His presence was always necessary. Ever since he had taken command of the Special League—a formerly secret branch of the government devoted to protecting England’s interests at home and abroad—she had scarcely seen him. He had always been the sort of man who took duty seriously, and he made no exceptions now. But she had to admit, his onerous burdens left him little time for her, and as they had neither mother nor father, and only each other for solace, she rather resented his perpetual absences.
“Why have you come here if you are going to immediately flee?” she asked, nettled. “Did you wish to hear Aunt Hortense’s snores?”
“You too are beastly,” he accused her, without sting. “I do need to speak with you, however, Violet. Aunt has brought a concerning matter to my attention.”
Her stomach knotted.
Just how much had the old dragon witnessed of her interaction with Strathmore?
Violet raised a brow, careful to keep her expression relaxed and unconcerned. “Oh?”
His expression darkened, his jaw clenching. “Indeed. Aunt Hortense tells me she came upon you yesterday in a most distressing state. It seems you were alone. With Strathmore.”
The wordkisswas noticeably absent from his chastisement.
Relief swirled within her.
“She added that you were in close proximity,” he pressed, ruining her relief.
Hellfire.
Aunt Hortense and her disappointingly excellent vision. What stuff and nonsense.
“She was mistaken,” Violet said smoothly, training her gaze upon the scarf in her lap once more.
Sad scarf. Oblong and pathetically fashioned. Lucien was wrong. Not even Aunt Hortense would wear such blasphemy.
“Mistaken?” her brother repeated, his tone growing ominous.
His temper was legendary, and she had no wish to be the recipient of its brutal lash. Violet bit her lip, struggling to find a reasonable explanation for what Aunt Hortense had witnessed.
“Yes,” she said with a bravado she little felt. “Mistaken. His Grace was assisting me in the construction of my seed pouch for Charles.”
“Charles?” Lucien gritted.
Never mind her betrothed was as dangerous to her virtue as a butterfly to a bear. Her brother was horribly protective. She realized her error at once.
“Lord Almsley,” she corrected herself. “His Grace was helping me to see if the model of the seed pouch for the earl would be functional.”
“How generous of him,” her brother commented with a feral bite that could not be ignored. “You must not allow yourself to be tainted by his presence, Violet.”
His castigation was not much different from Aunt Hortense’s.
Violet lost her patience. “You need not act as if he is a contagion.”
“Heisa contagion. The Duke of Strathmore is an amoral cur, and possibly also a traitor.” Lucien frowned. “You are to stay away from him.”
“No harm was done.”
For some reason, though she ordinarily avoided conflict, she could not seem to stop herself from defending Strathmore, even though she knew she would only incite her brother’s ire. Lucien in high dudgeon was a sight—and sound—she generally attempted to avoid.
At all costs.
“I forbid you from being alone with him,” Lucien snapped with such ferocity Aunt Hortense delivered another snort, half a mumble, and then another long snore. “You are on the cusp of an excellent match with Lord Almsley. The earl is a good man; considerate, kind, and virtuous, and everything I would wish for you in a husband. Do not risk your future as his countess, Violet.”
For a moment, she wondered who wanted her to marry Charles more—Charles or her brother—and then she pinned Lucien with a frown of her own. “If he is such a vile criminal, why have you imprisoned him in your own home?”
It occurred to her she had used much the same phrasing as Strathmore had when he had spoken bitterly of his stay at Lark House. One touch of his lips to hers, and he had cast a spell upon her. It was that wicked mouth of his, that beautiful face, his beard…
