With a sob, she tore the locket from her throat and watched it fall into the mud at her feet.
A jagged stone lay beside it; she snatched it up with trembling fingers and scratched furiously at the bark, gouging through their initials until they were nothing but scars.
Her strength ebbed with each stroke, until at last she collapsed to her knees in the wet earth, pressing her forehead against the tree’s soaked bark, the storm drumming around her.
She knelt there for what felt like hours, wracked by sobs, her body shaking.
When the rain eased and dusk fell, she dragged herself to her feet.
Her locket lay half-buried in the mud at the tree’s roots, gleaming faintly, but she did not pick it up.
It was not hers anymore.
He was not hers anymore.
Her William had never existed.
He was a lie wrapped in stolen kisses and false vows.
And Violet Hayes swore, as she stumbled home in the dark with her heart in pieces, that she would never mistake him for hers again.
Chapter Seven
It had been four days since William had broken her heart—four days since she’d run to their tree in the storm, losing all sense of time in her grief, returning hours later soaked through, the chill settling deep in her chest. Four days, and not a word from him. Not a knock at the door. Not even a message sent through another.
Now feverish and weak, Violet sat at the table with a shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, her hands trembling as she tried to peel potatoes for the evening meal. Her cough rattled in the quiet of the small cottage. Her parents had left early that morning for their duties at the manor, reluctant to go but yielding when she insisted she could manage.
She was so intent on her work that the sudden knock at the door made her flinch. Wiping her hands on her apron, she rose to answer it, only for the latch to shift beneath someone else’s hand.
The door opened before she could reach it.
Lady Eleanor Ashford stepped inside, flawless in her silks despite the dust of the lane, her expression sharp as cut glass. A warm breeze followed her in, carrying her perfume like a warning. For a moment, Violet could only stare, rooted to the spot.
“My lady,” Violet breathed, dipping her head, her heart thudding in alarm.
“I will come in.” Eleanor brushed past her without waiting for an invitation. She did not sit. She did not remove hergloves. She only looked at Violet, her gaze sweeping over her with a disdain so total it left Violet raw.
“I know,” the countess said at last, her voice like a blade. “I know you are carrying my son’s bastard.”
Violet’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her fingers clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white, as though bracing against a storm.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Did you truly think he would marry you? That an Earl of Ashford would make a wife of a servant’s child? My son may have been foolish, but he is no longer blind. He understands his duty now. He instructed me to ensure this… situation… does not follow him.”
The words struck harder than any slap.
“No,” Violet whispered. “He promised—he swore—”
“Promises are wind,” Eleanor cut in. “Titles are stone. And William has chosen stone.”
“You will leave this place. I have arranged for a carriage. Tomorrow afternoon it will take you to another town, where you will be settled in a cottage—quiet, respectable, far from here. Better that than a scandal dragging your parents’ good name through the mud.”
“My parents—”
“If you do not leave,” Eleanor said smoothly, leaning in just enough that her perfume stung Violet’s senses, “your parents will be dismissed at once. Do you wish to see them turned out of their positions after decades of service? Your father, your mother—thrown into poverty? Because of you?”
Violet’s throat closed.
“William will marry before the Season ends,” Eleanor continued, her voice soft with triumph. “He will bring his bride home, and she will not see the remnants of his shame lingering here. Do you understand? He does not want you. He does not want this child. He only wants you gone.”
