plain as day. She wanted adventure. Excitement. She longed for the unpredictable. The enigmatic.
The Duke of Strathmore’s face came to mind.
Drat him.
She smiled at Mr. Pye. “This scarf shall be yours, sir, and I will be most honored to see you wear it in cooler weather.”
An idea formed then, and it was a wicked one indeed. The very best sort, she was beginning to suspect, if she could only dare to find the courage to carry it out. And there was no doubt about it, the execution of her idea would require boundless bravado, and nothing less.
“Thank you, my lady.” Pye’s flush deepened. “I would be honored. If His Grace allows it, that is. I could not accept such a generous gift without his approval.”
Referring to any of her creations as a gift, let alone a generous one, was a stretch. Bless Mr. Pye’s heart. She had a feeling he would prove easy to manipulate.
“Dear me, I do believe I require a finer hook for the more intricate details on this scarf. You would not mind, would you, Mr. Pye, if I were to go and retrieve it? I know I have the proper size in my chamber, but I am not precisely certain where. It may take me some time to find it. I do believe my Aunt Hortense has one if I cannot find mine.”
She rose, leaving her crocheting abandoned. Even Aunt Hortense, who possessed an indefatigable constitution, had closeted herself within her chamber today, claiming a megrim. Here, perhaps, was her chance.
“Of course, my lady.” Pye was only too happy to please her, and she was doubly grateful for his lenience. Her other jailers had not been so pleasant or easily swayed. “I shall await you here.”
She gave him her most beaming smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pye.”
Holding her skirts in both hands, she was off, sweeping past him, rushing toward the staircase before anyone else caught sight of her and put an end to her freedom. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she raced for the steps, taking them two at a time. Lucien had left for the Home Office earlier that morning, and she did not think he had yet returned.
Which meant she may have a window of time in which she could set her madcap plan into action. And it was indeed madcap. The mere thought of what she was about to do set butterflies free in her belly and made her knees feel weak. It was irregular and unusual. Highly perilous.
But her mind had been made. She was weary of everything. She needed escape. So too did someone else she knew.
Marry anyone else.
Gads, how his words stung as she raced up the steps, leaving Mr. Pye far behind. She only had a limited amount of time for her freedom, and she needed to make the best use of it. This may be her only opportunity to seek out Strathmore once again on her own, depending upon Lucien’s wishes.
One day, she would not have to cleave to her brother’s whims any longer. One day, she would be free. And it was up to Violet to find that day, to make it happen.
Make it happen, she would.
Breathless from her hurried climb, she reached the top step. With a careful glance over her shoulder to be certain no one else either watched or followed—bless Pye and his love of her abysmal scarf and his inherently trusting nature—she hastened down the hall leading her to the portion of Lark House that was diametrically opposed to hers.
It was the place where Strathmore’s chamber was. She found his door and knocked, her nerves making her nauseated as she cast wild glances all about her, praying no one would come forward. When there was no answer, she took a deep breath and opened the door slightly.
“Strathmore?” she whispered into the chamber.
He did not answer, but the sound of another door opening down the hall was enough to startle her into motion. She hastened over the threshold, closing the door at her back, hoping no one had seen her enter. A cursory evaluation of the chamber suggested the duke was long gone. But then it occurred to her he was perhaps in the adjoining bathing chamber.
When Lucien had replaced the interior of much of Lark House the year prior, most of the chambers had been refitted with adjoining bathing chambers.
Which meant it was possible Strathmore was at his bath. True, it was the height of the afternoon, and true, it was an odd time indeed for bathing, but now she had found the bravado and the excuse to find her way to his chamber, she needed to act.
She made her way to the adjoining bathing chamber and found the door closed. She knocked once on the door. Then twice when no one answered.
“Enter,” he called at last, just when she was questioning the wisdom of her actions and thinking she ought to run and hide, simultaneously.
He was within.
Perhaps in his bath.
Which meant he was also unclothed.
The knowledge stole her breath and sent a current of heat straight to her core. Wicked Violet reveled in it. So did Regular Violet.
Her hand was on the latch. And just like that, she entered. Stepped forward. A wave of humid heat hit her, along with his scent in full force. She stopped after the first step, heart beating far too fast. He was not in the tub after all, and neither was he naked, though he was in a state of dishabille that was positively scandalous since she was an unwed lady alone with him.
She devoured the sight of him dressed in a loose silk robe belted at his waist. A small vee of his chest was visible, kissed with a smattering of dark hair. It was the first time she had ever seen a man’s bare chest before, and
now that she had been given a glimpse, she wanted more. She wanted to see it in its entirety.
His feet were bare, his calves strong and masculine, covered too with dark hair to match the too-long, wet waves upon his head. She had intruded upon him in one of his most intimate moments, and seeing him thus not only shook her, it stole her breath.
“Lady Violet, what are you doing here?” he asked calmly, his tone dark and deep, sinuous as a curl of smoke unfurling in the air.
His question drew her gaze up his lean, tall form, once more, back over his beautiful chest to settle upon his mouth. Ah, that mouth. It was made for sin, sculpted and full and enticing. Smiling at her now in knowing fashion. Saying her name.
“Lady Violet?”
Oh, what a ninny she was. Standing here gaping at him after she had trespassed in his chamber yet again. She forced her mind to function. Forced her lips to move. To form words. Meaningful words.
“Y-you were bathing. In the midst of the day.” It emerged from her as half observation, half accusation.
Fantastic, said Wicked Violet snidely. Now he will think you a fool.
He grinned. “Has my jailer made a decree prohibiting me from bathing now?”
She blinked, trying to dispel the unwanted flames burning inside her. Attempting to remain calm and poised. As poised as she could manage, anyway. “Of course not, it is merely that one does not often bathe in the afternoon.”
He shrugged, unrepentant. “I do my best thinking in the bath. The warm water calms me, soothing my listless devils. Given recent events, I cannot help but to think my time here is limited and your dearest brother will be keen to see me put on trial for my supposed sins.”
The notion of Lucien sending Strathmore to prison, and the thought of the duke being prosecuted for treason, made her mouth go dry. “He has said nothing of the sort to me. I cannot think, given what you have told me about the limited evidence he has against you, and given your very presence here, that he has enough to prove your guilt.”
Strathmore raised a brow. “Do you truly believe he would inform you of his intentions concerning me, my lady? I had an interview with him and Swift a few days ago, and then another each of the following days. I can plainly see the direction of the train I am traveling in, and it is barreling down the tracks straight to Newgate, no stops in between.”
She shivered at the certainty in his tone, wondering how he could be so calm and cool when he spoke of the specter of his imminent arrest and trial. He had such an ease about him, as if nothing could perturb him, and she could not decide if it was a façade he wore, or if he was truly so inured by the life he had led to expect the worst and face it without fear.
Violet had a feeling it was the latter, rather than the former.
But his revelations gave her new purpose, a greater sense of urgency, and with those twin impetuses, she too thundered forth, much like the figurative train he had just described. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage.
And that was when she noticed it, odd markings upon his chest, marring his otherwise perfect flesh. Without thought, she moved forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed her bare hand against his hot skin.
“What happened to you here?” she asked, tracing a line to the edge of his dressing gown where it continued beyond her sight.
His breath caught, and she could not be certain if it was because of her touch, or if it was rooted in embarrassment that she had seen his scars.
“Torture,” he said simply, his fingers closing around her wrist in a firm grip. “Endured for the sake of my Crown and country.”
His hold on her was not painful, but it was firm, and she knew he could hold her in place if he wished, or hurt her if he liked. But she also knew, without hesitation, that he never would; that if she made to free herself from him, he would allow it.
But the playful ease he had exuded when she had first arrived had dissipated. Now, he was tense beneath her touch, body held stiffly, shoulders back. His lovely mouth was a hard, firm line she longed to kiss into surrender.
She did not. Instead, she moved just her forefinger, tracing the scar gently. She ached to think someone had taken a weapon to this man at some point. Someone had cut into his perfect flesh, had made him bleed, had given him pain.
“Do you want to tell me?” she asked.
“Would it repulse you any less with an explanation?”
She glanced up from his battle-scarred chest to his face, falling into his startling blue eyes. “I do not find your scars repulsive, Strathmore. I find them admirable, signs of your bravery.”
His lip curled. “Do not seek to mollify me with words, my lady. I know I have a pretty face and the body of a beast.”
The urge to undo the knot on the belt at his waist and bare him completely to her seeking gaze struck her then, along with an arrow of heat to her core. She would show him how beautiful he was, from head to foot. She would kiss all his scars, run her hands over him, show him with her touch just how much she longed for him.
She settled for just one of those acts now, pressing her lips to the scar. How warm and smooth his skin was, interrupted only by the raised line of his healed flesh and the hair stippling his chest. A jolt of awareness coursed through her. His scent, pine and musk and male, was all around her, heady and delicious. She inhaled, wishing she could forever remain this close to him, that she could capture the sweetness of this intimacy and trap it in her heart.
He made a low sound—part growl, part grunt—, the only sign her kiss affected him. She tipped back her head, looked into his gorgeous face.
And that was when the words she’d been determined to say to him emerged at last. “Marry me.”
Griffin stared into Lady Violet’s upturned face, certain he had misheard her. His heart was thumping, his cock was rigid and demanding, tenting his robe and, thank Christ, but she had not seemed to notice. When she had kissed his ugly scars, it had required every bit of willpower he possessed to keep from taking her in his arms and carting her to the bedchamber, throwing her upon his bed, and making his claim upon her, then and there.
Mine, roared something primitive inside him. And it would not be stopped. It became a litany, ringing inside him like a hymn he would always know how to sing.
Mine, mine, mine.
She could not go to Flowerpot and become his wife. Could not belong to such a milksop.
Not this intrepid, daring, beautiful lady, who somehow managed to find her way into his chamber when she had guards dogging her every move. Who believed in his innocence, when her own brother did not. Who wanted to learn how to shoot a pistol, so she could protect herself. Who was bold and fierce and defiant in a way he had never before seen in a female.
But with all that roaring, and all that blood rushing in unison to his galloping heart and his throbbing cock, surely he had not just heard Lady Violet demand he marry her? Nay, surely not.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?” he asked.
“I-I know it is, ah, an unusual request,” she stammered, her face flushing a becoming shade of pink. “But think upon it for a moment before denying me outright, I beg of you.”
There had been no mistake then. The two words she had uttered moments before had been precisely as he had heard them. Precisely as his reeling mind and equally stunned heart had concluded.
Marry me.
For a beat, a wave of triumph rolled over him with such sudden ferocity, he feared it would drown him altogether. She had made it shockingly easy for him. The plan he had formed over the last few days was going to be easier to execute than he had expected. He would marry Lady Violet, grant himself the time he needed to clear his name, and then he would go to the Home Office with the evidence of Arden’s incompetence.
Griffin had no doubt the Home Office would be infuriated by Arden’s wrongheaded insistence upon finding guilt where none existed. The need to ruin the duke, to force his removal as League leader, had begun burning with the fiery fuel of vengeance within him. And
then Arden would live thereafter with the reminder of his folly. He would face Griffin, knowing he had wronged him, knowing Griffin had married Lady Violet because of his own ineptitude.
But he forced his expression to show nothing of his pleasure. Instead, he frowned down at her. “Marry you, my lady? Have you forgotten you already possess a betrothed? I cannot think Flowerpot would agree to your marrying the both of us, and nor would I. I do not share my women.”
The thought of Lady Violet as his woman made a fresh surge of primal possession charge through him. It was not only the rightness of it—there was something about her that had called to him, from the moment he had first laid eyes upon her, in a deep, intrinsic sense—but also the physicality of making it so. Of stripping her bare, of learning her curves with his hands and mouth, owning her with his lips and his tongue and his cock, of sinking inside her.
It was right. It was going to happen. He would worry about the consequences of all the rest later. For now, he had to live in the moment. To make the proper decisions to protect his bloody neck from the hangman’s noose, for once he was commended to prison, his chances of proving his innocence and ever walking away a free man would be exponentially decreased. Lady Violet West could be his last hope for more time, the time he would require to clear his name.
Her flush deepened. “I will end the betrothal with Charles, naturally, if you…that is to say, if you were to indicate your interest in becoming my husband.”
He would dearly like to indicate his interest in the form of his lips upon hers and his tongue in her mouth, but he refrained with the greatest of efforts. Griffin did not wish to seem too eager, and nor did he want Lady Violet to suspect he harbored ulterior motives or had settled upon her as his salvation on his own.
No, indeed.
Husband.
The word ought to inspire some fear in him. For a devoted lifelong bachelor, husband had always been an expletive, rather than an aspiration. But for some bewildering reason, the thought of becoming that very role to Lady Violet—making her his duchess, taking her to bed, making her his—appealed in a way it ought not.
Dangerous Duke Page 10
