“It is late. Of course you are starved,” he said, once again sounding perilously close to compassionate. “I should have seen you fed first. And Lillian, you shall have art supplies as soon as you master the alphabet. When you can do sums, I shall consider the pianoforte.” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter as if he still couldn’t quite fathom why his world was so off-kilter. “I will take Miss Smythe to the library in the morning so that she may select a few volumes for tomorrow’s lessons. For now, I owe her a meal and an opportunity to rest. Please bid her goodnight.”
Lillian grinned triumphantly. “Good night, Miss Smythe.”
“Good night, Miss Waldegrave,” Violet returned, as pleased to have been addressed directly as she was horrified that the child hadn’t taken her leave from her father as well. If he did not already regret hiring a governess, by now he would be well on his way to resenting her. She couldn’t help but glance up at him, but his face was unreadable. “We’ll begin tomorrow?”
He nodded his agreement before sending a last longing gaze at his child. “Good night, daughter. Sweet dreams.”
The resulting silence was thick enough to suffocate them all.
Without wasting another word, Mr. Waldegrave fairly swept Violet into the tunnel. The door latched and locked in quick succession. Holding his candle aloft, he strode past Violet and into the gloom.
More grateful than ever for the flickering taper clutched between her hands, she followed him into the darkness.
Chapter 8
Violet sank into a chair at one end of a long, elegant dining table. She felt shabbier by the second. Although Waldegrave Abbey had stood for centuries—and the silver serving dishes presumably handed down for just as long—every utensil was so shiny, every porcelain bowl so fragile, that she could not even bring herself to lift a hand to the table linen for fear of marring the silk with her mere touch.
Having the handsome Mr. Waldegrave seated across from her did little to calm her nerves. How could it? Nothing in her past had prepared her for a situation such as this.
First, he hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Lillian’s chamber. As a father who by all signs was devoted to the wellbeing of his child, his daughter’s quick acceptance of a governess had to be both gratifying and galling.
Second—and far more unsettling than anything her employer might be thinking—were the confusing thoughts in her own head. From childhood, she had quickly learned to trust no man. All they brought was pain... and worse. The first and only man who had ever treated her like a real person, like a fellow human with thoughts and feelings and dreams of her own, was Old Man Livingstone. For that, Violet had loved him like... like a grandfather, she supposed. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to family.
Mr. Waldegrave, on the other hand, was no aging philanthropist seeking to provide the public with the use of a country manor. He was young. Handsome. A gentleman. Finely boned and finely tailored, even if he appeared plucked from a portrait of yesteryear. He was intelligent. Loving. Determined. And from the first, he had treated Violet with respect.
Was that the source of her discomfort? That she mistrusted his polite behavior and expected him to become a violent, lecherous monster at any moment, thus proving himself to be just like all the rest? By all rights, thatshouldbe her precise fear. But it wasn’t.
Her fear was that he wasn’t acting at all. He wasn’t waiting, biding his time for the perfect time to pounce. That he was actually... nice. That she would want to stay. That she would wanthim. To be part of his home. To be part of a family.
She hoped he did not detect her studying him surreptitiously. Staring at the shadow of his cheekbone, the curve of his lip, the way he gazed off over his cup of tea as if the world about him had disappeared and in their place he was building a brand new future.
If only she dared dream about her own. If only the threat of a hangman’s noose was not just outside every corner. If only... if only she were not servant class and he, a gentleman. She could not stop herself from watching him. The hard planes in his face, the easy grace in his movements, the light, soundless way he settled a priceless teacup atop an equally fragile china plate. Those were not hands that would bring pain or violence. Those were hands that would bring a soft touch, despite their strength. Lips that would gentle as they—
Cheeks steaming hotly, she nearly choked on her tea at the direction of her thoughts.
Involuntarily, her gaze flicked back toward the lines of his closed mouth. Whatwouldit be like? To have the heat of lips against her throat, the sensation of a mouth brushing against her own?
Violet shifted in her seat and wished for a fan to cool her face. If she was going to survive in Waldegrave Abbey, she had to think about something else.Anythingelse.
“Thank you for taking me in.” She reached for the butter with shaking hands. “Many in your position would have sent me away without a thought.”
“Thank you for agreeing to help Lillian,” he returned. Having his eyes focused directly upon her only strengthened Violet’s wayward thoughts. His gaze did not falter. “I have learnt not to raise my hopes prematurely, but this interest in art and music is unprecedented. I trust you will do all that you can to foster a love of learning.”
“Of course,” she murmured, chagrined. She had been thinking about kissing, and he had been thinking about her duties as governess. “I will do my best.”
His smile was rueful. “I suppose my daughter is not what you anticipated?”
“I’m not sure what I anticipated,” she answered diplomatically. Her fork trembled at the slight lift to his brow. Of course he would see through such an obvious platitude. “I suppose I expected a spoiled rich girl with no greater concerns than the cut of her gown. That is clearly not the case.”
He inclined his head as if he appreciated her honesty. “Lillian’s wealth is both factual and immaterial, as it cannot be used to spoil her in the ways a parent might wish. She can have any gown she desires, but no matter how many plates I buy her, she cannot comprehend the pull of ‘fashion’ without context. I shower her with playthings, so I imagine in that respect, she is somewhat spoiled. But since I cannot allow the thing she wants most, what else am I to do but give her everything I can?”
Violet chewed her bread slowly as she debated whether—and how—to respond. Clearly the last question had been rhetorical. On the other hand, being shuttered in an abbey for years on end would make a person eager for conversational partners. Lillian was not the only one suffering in solitude. Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave would come to enjoy Violet’s company as well. The thought terrified as much as it thrilled.
Luckily for her new post, Violet understood little girls very well indeed. “I think Lillian needs something more fulfilling to occupy her time.”
“Exactly.” He beamed at her in satisfaction. “Books. I have read to her for years, but it will be splendid to have someone else to champion my cause.”
She smiled back. “Books are delightful. As is art, and dance, and music. It is one thing to enjoy what others have created, and another to create something oneself. To indulge imagination as much as education.”
