She tamped down a sigh. The man made her want to swoon, and it was foolish and dangerous, and she knew it.
“I have not imprisoned him.” Lucien had inherited their father’s dark-green eyes, the same as she had, and his passionate temperament. They sparkled now with indignant fire. “He is my guest.”
“A forced guest is hardly a guest.” This time, she repeated Strathmore verbatim.
Drat.
Her cheeks went hot, and she averted her gaze. Lucien would never know. Would he? Her brother had a disturbing tendency of uncovering all her secrets. She was fairly certain her expression screamedI kissed the Duke of Strathmorejust now.
Because it was all she could think about.
If she were to earn a pound for each time she had recalled the delicious, sinful movement of the duke’s lips upon hers, his tongue in her mouth, she would have already been a wealthy woman indeed.
Her brother’s expression became hardened and grim. “Do I need to send you to Albemarle, Lady Violet?”
She suppressed a shudder at the threat. Albemarle was a cold, barren fifteenth century castle in Northumberland. For reasons that would forever elude Violet, it had been a favorite of their mother’s. She had visited many times as a child, before Mama had waded into the North Sea, allowing the water to drench her skirts and carry her away, never to be seen alive again.
For all those reasons and more, Lucien’s warning filled her with dread.
Violet met his gaze just the same, unflinchingly, which was not her ordinary way. “I daresay we both know what happens when a woman from our family is at Albemarle. Is that what you wish, Lucien?”
A shadow of contrition passed over his features, softening him, making him appear less harsh. Less a complex symmetry of hard angles and unforgiving perfection.
“Of course I do not wish it.” He passed a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. “Nor do I have any desire to send you away from me. I would only do so for the sake of your reputation and future.”
Much as their father had done to their mother.
She did not say it aloud, but her silence did not change her thoughts. Their father had grown to fear their mother’s wildly vacillating moods. Mama would be happy and gay and laughing one moment, and despondent in her bed hours later. Sometimes, she relegated herself to her chamber for days at a time. Their father, uncertain of how to treat a wife who was not calm and staid as he was, had sent her away often to the place she loved best.
The place she had eventually made her grave.
“I am not like her, Lucien,” Violet said lowly, emotion making her stomach twist and clench, old pains surging forth to sting her eyes with tears she refused to shed.
She had lived her entire life thus far in fear she was fashioned in Mama’s mold, doing everything in her power to make certain she did not meet the same end. Though he had never voiced his concerns aloud, she knew Lucien possessed the same concern for the both of them. His stern stoicism was borne of their insurmountable loss.
His expression hardened once more. “I would never suggest so. You are calm, pragmatic, and reasonable, Violet. She was…wild and unhinged.”
“She was melancholy,” Violet argued, though she did not know why she bothered. This quarrel between them was an old and tired one: she defending Mama, Lucien villainizing her.
“She was weak and selfish.” Lucien paused, seeming to collect himself. “You are nothing like her. But nevertheless, it is my responsibility to look after you, Violet. Lord Almsley will be a good husband to you, and it will put my mind at ease to see you settled with a kind man who loves you. I merely wish to protect you and your future.”
Of course he wished to protect her. It was what he had always done. Perhaps too much. For the first time, the prospect of rebellion loomed. She thought of Strathmore’s kiss, and she ached with the temptations of the unknown and the forbidden.
“Mama was not weak or selfish,” she felt compelled to defend, “and furthermore, I cannot help but think you wish me to wed Lord Almsley to assuage your own worries, rather than to see me well-settled.”
His nostrils flared, his posture going rigid. “I will not argue with you on this matter, Violet. Conduct yourself with proper care for your future. That is all I ask. The Duke of Strathmore, even if he is not guilty of the charges being laid against him, is not for you. Keep your distance. Maintain propriety. Think of yourself and the life you will lead with Almsley, one of happiness and contentment.”
Happiness and contentment? With Charles? It somehow seemed more of an impossibility in this moment than it ever had before. True, she had experienced misgivings where he was concerned. She had always known his feelings for her ran deeper than the emotions she possessed toward him.
But Lucien had convinced her the earl was the best husband for her, and she had accepted Charles’s proposal based on her brother’s recommendation. She wondered, not for the first time, whether Lucien could truly know what was best for her better than she did.
Aunt Hortense chose that moment to awake, snorting and shuddering herself to a lucid state at last. Her eyes blinked open, settling upon Violet with their characteristic assessing glint.
“What is the hour?” their aunt asked, stifling a yawn. “I fear the clock has gotten away from me and it is far beyond the time I must retire.”
Violet bit her lip to refrain from informing Aunt Hortense she had already been retired, snoring her head off upon the gilded Louis Quinze settee. Instead, she smiled. “The hour is indeed late, Aunt Hortense. Perhaps you ought to seek your chamber.”
Her brother skewered her with yet another frown. “I wonder if you might remind Violet of the wisdom of making a good match.”
