by Darcy Burke
“Mm-hmm.” She opened her eyes to grin at him. “Do it again.”
He laughed at her with his eyes, looking for all the world like a man replete with self-satisfaction, even though it was she and not he whose passion-muddled brain had had the pleasure of release. “Already? Why, Miss Smythe, you are a very strict task-master indeed.”
Wonder filled her. Not only had Violet never previously been in a circumstance where she had even wanted intimacy, he had chosen to pleasure her rather than the other way around. Just because he wished to please her. That alone was an unimaginably erotic sweetmeat she was powerless to resist. She’d be a task-master indeed if it meant sharing more moments like these.
She smiled up at him. “None of that ‘Miss Smythe’ anymore. Employer or not, by now you’ve earned the right to use my given name. Please call me—”
His eyes widened with nothing short of horror as he nearly dumped her on the floor in his scramble to his feet. “Oh God. I haven’t any right! I should never have forgot myself.”
She blinked up at him in confusion. He’d agreed the moment was amazing. They had shared something incredible. What was the problem now?
He backed away from her. As she rearranged both bodice and skirt, Violet’s brain worked triple time, but could not comprehend how quickly the situation was deteriorating around her.
“Employer,” he choked, his face blanching with shame. “As you said, I’m your employer. You should be safely under my protection, not requiring protection from me.” He tore his anguished eyes from hers to the stained glass window, then ripped his gaze away as if the three kings might smite him where he stood. “Forgive me.”
He took himself from the room forthwith, leaving her bereft and deserted beneath the tricolored light of the moon.
She buried her face in her hands. The worst was that she’d managed to convince herself, for that one beautiful moment, it meant as much to him as it had to her. That they had somehow transcended a mere master-servant relationship. That he felt for her as strongly as she foolishly, cursedly felt for him. But even after lovemaking that surpassed her wildest dreams, he’d left her.
Sprawled and alone among the rotted boards, with one breast exposed and her heart undone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Later that evening, the relentless snip ... snip ... snip of Alistair’s garden shears finally began to pervade his consciousness. Slowly, he became aware that in his distraction he’d managed to behead most of the roses rather than tend them. He leaned back. Of course he had done. Everything he meant to nurture and preserve ended up cut short before its time. Sighing, he tossed the shears aside and threw himself on his back to stare up at the stars.
Here he was, then. On the Waldegrave family lands, crouching six feet above one third of the Waldegrave family. Or was he? They had never been three. There had only been he and Marjorie, and then he and Lillian.
And Violet, he acknowledged slowly. Now they were three.
Or could be, if he didn’t ruin it. Hadn’t already ruined it. He’d been a fool.
He’d been a fool because he was a fool, and would likely do a thousand foolish things more before his time on this earth was through, but he had not meant to take advantage—if that was how she felt—and he most certainly had not meant to storm off without explanation. Well, all right, that was clearly what he’d meant to do in the moment, but he couldn’t have treated her more shabbily.
In fact, very little spoke well of Alistair these days. He thought of his first wife fondly, but more and more infrequently. He spent half of his Sundays thanking God for the miracle of Violet’s arrival in his life rather than saving all his prayers for his daughter. And after nine long years, he still failed to find a cure for Lillian.
He glared up at the stars and stabbed the shears into the dirt. God helped those who helped themselves. If he wished himself to be worthy of the gifts he’d been given, then he needed to corral his wandering attention and focus. Mooncalfing over an angel in governess’s clothing would not get him any closer to his goals. Besides, if he wanted Violet to hold him in half the esteem in which he held her, he must first do something to deserve it.
Which meant what? More books? More medical society memberships? More semi-secret cabals with even better and brighter minds? He propped himself up on his elbows. All of that and more, he supposed. There was no excuse for slackening, no rest until his daughter could finally have the life she deserved.
“Master?”
“Roper.” Alistair hauled himself to his feet and brushed an errant leaf from his breeches. “How may I help you?”
His manservant’s expression was strangely solemn. “It is I who wish to help you, master. There must be something we can do.”
Gooseflesh raced beneath the lawn of Alistair’s shirt. Roper had always had a serious disposition, but the grave concern he currently wore filled Alistair with trepidation. “What is it? What happened?”
“It’s the townsfolk, master. They grow restless. I have had another report that the suspicion of your supposed vampirism is growing more and more widespread.”
“Oh, that.” Alistair relaxed. “It’s just schoolchildren and the idle gossip of a few country provincials. Let them think what they like. What do I care?”
“They’re banding together,” Roper insisted, his scarred face sober and unsmiling. “Master ... soon they will act.”
Alistair’s blood ran cold. “Act?”
“They plan to drive you from this place.”
“From my home?” He reeled in affront. “They cannot! This property has belonged to my family for centuries.”
“A panicked crowd cares little for legalities. I am told they gathered just last night, and have even appointed the smithy to head the pack should it come to violence.”
“Violence!” He shot an anxious glance toward the sanctuary. Lillian must remain safe. “What can we do to stop them?”
Roper’s expression was bleak. “I fear there is nothing I can do that I have not already done. I am not the one they fear. The madmen have not seen your face in the past decade. They have seen pale-faced young maids flee the abbey with fresh bite marks upon their flesh.”
“Only once.” Alistair’s shoulders tensed. “It never happened again. I personally tended Lillian every single moment since that night. Maids have now begun to attend her again, and she is comporting herself admirably. There will be no more wild tales from this home.”
Roper shook his head, looking every bit as distraught as Alistair felt. “Her existence remains secret, but the villagers’ memories are long. You employ a sizable staff in a boarded-over abbey and are never seen out-of-doors whilst the sun still shines. Even those without superstition, who have always believed your reclusiveness evidence of having contracted the sunsickness disease the midwife described, have heard of the many visits from far-off surgeons and fear an epidemic of contagion brewing in our midst. A confrontation will happen soon, master. The smithy wishes to storm the abbey. The others may join him ... with weapons and torches.”
Alistair blanched. “Over my dead body.”
Roper’s eyes were bleak. “As may well be, if their threats materialize.”
“Never.” Alistair’s hands balled into fists and his voice hardened. “I shall be the first to act.”
His manservant’s brows rose. “How can one man defend himself against a pack of frightened townsfolk driven to violence?”
“By taking away their reason to fear,” Alistair said simply. “You are right. Far too much time has passed without showing my face in town. I will go this week. One afternoon, when the sun is at its highest.”
Could he? He had lived so long in the shadows, he was not certain he could face the sun. He didn’t deserve it. From the moment of Lillian’s birth, he’d sworn to live as if they shared the disease. What his daughter could not have, he did not take for himself. He would enjoy sunlight when Lillian finally was cured.
“Master ... ” Roper’s expression was ten
se. “I understand where your heart is, but how can you continue the sunsickness ruse to the scientists once word spreads that you were seen in daylight?”
Heart racing, Alistair gazed at the familiar abbey as if it were the last time he would ever see it. This was his home. He must protect it at all costs. “Clearly I will not be able to. But Shrewsbury is small and gossip may spread slowly. More importantly, I need not worry about scientists if my family is set upon by a frenzied crowd. That is the more present concern, and one I am able to quickly address.”
Roper nodded unhappily. “As you wish.”
Alistair frowned in the direction of the main road. He did not wish to do anything less than tramp into town under the full heat of the brilliant sun and spend an awkward afternoon answering suspicious questions with fictitious excuses in order to prove himself a human man of flesh and bone. His time was better spent concentrating on a cure. Why couldn’t the villagers leave him be?
His manservant still stood before him, not speaking, and yet not returning to the abbey. Roper’s gaze slid to the gravestones behind Alistair, then tracked sideways to the decapitated rosebuds and the discarded shears. Roper’s face lined with concern. “Tending flowers again?”
“Not very well,” Alistair replied wryly.
If Roper saw any humor therein, he showed no sign. “Were you ... visiting with your wife?”
“Yes,” Alistair lied, pricked anew with guilt for having dwelt upon his unexpected feelings for Violet rather than paying Marjorie his respects. It wasn’t that he cherished the time with his first wife any less, he reminded himself sternly. It’s just that, lately, that life seemed less vivid than it had before. Not less important, just less ... present.
Roper’s mouth twisted, as if he was carefully considering his next words. “May I speak frankly, master?”
“Of course.” Surprise and self-recrimination washed over Alistair at the realization that after decades of service, Roper still felt he needed permission. Roper had always been far more than a mere manservant. He was Alistair’s sole confidant, Alistair’s sole friend. The man was almost family ... to Alistair, at least. Was he truly so single-minded and unapproachable that after all these years, Roper still could not feel comfortable in his presence?
“Your wife was a lovely person, both inside and out,” his loyal manservant began carefully.
“Er ... thank you.”
“But,” Roper continued, “she is no longer among us.”
Alistair gestured at the well-tended grave beside him. “I know.”
Roper met his eyes. “Do you?”
Alistair frowned. “You requested to speak frankly. I bid you to also speak plainly.”
“Very well. Miss Smythe—”
Alistair closed his eyes. Was he so transparent?
“Master, if you do not wish for me to speak ... ”
“Not if you intend to suggest I forswear tending the garden in favor of cultivating a romance instead. I cannot. Yes, I loved my wife. She meant the world to me, and was verily my one true love. But more importantly, I have no time for wooing and no right to court anyone. I have Lillian.”
Roper’s voice betrayed a hint of a sad smile. “That’s the first time I have heard you speak of your wife in the past tense, master. I, too, cared much for her, but I am pleased to see you setting her free into the past, where she belongs.”
Alistair’s eyes flew open. Roper was right. She had been the light of his life. He had loved Marjorie, past tense. He’d buried his wife long, long ago, and had chosen to live in the past simply because that was the last time he’d experienced happiness. Except that wasn’t true anymore, either, was it? His entire household wore smiling faces these days, his once-dour daughter was nothing short of jovial, and as for himself ... Well. His neck heated. If he was not yet in love, it was only a matter of time.
Time he did not have.
He took a deep breath. He could no longer deny his feelings when it came to Violet. He was mad for her. Utterly, absolutely, irrevocably smitten, and no matter how hard he tried to control his passion, he could not curtail his regard. For him, however, love would have to wait.
“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” he muttered, hoping to curtail the conversation there before his manservant actually took him up on his previous invitation to speak plainly.
Roper’s eyes were serious. “Either a man believes in the existence of true love, or he doesn’t. And if you do, and if you have, then there’s no reason you can’t find love again.”
Alistair shook his head. “I am not looking for love. I’m looking for a cure.”
“Doesn’t matter overmuch,” Roper said with a shrug. “Love has a way of looking for you.”
“I was blessed with that miracle long ago,” Alistair reminded him firmly. “I am fine with my lot. I live for my daughter. Hers is the only future I care about.”
Roper walked past him to stand before Marjorie’s grave. After a moment, he turned and said softly, “Loving someone else wouldn’t mean you loved her any less. It would just make you an exceptionally fortunate man. You and Miss Lillian both.”
“Fortunate?” Alistair repeated, nearly choking on the word. “I lost my wife. I nearly lost my daughter. Since that day, neither one of us has seen the sun. I spend every minute of every hour searching for a cure and have done nothing but fail, again and again. I have lived in misery these past nine years. Despite my best efforts, Lillian still has no life. May never have a life.”
Roper’s expression hardened, rather than softened. “That much, I believe, is most certainly up to you.”
Alistair shot him a sour look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I shall illustrate.” Roper stepped forward gestured at the engraved stone before them. “Who is in this grave?”
Crossly, Alistair scowled at his manservant. “My wife.”
Roper moved to the left, before the stone that read Lillian Waldegrave. “And who is buried here?”
“No one, as you well know.”
“As do you, master.” Roper’s voice gentled. “Don’t forget it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next morning, Alistair dressed more carefully than usual. Much as he hated to leave his work, it was past time to pay a visit into town. Even if it was a waste of his time. But first, he wanted to see Violet. He needed to see Violet. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Every moment not spent with his books, he wanted to spend with her.
After yesterday, he had to believe she felt the same. He should never have rushed out of the room, after ... It had been beautiful. She was beautiful. If he wouldn’t have come to his senses right then, he might never have come to them at all. And she deserved better. He was still her employer and had no wish to exert unwanted pressure, but he wasn’t blind. Soon, he would have to disclose at least one of his secrets. Which was that he was finding it difficult to imagine life without her.
He double-checked his fob. At this hour, she would be instructing his daughter, which meant it plainly was not the moment to burst in with his heart upon his sleeve, but he had put off confronting the inevitable for long enough. He could not leave for Shrewsbury without at least attempting to speak to her. Within moments, he was easing open the door to the converted prayer room.
There they were, his daughter and his ... well, he didn’t have a ready label just yet, but there she was all the same, looking fresh-faced and radiant despite the flyaway tendrils escaping her chignon and the bit of green paint upon the apple of one cheek.
“Are you certain you don’t wish to try?” she was saying to Lillian. “I stretched an extra canvas, and it’s ready when you are.”
As expected, Lillian shook her head. Not sullenly, as she would have last year at this time, but rather impatiently, as if she were far too eager for today’s lesson to permit slowing the pace on her account.
“You’ll have to resume painting sometime,” Violet said, her eyes indulgent.
Lillian pointed at her teacher’
s easel. “Ladybird! Now!”
Tsking at this impertinence, Violet attacked the canvas with a few deft strokes of red before swishing her brush in a mug of clear water and adding a few artfully placed dollops of black. “That, madam Tiger Lily, is a ladybird!”
“Ooh,” his wide-eyed daughter cooed, impressed.
Supposing this was a good a moment as any to make his grand entrance, Alistair swung open the door and stepped inside.
To say his presence doused the joy from both sets of eyes would be putting the matter lightly. Violet became extremely busy arranging the paintbrushes. Lillian rolled her eyes and huffed impatiently.
Alistair cleared his throat, unprecedentedly nervous and suddenly unable to recall a single word of his practiced apology.
“We’re busy, Papa,” Lillian said with her old familiar glare. “We’re painting. Go away.”
“You are not painting. You’re merely watching,” he returned before catching himself falling back into their previous routine of sniping at each other instead of speaking to each other. He arranged his face as pleasantly as he could and stepped further into the room. “May I see?”
Pink infused Violet’s cheeks. “Mr. Waldegrave, I—”
“Alistair,” he corrected softly. “I would be honored if you called me Alistair. Please.”
Her startled gaze snapped to his.
“Give us a moment, Lillian,” he said to his daughter, as she crossed her arms and glared at him for interrupting. He lowered his voice and turned to address Violet. “I don’t see how it could be possible to forgive me, but if you could perhaps bear in mind that I am an exceedingly stupid man, not only out of practice with the fairer sex but also shamefully out of touch with my own self ... I can only beg of you that you give me another chance.”
Violet stood still as a portrait, her mouth a tiny O of surprise. She darted a glance toward Lillian, who immediately snatched up the brush and palette and set to ferocious, haphazard painting as if she were not straining to catch every single syllable exchanged.
