Carlisle considered Ludlow, his countenance unreadable. “Ought I to be concerned, brother?”
Clay threw back his head and laughed, the sound so loud, it echoed off the walls of the old study, in part because of its sparse furnishings and bare walls. “Concerned about what, old man?”
“Need I remind you which of us is the eldest?” Carlisle returned.
For a moment, Griffin forgot about the troubles facing him like the gaping maw of Hades, and instead, he marveled at the change in the two men he had come to know over the years as his comrades. They were half brothers with an incredible bond, Ludlow having been born on the wrong side of the blanket to the woman Carlisle considered his mother. Where once they had been rigid and unforgiving, both men seemed somehow happier now. More relaxed. There was an ease about them, a calm pleasure, as if all was well in their worlds.
He wanted to believe it was borne of their departure from the League, for his service to the Crown had been a simultaneous burden and joy. But another part of him, the part that had been roused for the first time by Violet, suspected it was the love they had found with their respective wives that had truly transformed them.
“You look and act older than I,” Ludlow countered.
“But I am younger, nonetheless,” Carlisle pointed out smoothly.
Truly, Griffin did not comprehend this sibling banter, having no living siblings of his own. His mother had suffered half a dozen miscarriages, and his only living brother had died as a babe. To someone who had spent a lifetime without anyone sharing that blood bond, it seemed deuced odd, this penchant for squabbling.
He cleared his throat. “As much as I enjoy watching the two of you argue as if you are both yet in the nursery, I feel compelled to remind you the rather large matter of my impending incarceration looms.”
The brothers exchanged a look, and only Christ knew what it meant, for Griffin certainly did not.
“All roads lead back to Arden,” Carlisle said then, taking up the reins once more. “Whether he is guilty of hiding the incriminating documents in your study in an effort to cast guilt upon you or not, he is the man holding the sword and leading the charge, is he not?”
“Yes.” Arden was also Violet’s brother, and the more Griffin ruminated upon that fact, the greater his discomfort grew. “He is determined to see me in prison, that much is undeniable. Violet told me as much herself. It was what spurred our flight and our impromptu wedding vows.”
“That was the only reason, I am certain of it,” Ludlow said solemnly, the bite of sarcasm underscoring his words.
Ludlow’s inference nettled.
“Saving my neck seemed of rather great import at the time, I must admit,” he defended.
“And it had nothing at all to do with the lovely Lady Violet,” Carlisle added, his tone teasing.
Since when did the Duke of bloody Carlisle tease? Griffin would have sworn upon his mother’s grave the man did not possess a lighthearted bone in his body. He had to admit it was almost as if he was seeing a different man entirely, and the same could be said of Ludlow. Griffin did not know what the devil to do with such unabashed, blinding contentment.
It almost made him ill.
Ill with jealousy, but that was something he did not wish to pursue for the moment. Right now, all he could manage to do was attempt to find the man responsible for planting the false evidence in his study. Freeing himself. Proving his innocence.
Being Violet’s husband, said a voice inside himself.
But it was a foreign voice for a foreign feeling. Griffin was not accustomed to caring for anyone other than himself for the last few years. Being responsible for someone else was sudden and alarming. Alarming, because it felt far, far too comfortable.
She felt far too comfortable, as if she fit him perfectly. And in more ways than merely the tight grip of her cunny and the match of her luscious curves to his unforgiving planes.
“Oh, Christ, look at you,” said Carlisle then. “Look at him, Clay. He is following in our illustrious footsteps.”
“You are falling in love with your wife,” Ludlow said plainly.
Griffin swallowed, staring back at the two men who currently held his freedom in their hands. The thought of falling in love with Violet took his breath. It made his gut clench. It made his palms sweat and his mouth go dry and his jaw tense. The idea of falling in love on its own was anathema, something he had never envisioned for himself, an impossibility. But the notion he was falling in love with Violet was more than he could bear.
Because it was so painfully close to the truth.
Because he feared it was true.
And that was why he denied it swiftly. “I am doing nothing of the sort. I have no fear of falling in love with her. She is the sister of my greatest enemy.”
And falling in love with her would mean his complete vulnerability. It would mean granting another person the power to hurt him. He had been hurt enough in his past. The scars all over his battered body attested to that. And he had no wish to experience such helplessness or anything like it ever again.
Chapter Seventeen
After sharing breakfast with the ladies of the house, all of whom were lovely and welcoming, from the Duchess of Carlisle to Mr. Ludlow’s wife, the dowager Duchess of Burghly, to Mrs. Ludlow, the warm and sweet matriarch of the entire group, Violet could not contain the restlessness within her. She was grateful to make new friends, having possessed no female friends thus far in her life, but it was perhaps also that shortcoming that rendered her interactions with them stilted and awkward.
But perhaps it was also because Violet was not accustomed to strangers, and she found herself feeling suddenly, painfully shy. Her entire life had been transformed in the span of a few days, and she was still catching her breath. With the whirlwind of new faces to add to the mix, she was at a loss. She had always been the sort who preferred time spent alone to time with others.
Only Griffin had changed that, for each meeting with him had been new and thrilling and unlike the last. He had opened her to change, but not so thoroughly she did not feel like a fish plucked from the water without him at her side.
And so she excused herself and made her way to the study, knowing it was where Griffin had closeted himself along with the Duke of Carlisle, Mr. O’Malley, and Mr. Ludlow. All the men were forbidding and large and dark, possessed of a dangerous air. But Griffin was different. He was sharp edges and stark planes, but he was also hers.
He felt like home.
With the aid of a servant, she located the study door, and she was about to knock to make her presence known when the deep, familiar rumble of her husband’s voice reached her. Her hand stayed, mid-air, mid-knock, her knuckles never grazing the surface.
“I have no fear of falling in love with her.” Griffin’s voice was strong, carrying to her easily through the door. “She is the sister of my greatest enemy.”
Dear God, he was talking about her, she realized. And his tone was different. It was not gruff and warm and personal, but rather cool. Almost cold. As if he spoke of someone else. As if he had never kissed her or made her his wife, as if he had never made love to her so passionately, in such achingly exquisite fashion. As if he had not kissed her nose and declared his love of her freckles.
“But sometimes even enemies can find peace,” the Duke of Carlisle said then. “The two of you certainly seemed the happy couple yesterday.”
“She is happy.” It was Griffin’s voice once more. “She thinks this entire affair—her running away with me and wedding me—was her idea alone. She has no inkling I had reached the determination on my own, that the only way I would be able to stave off Arden and escape from Lark House, was with her as my pawn.”
Violet sucked in a breath. The pain was so visceral and deep and unexpected, it took her by surprise, and she nearly cried out. With great effort, she maintained her silence, knowing she needed to hear more, even if she didn’t want to.
The ugliness of Griffin’s words
twisted inside her, repeating themselves like a waterfall blasting through her, endless in its surge.
With her as my pawn.
She has no inkling.
She thinks this entire affair was her idea alone.
Good God, that meant he had been manipulating her all along. This entire time, their every interaction, was suddenly suspect. Had he meant any of the things he had told her?
Shame washed over her then, for it made perfect sense. She had wondered how and why a man as gloriously handsome as the Duke of Strathmore would want her. But he had told her she was beautiful, and how easily her head had been turned. He had made her feel beautiful.
And she had believed it. Had believed him. Had betrayed her brother for his sake. Why? Because he had kissed her? Because he had made her feel desired when no one else ever had?
How easy she had made it for him to dupe her. The worst realization was he had never even deceived her, not truly. He had admitted to her in the cottage his reasons for wedding her. He had never claimed to love her, had never spoken of tender feelings. She was the one who had stupidly opened her heart.
Now, she felt nothing but shame. Shame and disgust and hurt. Horrible, awful hurt. She had fallen in love with the stranger on the other side of the door. The stranger who was speaking about her in the same detached manner he might discuss a chair or a broken piece of crockery.
She swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat, biting her lower lip to stave off tears that burned her eyes and threatened to fall.
“Have you misled her?” Mr. Ludlow asked. “Do you have cause to suspect she will not stand by your side, that she will not choose you over her brother?”
“I have misled her, yes,” Griffin said. “With regret. I could not allow her to think I had orchestrated the plan. It was important for her to think it her own. Otherwise, she may have lost her courage. When she understands the implications of what I have done, I have no doubt it will not go well for me. But by then, it may well be too late.”
His words echoed in her shocked mind, a litany she did not want to hear.
Too late. Too late. Too late.
“Many have embarked on marriages of convenience only to fall in love with their wives,” commented the Duke of Carlisle then. “Lord knows I did.”
“Yes,” Griffin agreed. “You are disturbingly in love with your wife, and it is plain for all to see. Fortunately, I do not suffer from such an affliction, and nor will I ever. My father was in love with my mother, and it tore him apart. I have no wish to lose myself for a woman.”
“Too late?” Ludlow asked, echoing the words Violet’s troubled mind had fixated upon. “For what, Strathmore?”
“To annul the marriage. She may already be carrying my child. All the more reason for Arden to keep from arresting me,” Griffin answered.
It was all she needed to hear.
She could not bear to hear more.
Any more, and she would break. She would crack open and the fragments of her would be everywhere, darkening Mr. Ludlow’s immaculately pristine rugs. Not truly, but it was how she felt. It was the sentiment which sent her away from that door. Away from that hall. Away from the Duke of Strathmore, a man who had been intimate with her, a man who had married her, a man who had seen and tasted every inch of her flesh and had been closer to her than any other person ever had. A man who had used her.
Just away.
Leaving felt like her only option, her sole recourse. For as friendly and wonderful as the ladies of Harlton Hall were, they were not her true friends. She did not know them well enough, and nor did they know her well enough in return, for her to seek their counsel. They were the wives and mother of strangers. And the only man she had thought she had known, the man she had married and given her body and her innocence to, that man was the greatest stranger of all.
Her hands shook and her heart was a huge and painful burden in her chest. Somehow, her feet were moving. She did not know where she was going or how she would get there. All she did know was she could not remain here. Not in Harlton Hall. Not with the Duke of Strathmore.
His words echoed in her mind with each step she took.
I have no fear of falling in love with her.
Cutting her to the marrow. Humiliating her and mocking her. Stripping her bare and raw, and then laughing at her helplessness.
Her mind registered the presence of servants. Some of them scrambled, wanting to aid her, to ready a carriage. Did she wish for a walk? Did she need to travel somewhere? Where did Her Grace wish to go? What would please Her Grace?
The answers were all simple: she did not know where she wanted to go, and nothing would please her. Nothing except leaving. Lips compressed in a tight line, body stiffened with resolve, she left.
Out the door she went, leaving a gaping butler and footmen in her wake. Leaving everyone and everything behind. Down the front steps. Onto the gravel drive.
The day was yet sunny and warm, unseasonably warm. The leaves on all the trees were deep, verdant green and abundant. Signs of life, of spring and resilience and the beauty of the countryside, abounded.
But Violet scarcely noticed any of it. All she could think about was the man who had taken her innocence and betrayed her. The man who had kissed her so sweetly, and then spoken with such cold, unfeeling ice. The man she loved. The man who had used her, the man who had manipulated her, and yet, consummated their marriage.
How she hated him. It struck her, fierce and strong and ugly, and as painful as a knife biting into her flesh. She needed to escape the pain. To escape him. Not just him, but the life that had been prescribed and preordained for her.
When had she ever been free, truly and completely free?
Never, came the answer, bittersweet and true. Never.
She did the only thing she could do then.
She ran.
She grasped handfuls of her borrowed skirts and lifted them high. One foot in front of the other, faster and faster. She ran until her lungs burned. She ran with her boots pinching her feet and rubbing her heels. She ran with her breath coming in strange and heavy pants, her heart pounding against her chest as if it wanted to break free.
She ran until she could not run any more, and then she walked. She walked and walked, and she did not look over her shoulder. Not once.
It was only when she reached the outskirts of Harlton Hall land, only when she saw the carriage fast approaching her, that she felt any sense of relief, however small. Perhaps its occupants could assist her, provide her with the means of escape. Traversing much farther on foot would not get her far enough away before Griffin noticed she had gone and came searching for her.
He needed her, after all. She was his pawn in the game he played with Lucien. She had been the means to an end for him, the way he could save himself. And meanwhile, she…She had been losing her heart. She had been foolish enough to think all their time alone together, all the countless conversations and the sharing of their pasts and the kisses and the embraces and, God help her, the way he had made love to her meant something.
She had been stupid to think she was more than the sum of her parts. She had fallen helplessly in love with him, and he had remained impervious.
I have no fear of falling in love with her.
She was pathetic and weak, and she had been so very wrong. She had betrayed her brother’s trust, had left her family behind, and all because she had believed in a man who had not even bothered to tell her the truth.
What had she thought?
Had she truly believed a man like the Duke of Strathmore, beautiful and jaded and wicked, could ever love someone like her, boring, plain Lady Violet West?
But she was not Lady Violet West any longer, was she?
As the carriage neared her, she moved to the side and waved her arms frantically, hoping the driver would stop. Hoping the occupants would prove willing to aid her.
And nor was she the Duchess of Strathmore, for she refused to answer to that bitter appellation. Her ma
rriage had been mired in dishonesty and manipulation. No indeed, she was neither of those names, neither of those women. Lady Violet West had broken free from her mold, running wild. The Duchess of Strathmore had been a brief, brilliant burst.
A different Violet would raise herself from the ashes.
A new Violet.
And this Violet would be stronger and more resilient than all the rest. The carriage reached her now and slowed. She was hot and flushed and angry, perspiration dripping from her forehead into her eyes and blinding her for a moment with its angry burn.
“Violet?”
It was a familiar voice, one filled with question, but also dripping relief.
She blinked furiously, and there was her brother, leaping from the carriage before it had come to a complete stop. How had she failed to notice the familiar markings upon the exterior?
“Lucien!” she cried out.
He swept her up in his arms, and she clung to him. Only then did she allow the tears to fall. She returned his embrace with everything in her. It was just the two of them once more, brother and sister against the world. They had always had no one but each other, and she had betrayed him.
“Please forgive me,” she sobbed.
He jerked back, looking down at her, studying her face. “Did Strathmore hurt you, Violet?”
Yes, but not in the way Lucien meant. He had broken her heart.
She shook her head, answered on another wracking sob. “N-n-no.”
“I’m going to tear him limb from bloody limb,” Lucien gritted, his jaw clenching. “What the devil are you doing out here wandering in the road?”
“Escaping,” she answered, and then burst into a fresh wave of tears.
“Hush, Violet.” He embraced her again, hugging her to him as if he could impart some of his strength to her. “I have you now. All will be well.”
But all was not well.
All could never be well again. And neither could she. She was broken inside. Numb.
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