by Sabrina York
“Then tell us, Violet.” This from Edward, a calm, kind request. He hadn’t asked for any details of her ordeal and she hadn’t offered. She had told them nothing. Clearly that had been unwise. They’d jumped to conclusions—and the wrong ones.
“Tell us what that swine did to you!” Hamish again. His eyes gleamed. He leaned forward in anticipation, the bloodthirsty fiend.
“I’ll tell you what we did to him.” Her voice was a low thrum, clogged with emotion. “Do you know who he was?” She turned to Ned, brandishing a plum on the tines of her fork. “Did you even recognize him?”
“R-recognize him?” he sputtered. “Why would I recognize him?”
“Because when he was young, he lived at Browning.”
A gasp circled the table.
“Never say it.” Malcolm reached for his water glass and tipped it over.
“Aye.” She turned to Ned. “Do you remember Ewan St. Andrews?”
His brow wrinkled. “The groom? The one who pulled you from the ice?”
“I remember him,” Malcolm muttered. “The boy who kissed you.”
Violet’s attention snapped to her younger brother. “How do you know he kissed me?” she hissed. “I told no one.”
“I saw you. Turned my stomach. He was a servant, Violet. He should never have kissed you.”
The plums curled in her belly. “And you told father.”
Malcolm snorted. “Naturally.”
“He beat him, Malcolm.” To his credit, Malcolm paled. They’d all seen the sharper end of Horace Wyeth’s fury. “He nearly beat him to death. And then our father dismissed his mother. Turned them both out without references.” She swallowed. “It was winter, if you recall. A cold winter. They had nothing and…and she was with child.” Oh. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. Could not hold back the tears. They flowed down her face as she thought of that poor boy, the boy she loved, destitute and hungry and cold. Alone in a cruel, hard world with nothing and no one. “His mother died, Malcolm. Be-because of us.” She buried her face in her palms. “Because of me.”
A warm hand settled on her shoulder. She glanced up to see Edward standing beside her. “It’s not your fault, Violet,” he said.
“It is, Edward. Don’t you see? It is.” Her tears had become sobs, which were threatening to become gasping heaves.
He drew her up into his arms and held her tight. “Hush now. It was all long ago.”
She shook her head and tried to tell him no, it wasn’t so very long ago, and the scars had not healed and he hated her, but she couldn’t. All she could do was weep.
He shot a dark frown around the table and without a word, lifted her.
“W-w-where are w-we g-going?”
He strode toward his study. “You need a drink.”
“Not w-whisky,” she wailed. “H-he d-drank w-whisky.”
“Brandy then.” Edward settled her in the chair by the fire and poured her a dram, watching with fists on his hips as she drank it down. It didn’t stop the tears but it burned away the bitter cold that had invaded her heart. When her glass was empty, he filled it again, and then filled one for himself. “I think we need to talk.” He pursed his lips. “When you’re ready.”
Ready? She would never be ready to talk about Ewan. She couldn’t bear it.
But apparently, in addition to its miraculous warming properties, the spirit could also loosen the tongue. Not only did she speak, she opened her mouth and the first words out were mortifying.
“I love him, Edward.”
He got that look again. Compassion and sympathy and discomfiting pity. “I gathered as much.”
“I always have. Since we were young. I love him with all my heart. And…”
“And?”
“He hates me.”
“When I spoke to him, I didn’t get the sense he hates you.”
She put out a lip, a trifle annoyed by his dissent. “It’s hardly something one proclaims in the course of a conversation.” She dashed at the dampness on her cheeks. “The point is, he will certainly never love me. Not the way I… Oh bother, Edward. What’s wrong with me?”
He knelt before her. Took her cold hands in his and stroked them with his thumbs. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Violet. You are a beautiful, vivacious young woman about to embark on your first season. This should be the most exciting time of your life.”
Really, she was quite put out by his gentle charm. Wherever had the heartless rake gone? “I’m not excited in the least.”
“You will be. Just wait. You’ll attend your first ball and meet a handsome man and fall in love and you’ll forget all about the McCloud. You’ll see.” Some odd emotion flickered over his face but it was gone before she could interpret it. “Don’t worry. We will find you a husband.”
Why that made her cry once more was a mystery. It was lovely being comforted like this. “I d-don’t w-want a h-husband. C-can’t I just live here with you and Kaitlin forever?”
His smile was far too kind. It only made her weepier. “Absolutely, poppet.”
An incongruous laugh bubbled out. “Have you ever called anyone poppet before?”
“Not once. But I figured I’d better get in some practice.” He leaned in and whispered, “Kaitlin’s…in a family way.”
At once her misery wafted away—at least for the moment—as joy trickled through her soul. “Oh, Edward.” She placed a palm on his cheek. “That is wonderful news.”
“Thank you.”
“Kaitlin must be over the moon.” She’d always wanted a lot of children. They both had…
Oh dear. The sniffles started again.
“We’re both delighted.” He beamed, reflecting on some inner thoughts. When he noticed she’d started dripping again, he passed her his handkerchief.
“I’m just…just so happy for you,” she bawled.
“Don’t weep so. You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I always wanted b-babies.”
“Of course you did—of course you do. And you’ll have them. One day. Violet? Do you…do you need another brandy?”
She hiccoughed through a snort. “It won’t make me stop crying, Edward. And it won’t stop this pain.” She laid a palm to her breast. “Besides, I think I’ve had plenty.” Indeed, the room was getting uncomfortably warm. “It’s just that…” She sighed. “I love him so much and I’ll never see him again.”
Something in his expression snagged her attention. He rose from his crouch at her feet and sat next to her again.
“Edward? What is it?”
He plucked at his lower lip. “You, ah, may see him again.”
Her heart leapt. She sprang to her feet. “What are you saying?”
He stared at her, lips pursed, as though trying to figure out how to break some unpleasant news. At long last, he said, “He pressed Kaitlin into that betrothal because he needed entrée into the ton. So his sister could have a season.”
Violet nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes.” She knew all this.
“In exchange for you and Kaitlin, I agreed to give him what he wanted.”
Her fingers curled into tight balls until her nails scored her palms. “Which was?”
“Ewan McCloud and his sister are coming here for the season. We are hosting her debut.”
The blood rushed from her head. Her knees went weak. The brandy, previously quiescent and warm, turned into a bubbling, boiling brew in her belly. She sucked in a breath but still her lungs burned.
A slow curtain fell and a blissful darkness took her.
* * * * *
Ewan’s belly tightened as the carriage made its way through the clogged streets of London. He’d always hated the capital with its thick air and constant bustle. He missed Scotland, his little island particularly.
He was decidedly a fish out of water in these surrounds. He knew little to nothing about the haute ton. Although William had tried to coach him on the finer points, it had only served to show him precisely how much he did not know. How utterly gauc
he and incongruous he would be at teas and soirees and fucking balls.
But he would only have to suffer the discomfiture for three months.
Three long months.
He could handle it, he supposed.
He would.
For Sophia.
He glanced across at her and his heart clenched. She was worth everything. Every discomfort. Every humiliation. Every sacrifice.
Why the vision of Violet Wyeth—soft and fragile and lolling in his bed—popped into his mind just then, he did not dare contemplate. It wasn’t as though he had sacrificed a future with Violet to gain this boon for Sophia.
There had never been a future with Violet to sacrifice.
He hadn’t made a choice. He’d never had a choice.
He was, simply put, not good enough for her. And after what had passed between them, she had every right to deplore him.
He’d spent the last month putting her from his mind. It was time to put the past—and his feelings for Violet—behind him and move on. He’d spent a lifetime building a fortune and creating connections and scrabbling for Sophia’s future. The next three months would be critical for her. Ewan couldn’t afford to be distracted by jet-black curls or indigo eyes. He needed to focus on Sophia.
When he’d picked his sister up at Lady Satterlee’s, he’d been poleaxed by the difference in her. She was all grown up. It seemed she’d turned from a wild Scottish hoyden into a refined British woman in the space of two years.
Though her enthusiasm for adventure had not dimmed. Even now, she practically hung out the window. Every now and then she would spot a famous sight and call it out and her face would glow.
She’d been a little perturbed to learn she would be staying with Moncrieff at Wyeth House—the Dark Duke’s reputation was something of a legend in Lady Satterlee’s hallowed halls. But now that Edward was married—and to a Scot and, apparently, one of Sophia’s school friends—she was looking forward to it.
Ewan hadn’t known Kaitlin had attended Lady Satterlee’s. He hoped the new duchess could overlook their unpleasant past and treat his sister well. He couldn’t bear the thought of waspish tongues turned in her direction.
Sophia didn’t deserve to suffer for his sins.
The carriage turned down a broad avenue and rolled to a stop in a curved drive before an enormous mansion.
Ewan’s pulse kicked up a notch. His throat went dry.
Well. This was it. This was where he discovered whether or not Moncrieff was a man of his word.
He goddamn better be.
He clenched his fingers into a fist and then, when he realized he had, deliberately forced them to relax. He’d sent a missive with their arrival plans in good time for Edward to cry off. Make some lame excuse. Or simply tell him to go to hell.
Ewan had held the man’s cousin in his dungeon after all. Debauched her. Fallen head over heels for her. Surely she had told the duke everything by now.
Well, perhaps not everything.
At any rate, Moncrieff would be well within his rights to refuse them entrance.
So Ewan had cause to sweat.
And if he was being honest, a great portion of his anxiety stemmed from the fact that finally, after one full month of aching hell, he was going to see her again.
He wouldn’t be able to touch her, not as he wanted to. He certainly would not be allowed to speak to her alone—society had very stringent rules for unmarried women. Ewan had no illusions about that.
But surely it would be enough just to see her face.
Chapter Fifteen
He was wrong.
It wasn’t enough to see her face. Not in the slightest.
Transom admitted them into the grand foyer with all the pomp a Scottish lowlife could command. Though to be fair, Ewan sensed a discomfort in his welcome. As though Transom was torn between his friendship with Ewan and his loyalty to the duke.
Transom spared a smile for Sophia. But then who wouldn’t smile at the sight of those ice-blue eyes and bobbing amber ringlets? Sophia had the countenance of an angel and a nature to match. Her face was a heart-shaped alabaster work of beauty, the very image of her mother, though with a charming dent in her chin their mother had not possessed, as well as a raft of dimples that exploded in her cheek when she smiled. Her figure, which had blossomed in the past two years, was perfect for her height and set off exquisitely in the gold traveling dress he’d bought her.
There would be many more fittings to come.
If Moncrieff kept his word.
If he did not, this would be a short visit to town indeed.
“Please wait in the sitting room.” Transom showed them into an elegantly turned out chamber decked in blue and festooned with miniature furniture Ewan was certain he would crush if he so much as perched on an arm. “I shall notify His Grace you are here. And have tea sent in.”
Sophia’s face lit up. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you. It was such a long, dusty drive.”
Transom gaped. Ewan longed to shut his mouth with a finger. Or fill it with his fist. Sophia was his sister, for mercy sake. He didn’t appreciate anyone gawking at her. Not with that expression.
But she was rather stunning when she smiled like that.
Instead of pummeling the butler—he was trying to be refined, after all—Ewan cleared his throat. “The tea?”
“Ah yes.” Transom sent a dazzling smile to Sophia, who beamed back. “Please make yourself at home.”
After the door closed behind the butler, Sophia whirled around, throwing out her arms and tipping up her face. It was transfixed with joy. “Oh, Ewan, I am so happy to be here,” she gushed. “Thank you so much for arranging it.”
“You’re welcome.” This in a gruff grumble. Because, truly, he didn’t know if he had arranged this. Not yet. She threw herself into a delicate Hepplewhite. He cringed and eased onto the divan, hoping to God it did not collapse under his weight. Destroying Moncrieff’s drawing room—on top of everything else—would not go over well.
A maid scratched on the door and presented a tea tray, and Sophia, as a refined society girl should, poured him a cup. Ewan didn’t drink it. His throat was far too tight to force anything down. Also, it was tea. He deplored the stuff. The cakes, however, he managed. They were lemon and quite delicious and apart from the dusting of powdery sugar, which drifted to his newly purchased fancy breeches and would not be wiped away, he quite enjoyed them.
When the door opened, he leapt to his feet.
And that was when he saw her. Standing there, framed in the doorway in a lavender gown that made her eyes seem impossibly violet. Her face was more fragile than he remembered. Her lips riper…
And that was when he knew. Seeing her—just seeing her—would never be enough.
Not ever again.
His heart set up a rapid thrum, beating so hard it made his throat ache. His palms went damp. His scalp prickled. He stared at her and she stared at him for an aching span of time. An eternity, but somehow not nearly long enough.
When she turned away and pinned a smile on her face for Sophia, it sent an agonizing barb through his chest.
There were others with her. It took some effort to notice who they were. Ah. Kaitlin—who sent him a surreptitious behave yourself glower—and Ned. Whose glower wasn’t surreptitious in the least.
But thanks to the merciful Lord in heaven above, none of their rancor was turned to Sophia. Indeed, her welcome was extraordinarily warm.
“Sophia, darling!” Kaitlin cooed. “How long has it been?”
Sophia bounded out of her chair and cried out—in a very unladylike fashion—and threw herself into Kaitlin’s arms. Then hugged Violet as well.
Hell. He hadn’t realized they knew each other too.
As the girls chattered nonsense about their journey and the things Sophia had seen along the way, Ewan studied Violet.
She had lost weight, he noticed, a frown etching his brow. And she appeared a little wan. He didn’t care for that. He would hav
e to ask Moncrieff if he was making sure she ate properly because—
“Ewan?”
He blinked. Attempted to turn his focus back to the conversation. The new arrivals had taken their seats and Kaitlin was passing ’round cups of tea. Ned, he noticed, was perched on the edge of the chair next to Sophia’s, gazing at her with a besotted expression. Ewan’s fingers curled. Ned Wyeth was not the sort of man he had in mind for his sister. She deserved an earl at the very least.
“Ewan!”
“What?” he barked. Then at Kaitlin’s frown, he cleared his throat. “Um. Yes?”
“Would you care for more tea?” She enunciated rather precisely, as though she feared he was incapable of grasping the question.
“No. Thank you.” He set down his still-full cup and saucer. They rattled on the table.
“Another cake then?”
“No. Thank you.” Ewan shifted. The divan was uncomfortable. His knees were up about his chin. What he wanted was a conversation with Moncrieff. Though their welcome—or Sophia’s at least—had been warm, he burned for confirmation that all was settled. “Is His Grace joining us?”
Kaitlin tipped her head to the side, a sour look on her face. “He’s in the middle of something important. He’ll be down shortly.” She narrowed her eyes. “He knows you’re here.”
Ewan tried not to grunt. But he wanted to. It was his natural inclination to make noises like a rutting pig when he was displeased. And being kept waiting—well, that displeased him mightily. It took effort but he forced the churning in his gut to quiet.
His calm was hard won. For one thing, he was impatient to have this over with—he hummed with nervous energy. For another, whenever Violet spoke, her voice sank into his soul and awoke a hunger he could not quench.
Certainly not with lemon cakes.
The ladies chatted amongst themselves like chirping birds, renewing their friendship and catching up with all that had happened since they’d seen each other last. Ned said little. He was too busy studying Sophia’s smile, her laugh, her dimples when they winked.
Ewan would have been annoyed at that if he hadn’t had so many other annoying things crowding his mind. In the end he had to stand and pace to the window. He glared out onto the street. Well, the drive. Wyeth House was seated on an enormous estate, even nestled in the heart of Mayfair as it was.
