She surprised him then by withdrawing from his touch, then reaching up and cupping his face with her satiny palms. Through the layer of his well-groomed beard, he felt that touch like a brand. He stilled, unable to look anywhere else, unable to think of anything else.
“I will crochet anything you wish, Strathmore.”
How foolish he felt then. He did not need the scarf. Did not need to beg for one. Here was his cue to return to the task at hand. To revert to the hardened, emotionless husk of a man he ordinarily was.
He cleared his throat. “The crocheting can wait, my lady. For now, let us deal with what awaits us. You will leave the chamber and go into the hall. I will follow you and come up behind you, putting one arm around your throat and holding my dagger to you with the other. You must act surprised and fearful, but you must always remain limp and willing, so that I can lead you about as necessary.”
“I am going to crochet you a scarf in your favorite color,” she said, as if she had not heard a word he had just uttered.
And damn it if she didn’t shatter something inside him with that one sentence. A handful of words. The promise of an abysmal scarf—he had no doubts as to the quality of anything she created, for he had been living with the supposed seed pouch for days now—ought not to be enough to bring him to his knees, when not even cuts and lashes and beatings had.
But it did.
So he did the only thing he could think of doing in that moment. He kissed her. Not her lips, for if he had her mouth beneath his, there would be no stopping him. Instead, he kissed the smooth, pale flesh of her forehead, as if he were anointing her with a benediction. And perhaps he was. Certainly, he was marking her as his.
“Thank you,” he breathed, and it was all he could say, but he knew it was enough by the way her eyes darkened and the gold and brown flecks within them shimmered.
He would wear the bloody scarf every day, even in the summer, if it pleased her.
She smiled up at him, and he knew he would happily take on the whole world for her.
“What is your favorite color?” she asked.
He did not even hesitate. “Purple.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “Truly?”
It hadn’t been before, but it was now. “Truly.”
Her smile deepened. “Then purple is what it shall be. But we had better get our plan sorted. You pretend to take me prisoner in the hall. What happens next?”
He was grateful once more for her uncanny ability to see him as no one else ever had. For her realization he required a change of subject before he knew it himself.
“Next, we will make our way to the street,” he said, “where a carriage will be waiting for us not far from here. From there, we will fly as far and as fast as we can travel, until we disappear for a time.”
If everything were to go according to plan, that is. He had gone to great efforts to send word of his needs to his connections with Lady Violet’s help, but being isolated from the rest of the world, he could not be entirely certain his messages had reached their intended destinations.
All he could do was hope.
Chapter Nine
Violet was still shaking with a brutal combination of fear and excitement by the time she and the Duke of Strathmore reached their destination for the evening.
She stood in the front parlor of a small home in the countryside, well beyond London. Modest and small, it was nevertheless cheerful, with brightly striped wallpaper. Strathmore had picked the lock to gain entrance, reassuring her he knew the owner when she had protested, adding that picking locks was one of his talents as an agent of the Crown.
In the wake of their abrupt race from Lark House and London itself, Violet and Strathmore had not spoken much. He had been preoccupied with making certain they were not being followed.
She had been alternately preoccupied by hoping she had not just made the most disastrous decision of her life, and fearing she was falling in love with the strange, reckless, beautiful man she had run away with.
The man she was going to marry, she reminded herself, as she laced her fingers together at her waist and paced the confines of the parlor. The home was empty, not a servant or other soul to be found, but its waxed floors and lived-in scent suggested its owners were not far. Strathmore had been quiet when she had inquired where they were stopping and why.
Much of him was steeped in mystery, and she could see now it would take some time for him to open up to her fully. For him to trust her. Already, he had trusted her enough with this: himself, the great risk they had taken for his life and freedom. He had led her from Lark House without injuring anyone. Indeed, he had almost made it seem too easy, too simple.
The blade he had fashioned had been held near her throat, but never against it. Using her as a willing shield, he had retreated from Lark House, and he had done it so quietly, with such finesse, that only two men had even been aware of what had occurred, before she and Strathmore emerged from a servant’s entrance and found their way with ease to the waiting carriage.
How he had managed to have a carriage ready and awaiting them was yet another mystery, though she imagined the missive he had instructed her to smuggle out of Lark House on his behalf had been the source.
With a deep breath, she paced the length of the chamber one more time. She had done it. Strange how leaving with the duke did not make her feel any differently. If anything, it made her feel more at ease, as if she had finally reached the place where she belonged.
By Strathmore’s side.
Yes, she had meant it when she said the words to him earlier. It was difficult indeed to describe, or even understand herself, for the sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced before him. A part of her had been missing, and she had not known it until the moment he had fallen into her lap. But she had found it, there in his eyes. Being with him felt…
She turned on her heel, and suddenly, there he was, looming on the threshold of the chamber; tall, dark, debonair.
Hers.
Violet stopped, losing her breath. Losing her nerve.
How could this beautiful man ever truly be any woman’s, let alone hers? How could she imagine he would ever want her in return, a plain Violet like her namesake, rather than a glorious lily or a rose?
“You were gone for quite some time,” she greeted him, instead of giving voice to the multitude of foolish thoughts roiling through her mind.
“I was helping the driver tend to the horses,” he said simply. “He is spending the night in rather cramped quarters in an uncomfortable stable on our account, so I deemed it only fair.”
It was not an action she could imagine a duke taking, endeavoring to help a coachman, but she supposed the Duke of Strathmore was no ordinary duke. His body was covered in scars, he did and said everything he should not, and he did not seem to fear anything or anyone.
He was dangerous.
“Are there not servants here to do such a duty?” she asked, curious once more about where he had brought her. “This home certainly seems lived in, and yet it appears as if there is no one about.”
He flashed her a brief smile, and though it was small and fleeting, she felt it to her toes. “The less witnesses we have, the better. Fortunately, I was able to get word to some of my acquaintances in advance of our plans, and this home is ours for the evening. No one will ever suspect you and I are staying here this night. We are safe.”
Safe.
Just the two of them.
Somehow, that sounded anything but safe. It sounded instead a myriad of things. Wicked. Promising. Delightful.
Terrifying.
She looked at his beautiful mouth, wondering how she could be alone with him without wanting to kiss him. Without kissing him. Without throwing herself into his arms like the wanton she had become.
What is wrong with that? asked Wicked Violet.
Nothing, said her heart.
Oh dear. It did not bode well for her heart and Wicked Violet to be in accord.
&nb
sp; She needed to distract herself. She also needed to stop ogling his gorgeous lips. “You are certain no one will find us here?”
It was the only coherent question she could find to ask, aside from, Will you please kiss me again, and that would be a very, very bad idea.
“As certain as I can be of anything, my lady.” He approached her, and the crisp scent of the countryside was on his coat, mingling with pine and musk. He wore neither hat nor gloves, his wavy, dark hair ruffled and falling rakishly over one blue eye. “If I am an agent of the Crown worth half my weight, I ensured no one will be capable of tracking us. But we cannot linger here beyond morning light. We are still too near to town, and your brother is likely already tearing apart London with his bare hands, determined to find you and send me to rot in prison. We will move on to our destination, and when we are there, we will wed as quickly as we can.”
His expression was solemn, but his eyes blazed. He enjoyed this, she realized. He appeared so very vibrant, so alive. His vitality made him even more irresistible, and she did not realize she had even moved until she stood nearer to him than was wise, so near her hem brushed over his shoes. So near she could touch him if she wished.
Oh, how she wished.
But she did not touch him. Not yet. Instead, she forced her mind to the tenuous situation in which they now found themselves. “Lucien will send me to Albemarle for certain if he finds us before we are married.”
She had not meant to make the worried observation aloud, but now she had, the duke was scowling down at her.
“He has threatened to send you away before?” he asked in a voice that was silken seduction wrapped around steel.
“Once,” she admitted. “When I spoke to him of you.”
“The devil.” His eyes narrowed. “What did you say to him about me, spitfire, to make him so angry?”
“I defended you.”
It was unwise, she was certain, to make such a revelation to him. Just as she was certain it was unwise to allow his sobriquet to send a frisson of warmth straight through her. She had already sent enough caution to the wind with her madcap scheme of running away with him. For the sake of her heart, she knew she ought to proceed with caution. After all, they were not yet wed.
His lush lips quirked into an arrogant smile. “Is it wrong of me to enjoy the notion of you as my champion?”
“No.” She grinned back at him, unable to shake the fantasy they were the only two people in the world. For a beat, all the danger and deception, everything they had done this evening, fell away, and they were Violet and Strathmore, man and woman, soon to be husband and wife. “I will gladly serve as your champion any time you like, so long as you continue to bestow such smiles upon me.”
“You like it?” His smile deepened, his eyes glittering with deviltry and a hint of something darker and deeper.
She flushed. A full body flush, every inch of her skin growing heated, aflame from head to toe. He was looking at her as if he could read her every wicked thought. Do not think about his mouth, she told herself. Do not even look one more time.
She tried to think of Lucien. Of Aunt Hortense. Of Charles. And there was an answering clench of guilt in her belly, to be sure, but it was replaced by the intensity of the Duke of Strathmore. He was smoldering. Stealing all the air from the chamber. From her lungs, specifically. From her mind, precisely.
Her gaze dropped. Blast him, even his teeth were charming, their only imperfection a slight overlap between his bottom teeth that somehow rendered him all the more alluring.
“It is a pleasant smile,” she managed to say at last, striving for a tone that was careless and easy. As if he did not turn her insides into a sizzling heap of ash. As if she were not, even now, a conflagration for him, longing to throw herself into his arms and kiss him senseless.
“Ah.” He canted his head, considering her with a thorough stare that saw far more than she wanted it to. “I seem to recall an occasion upon which you also referred to my kisses as pleasant. Shall we disprove this statement in the same manner?”
Yes! cried Wicked Violet.
“No.” She kept her tone as tart and prim as possible, reminding herself that, while she had done something exceedingly reckless and brazen and likely foolhardy this evening, she must not forget she was a lady. “We are not yet married, Strathmore, and though Aunt Hortense is not here to act the part of chaperone, I must insist we both act with decorum until the vows are spoken.” She paused, realizing how her words had sounded. “And afterward.”
It would be what Aunt Hortense wished for her to say.
“Decorum,” he repeated, raising a lone brow.
How did the man make a word with such a bland and rigid definition sound like a sin she wanted to commit with him?
“Yes.” Yes to sinning with him. “No.”
She blinked, confusing herself. He had her flustered and overly warm and saying and doing things the old Violet never would have done. But the old Violet had been too busy crocheting seed pouches for Charles to dare to even dream of an adventure with a too-handsome duke her brother intended to arrest.
He stepped nearer, touching her for the first time since they had made their great escape, aside from the impersonal and gentlemanly touches he had employed to assist her into and out of the carriage. His long, elegant fingers, which were neither a working man’s nor truly a lord’s, but somewhere vaguely in between—much like Strathmore himself—skimmed over the hollow at the base of her throat.
She inhaled sharply, her pulse pounding with such embarrassing ferocity, she knew he could absorb the frantic rhythm with his fingertips. He held them still, a gentle touch over her heartbeat.
“It cannot be both yes and no at once, can it?” he asked softly. “It must be either yes or no.”
Her cheeks stung with heat. Why must she forever be making a ninny of herself before him? She wondered again why he wished to marry her. Likely to spite her brother. In a sense, she was marrying him for the same reason, so she supposed there ought to be some validity in that.
“You are correct,” she agreed. “It must either be yes or no.”
But sometimes, sometimes it was gray.
Those fingers of his traveled, skimming lower, flirting with the high, lace-trimmed collar of her modest day gown.
“I am confused, my lady, and I fear you must help me. Am I acting with decorum now?”
Was it her overactive and overeager imagination, or had he dipped his head lower?
She swallowed. “No.”
He toyed with the lace. “How about now?”
“Still no.”
He removed his hand, and she felt the loss of his touch in her core. He stepped back, putting some distance between them. Distance she did not want, regardless of how much she ought to recognize the need to maintain it.
“Now?” he asked, watching her with that predatory glint in his eye, as if he would swallow her whole.
Two things occurred to her then. One, she may have gravely misjudged her ability to keep the Duke of Strathmore behaving himself. Two, she wanted him to swallow her whole, and do whatever he wished to her.
Still, a third, she did not want him to act with decorum. She wanted his hand upon her breast, cupping it as he had that day in the salon when she had tripped him.
“Yes,” she forced herself to say, knowing it was in her best interest to maintain her wits.
It simply would not do to allow herself to become swept away by the Duke of Strathmore. She was not entirely certain she could trust him after all. She believed in his innocence, but she did not truly know him. Not yet. Furthermore, there was something about him—that mysterious, enigmatic quality—that suggested he was a man who did not allow anyone to know him.
Could she break his walls? Would she ever get to know the real Duke of Strathmore?
“Have I told you I find you irresistible?” He took another step in retreat, putting more distance between them. “What about this, Lady Violet? Am I acting with decorum? I am
not even touching you.”
No, but he may as well have. His first question hit her with full force, directly in her middle, blossoming outward, radiating waves of heat everywhere. Especially between her thighs.
The Duke of Strathmore found her, Violet West, irresistible?
“I do not know which question to answer,” she muttered, half to herself.
His smile deepened once more. “I believe you already have given me the answer I need, my lady. But for now, the hour grows late, and I am certain you must be famished. Would you care to dine?”
Her stomach chose that moment to growl, and she pressed a palm over it, willing it to stop. “Who will be cooking?”
“I will.” His countenance hardened, becoming even more impossible to read than it ordinarily was.
“You?” she repeated, hearing the disbelief in her own voice.
He surprised her once more, a brilliant grin breaking through his taut expression. “Yes, me. Who else? Come, my lady. I will prepare dinner for you, and while I do, you may regale me with your singular notions of decorum.”
He extended his arm to her then, as if he were a gallant suitor leading her onto a ballroom dance floor for a waltz beneath a hundred glittering lights. Decorum was the last thing she wanted to discuss with the Duke of Strathmore, unless it was a dialogue involving the means by which they could eschew it altogether.
Wicked Violet was fast becoming the only Violet there was.
But Strathmore cooking? It was a potent lure. Almost as potent a lure as his fine face and form, and sullen mouth were. She suppressed a sigh. How would she ever survive this night alone with him without being tempted to abandon all her good intentions and every tenet Aunt Hortense had ever taught her?
With a sigh of defeat, she hastened forward, accepting the duke’s arm.
After all, she was starving, and he alone could provide the sustenance she required.
Chapter Ten
“That smells heavenly,” Lady Violet commented from her perch on a chair in the small kitchen of the Berkshire home he had purchased several years ago.
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