by Darcy Burke
He would prevail or die trying.
***
Violet’s eyes snapped awake in the darkness. Morning or half-midnight, she couldn’t be certain, but something had awakened her. Something that had her heart pounding like spooked horses.
She held perfectly still. No sounds broke the stillness of the night, save the overloud whisper of her own breath sticking in her throat. No light seeped through the double layer of thick wood. Even the sullen orange embers had vanished from the fireplace. Was that what had woken her? A chill?
Not a chill—a dream. A bad one, involving a depraved cracksman with an eye for young girls. Shaking, she propped herself up on her elbows. She closed her eyes and tried to shake the sleep from her head, but only succeeded in jumbling her thoughts about even worse. Why was she dreaming about that rookery off Spitalfields? She hadn’t thought of those terrible slums in years. On purpose. It was the only way to keep her sanity. She hastened from the bed. There would be no more sleep tonight.
Why had those terrible memories returned? Her current situation was not at all the same. Trembling, she bent before a large bowl and splashed cold water on her face. Mr. Waldegrave was nothing like that monster. She did not labor here under lock and key. He was a desperate man, but a gentleman all the same. It was not in his nature to hold a guest prisoner. Was it?
She squinted through the shadows at the closed door of her bedchamber. It was locked. Of course it was locked. All the doors in Waldegrave Abbey secured themselves automatically. But she padded across the room and tested the handle to be sure.
The door was locked tight, but she was not trapped inside. She touched her fingertips to her chest. She carried her key on a chain about her neck. Why, she could walk through the door and on out of the abbey if she had a mind to. In fact, she would, just to prove she could.
She jerked her fingers through her sleep-mussed hair. Her pelisse was right over there. If she felt so vulnerable that it was causing nightmares, she should put her theory to the test at once. She shrugged into the pelisse and shoved her feet into her walking boots. The edge of her night rail poked out from below the hem of the pelisse, and the cool brass key lay atop the lapel. Thus attired, she straightened her spine and strode to her door. Seconds later, she stood in the silent corridor.
“See?” she chided herself under her breath. “Not a prisoner.”
She hesitated only a moment before making her way toward the entrance of the abbey. Despite taking care to move cautiously, her footfalls seemed to slap against the marble floor. But no one came. No alarms were sounded. All were abed. As she should be, too. Instead, she stood at the abbey’s front door. She tried the handle.
Locked.
Her heart quickened. Foolish girl. Of course it would be locked. That did not mean she was being held prisoner. It simply meant Mr. Waldegrave had a cautious nature.
She slipped the thin chain from her neck and hefted her bedchamber key in her palm. When she had picked Roper’s pocket, there had been two keys—and she had selected the wrong one. It hadn’t opened her bedchamber. It hadn’t opened the door to the catacombs. It didn’t provide access to anything except the shrine to her employer’s dead wife.
This key, on the other hand, did open Violet’s bedchamber. And the tunnel to the catacombs. And the art room, and the library, and the sanctuary, and the school room ... The skeleton key accessed the entire abbey! When Mr. Waldegrave installed all the locking mechanisms at once, the locksmith must not have had time to forge hundreds of unique locks. Either that, or it was simply easier for the household to deal with just one key, particularly when one was not accustomed to doors having locks at all.
Now she understood the trust implicit in having been given a key of her own. Roper’s initial reluctance to share made much more sense. She’d been a stranger. One who had all but blown in with a gust of wind. No manservant in his right mind would hand over free reign to a trespasser.
The key slid through her fingers and caught, swinging from her upturned hand in a slow arc upon its slender chain.
She stepped forward and slipped the key into the lock on the entryway door. It fit. Slowly, she turned the key. Tiny clicks ticked in the darkness as the bolt retracted. She curled her fingers about the icy handle and turned. The door swung open, briefly blinding her with moonlight. Chilly night air rushed across the starlit lawn to ruddy her cheeks and tangle her hair. She’d forgotten both her bonnet and her gloves in her haste, but for the moment she did not care in the least.
Closing the door behind her, she stepped from the abbey and tipped her face up to the sky. Stars winked down upon her. A breeze tickled her hair. The scent of grass and flowers and recent rain enveloped her.
Freedom. And yet she still felt empty. It wasn’t her freedom she was worried about, she realized slowly. It was Lily’s. The moon was not the sun and the colors of the garden were dulled by shadow, but would that make the panorama any less magical to a little girl who yearned to greet the world at large, if only for a stolen moment? Mr. Waldegrave meant well, but it was wrong to imprison a child.
Dewdrops glinted like diamonds atop the endless green of shrubbery and blades of grass. The abbey was perhaps too remote to discern the rustle of the River Severn as it rushed toward the Ironbridge Gorge, but the night held plenty of other delights. Nocturnal creatures prowling the garden for their supper, the creak of a branch supporting a nest high overhead, the call of an owl somewhere far in the distance.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp, clean air. This was what Lily needed. Violet was sure of it.
Tucking her fingers into the warmth of her pockets, she picked her way toward a stone path. While she was out, she might as well take a turn about the abbey, and imagine the view as Lily might see it.
When she reached the rear of the abbey, a muffled metallic snip pulled her up short. Violet scanned the tree line, the garden, the shadows between the buildings. She clapped a hand to her chest in relief.
Foxes were not the only nocturnal animals taking advantage of the moonlight. There, on bended knee among the roses, was Mr. Waldegrave.
She hesitated. If she continued her circuit about the abbey, she was bound to disrupt his solitude. Perhaps he preferred to be alone with the night, caring for his roses by the light of the moon. Her heart reached out to him. As a man who suffered sunsickness, this was the only time he could tend his garden. She doubted he would be pleased by her interruption. Their conversation in the catacombs had not gone well at all. Perhaps she should turn around and tuck herself back into bed. Perhaps—
“If you’re going to stand there staring at me all night, you might as well come closer and have a clearer view.”
She started guiltily.
He had not looked up, not before nor during his speech, but he had known she was there all along. She shook her head at her own foolishness. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be about at this hour of the night, so she supposed she had not been treading particularly silently. And now that she had been caught, he was right—she might as well join him.
As she neared, she glimpsed the rectangular white stones she’d fallen upon that very first day. These roses were more than mere jewels of his garden, then. They marked his wife’s grave. Did he fetch fresh roses for his daughter in order to bring her some beauty? Or did he frequent the roses so often because he was still mourning the loss of his long-dead wife?
“Good evening, Miss Smythe,” he said as she reached his side. His focus remained on the flowers but his scissors ceased their rhythmic shearing.
“It is a good evening,” she agreed, seating herself on the dewy grass beside him, the soft blades crunching pleasantly beneath her. “The moon is beautiful tonight. Very nearly full, I daresay.”
At this, he looked over at her with a wistful half-smile. “I’m afraid you’re a day late, Miss Smythe. It was full last night, and beautiful indeed.”
“I did miss it, then.” She took a deep breath before her courage fled
with the wind. “You know who else missed it?”
His face hardened as he turned away. “That topic is closed.”
“Not for me, and not for Lily,” Violet pushed on. “She could use some beauty in her life. We all could. Look at you, for example.”
“At me? What have I to do with anything, other than being the one person who wants to keep her safe?”
“You’re outside,” she explained simply. “You are here to keep her safe. And as you’re not affected by the light of the moon, there’s nothing to fear.”
“Nothing to fear?” he repeated with a disbelieving chuckle. “Miss Smythe, there is far more to fear than moonlight. What if my daughter runs away, as she’s done every other time I’ve brought her out? What if she doesn’t run away, but someone sees her, suspects something afoot?”
“Who would be out here at this time of night?”
“You yourself arrived without warning or premeditation. All it takes is one person, Miss Smythe. Once the secret is out, there will be no more safe haven for Lillian.”
“But you took her out once to look at the stars!”
“And I learned my lesson at my daughter’s expense. I no longer take foolish risks.”
“Even if someone catches sight of a girl and her father out admiring the stars, they would have no reason to suspect Lily’s condition. She would be safe. She—”
“As I recall, you punctuated your arrival by tripping over my daughter’s false gravestone, did you not? Everyone who has heard of the Waldegraves is also quite aware that I do not have a daughter with whom I might admire the stars. To see me with a child in hand would inherently put Lillian at risk. Perhaps they would think, ‘Who is this young girl with Alistair Waldegrave? He has no daughter—we must rescue the girl at once!’ Or worse, ‘Look, the daughter is not dead after all. What could be so monstrous about the child that necessitates her being kept secret?’”
Violet’s fingers clenched. “Lily is not monstrous.”
He tossed his shears aside impatiently. “I know that, and you know that. But until recently, not even all my staff were in agreement on that score, so what makes you think suspicious neighbors would be any more accepting? Even the scientists and physicians I’ve consulted want to do exhaustive tests in their laboratories. They want to expose sensitive skin to direct sunlight just to document the results. That’s why they all must believe I—”
“That’s why they must believe you’ve lost your daughter,” she finished softly. “I do understand your position. I’m just not certain that keeping her imprisoned is the only option. Here’s an idea. If someone should chance upon us, why don’t we say that she is my daughter? No one in Shropshire knows me, and—”
“Lillian,” he interrupted, his eyes distant, “is not your daughter. She is the image of her mother, as anyone who knew her would see at a glance. And, no. I will not allow her to be taken from me. Not by superstitious neighbors nor by laboratory-dwelling scientists. I appreciate your concern for her artistic soul, but my concern is for her health and safety, which must come first. There is nothing to discuss, Miss Smythe. The topic is closed.”
Sighing, she fingered one of the shorn leaves that had fluttered to the ground. Although she couldn’t help but disagree with the execution, she could hardly find fault in his motives. And as he’d pointed out twice now, what did she know of motherhood, least of all mothering Lily? A crude reminder, perhaps, but nonetheless correct. He was right. Some risks weren’t meant to be taken.
“Father does know best.” She gave him a lopsided smile, trying to lighten the moment. “I’m just the governess. I’ll remember my place from now on.”
“You are not just the governess.” He leaned forward and gripped her shoulders, his expression shockingly intense. Her body thrilled at feeling his touch once again, dared to hope for more. “That is not what I meant at all. Your place is here, with ... Lillian.”
Her heart quickened as she gazed up at him, his eyes mere inches from her own. “I should stay in the sanctuary?”
“You should be here,” he answered roughly, and crushed his lips to hers.
She trembled, scarce able to believe her reversal in fortune. Before he could change his mind, she grasped his shoulders, his hair, pressing their bodies ever closer and reveling in the sensation. She had longed for his kisses. Longed for him. Dreamt that he longed for her, too.
If the night held a chill, she no longer felt it. Her senses were flooded with a thousand heady delights. The hard muscle of his arms, the warm breath against her lips, the stroke of his thumb against her cheek. He made her feel like she belonged. He made her feel needed. As if he, too, could not bear to be apart.
She opened her mouth beneath his, letting him taste her, devour her. Anything to stay in his embrace. To feel cherished. With her arms locked about him, she tumbled to the ground, pulling him with her. She was pinned beneath him and still wanted more. He truly was magical.
Hoping he would not pull away, she ran her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, down the small of his back, to the tight curve of his breeches. His lips never left hers. She dreamed they never would. One strong hand softly cradled her head, whilst the other brushed against the lapel of her pelisse. Beneath the layers, her nipples responded, as if they could feel the touch of his fingers through the thin linen of her nightdress and the thick wool of her cloak. How lovely it would be if their clothes could just disappear, leaving nothing between them but their hearts and the night sky.
Perhaps he felt the same. With his mouth still on hers, kissing, licking, he pulled away just far enough to allow passage for his hand to rip open the pelisse and cup the sensitive breast beneath. This was what she had been longing for. She gasped in pleasure. Her back arched, pressing her body more fully against his.
At the sound of her gasp, his eyes flew open in horror. He jerked his hand from her breast and threw himself from her as if she were an explosive in danger of detonating at any moment. To be sure, she had certainly felt as such. She reached out for him before it registered that he was staring at her in dismay, not desire.
Bereft, she fought the tightness in her throat. Her hand fell limply to the grass.
“Forgive me.” He looked away, then just as quickly back to her. “I should not have done.”
She wrapped her arms about her chest and tried not to let him see her distress. For him, nothing had changed. Even though his kisses reached the deepest, loneliest part of her soul. She had experienced a true connection, and her heart yearned for more. For him. But he did not feel for her as she felt for him. He did not want her after all.
He reached for her. No—not for her. For the edge of her pelisse. To cover the bosom exposed by her drooping nightrail.
“I can do it.” She jerked upright, overlapping the edges of the pelisse and securing the ribbon. She could definitely feel that night chill now. The cold seeped into her very bones.
His black gaze glittered in the starlight. “You are clearly not ‘just the governess.’ Not to Lillian, and not to me. But that does not give me the right to take advantage of you.”
Violet’s voice shook. “You did not take advantage. You did not take anything I didn’t freely give. Did you not feel me kissing you in return?”
He thumped his chest, eyes flashing. “Of course I did. I feel your lips on mine every time I close my eyes, every time I settle abed, every time I look at you. That’s my problem. One of my problems,” he amended, casting his gaze briefly heavenward. “Your arrival here was quite literally the answer to my prayers. You’ve been nothing short of an angel sent from God. It is my duty and my privilege to protect you, not despoil you.”
She nearly choked. She was the furthest thing from an angel she could imagine—and she had quite an imagination. If he had any designs on “despoiling” her, well, he was about fifteen years too late. And yet here he was, calling her the answer to his prayers, begging her forgiveness. Trying to protect an innocence she’d likely never had.
; And yet, foolishly—selfishly—the idea of actually being the pure and innocent maiden he imagined her to be was so beguiling that she couldn’t bring herself to disabuse him of the notion. She rather liked having his good regard, and had no desire to see the respect in his eyes change to disgust.
She was not, and never would be, up to his standards. That much went without saying. But for as long as the illusion lasted, she would pretend there could be a future.
“I feel very protected,” she said softly, wishing she could touch his face. “I have never felt unsafe with you.”
“And you will not,” he promised. He pushed to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. “My lady?”
His lady. She placed her palm in his and forced a smile to her lips. How she wished it were true. How she wished it were possible to be true.
But he was a good man. Rich, landed, educated. Born on the right side of the blanket. He prayed. His god even answered prayers, sent down angels to help those who deserved it. He was even idealistic enough to believe she was one of them.
She was none of those things. At a young age, her instinct for survival had fast outstripped any concern for ethics. Life had taught her good things simply did not happen to people like her. Hope was always snatched away.
She’d been penniless, homeless, right from the start. Born in a gutter, like as not. Definitely abandoned there. If she couldn’t secure the love of her own mother, how could she even dream of being worthy of anyone else’s love? She was patently not one of God’s chosen. He scarce concerned Himself with her prayers. He’d given her the Livingstone School for Girls and just as capriciously taken it away.
She gazed over at the man who placed more value in her imagined innocence than in his actual desires. Until this moment, she would never have believed such a man could even exist. Violet let out a slow breath. Soon it wouldn’t matter. The Waldegraves were yet another gift she could never hope to keep.
