“Something like that,” he grumbled, passing a hand over his face.
He appeared weary in that moment and far more vulnerable than she had seen him yet. Though he had only been in residence at Lark House for less than a week and she had known him for a handful of days, Violet fancied she could read him. He had a rakish air and an undeniable wickedness, but there was more to him than he allowed her to see, and she knew it.
And there was something about the Duke of Strathmore. Something undefinable and inexplicable. It was not just that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. It was more. Far more.
“You believe my brother suspects you because he does not like you,” she said, rather than allowing her mind to further probe the way she felt about the duke. It was complicated and unnecessary, and thoroughly unwanted.
“A combination,” he answered frankly. “I believe he suspects me because there is no love lost between us, and also because someone is doing his damnedest to make it appear as if I am guilty.”
It occurred to her, for the first time, she was the sister of the man who had imprisoned him, and that he was openly divulging his suspicions to her. She would never share what he had revealed to her to Lucien, regardless of how close she was to her brother. In his suspicion of Strathmore, Violet could not help but to feel Lucien was wrong. And she knew, better than anyone, just how unforgiving and persistent her brother could be.
“You can trust me,” she told Strathmore. “I will not share anything you have told me with my brother.”
“Naturally not, or I will be compelled to tell him about your repeated visits to my bedchamber and the kisses we have shared.” Once more, his tone was brutally honest.
She winced, for he did not need to counterbalance her with the threat of such a revelation, but at least they had established clear boundaries and she knew where she stood. Or she thought she did. “Very well. That is perfectly fair. You may rest assured of my silence, and I can rest assured of yours as well. Have you any inkling at all as to who may be attempting to lay the blame at your door?”
He nodded toward the writing desk where he had been sitting when she entered. “I am drafting a list.”
“Excellent. Finish your list, and we shall go over it together when next we meet.” Already, she had lingered in his chamber for far too long, and she could not afford to risk being caught by remaining. Her brother would be furious with her, and Aunt Hortense… She shuddered to think of the repercussions should that august lady discover her treachery.
He nodded. “I want to be freed of this godforsaken burden more than you know, my lady, and I want my name to be cleared of any and all wrongdoing. I don’t give a goddamn what your brother thinks of me. But I do care that the world does not believe me a traitor. I did not devote half my bloody life to the protection of England and her citizenry to be cast into gaol because your brother is too quarrelsome and arrogant to see what is plainly before his nose.”
The duke’s words vibrated with a deep, passionate wealth of emotion. And she believed him. She believed in his innocence. She wanted to help him, and she vowed to herself, then and there, she would.
Because you want to kiss him, chortled Wicked Violet.
No. Because she believed in fairness. Because she believed in what was right, and because she knew all too well that her brother found forgiveness the most impossible act to master of all. He had never forgiven their mother for leaving them, and he did not seem inclined to extend an olive branch to anyone else either.
Lucien may have done Strathmore wrong, and she felt the burden of righting that wrong upon her shoulders now. “I understand you completely, Strathmore. Between the two of us, I feel quite confident we shall be able to isolate the culprit and remove any blemishes shadowing your name.”
“I wish I had your confidence, my lady,” he said grimly.
She met his gaze. “I know my brother better than you do. Better than anyone does. That ought to give you all the confidence you need.”
He inclined his head. “You should run before your brother descends upon my chamber and demands I wed you. After all, you have Flowerpot to consider.”
Charles.
How horrible of her to once more think of him only as an afterthought. A reminder accompanied by guilt and a pang of regret. Regret that she did not keep him foremost in her thoughts where he belonged. Guilt that she wanted the man before her more than she had ever desired her own betrothed.
She curtseyed, forcing an air of formality into the moment. Perhaps if she ignored what had happened earlier, she could forget all about it. “I bid you good evening, Your Grace.”
He bowed, equally formal and elegant. But his expression was all wicked when his gaze met hers. “Until our next kiss, Lady Violet.”
The air left her lungs, and she wished it was from outrage rather than anticipation, but she would not lie to herself. Nor could she ignore the answering spark his words sent to her core, turning into a pulsing, molten heat that rippled outward, a heaviness between her legs, an ache of need.
“There will not be another,” she snapped, before grabbing fistfuls of her skirts and making her retreat.
“Do not fool yourself,” he called after her, laughter in that sinner’s voice. “There will be many, many more. It is inevitable.”
Violet very muchfeared a clash with the dowager Countess of Almsley, Charles’s beloved mother and Violet’s chief nemesis in life, was inevitable. An uncomfortable silence had descended upon the dreary drawing room of Peyton House, her betrothed’s Belgravia townhome.
Violet was seated, with Aunt Hortense and Charles flanking her on each side, Lady Almsley opposite them all. The seating arrangement was rather symbolic of the relationship Violet shared with her future mother-in-law. She opposed Violet with the cutting calculation of a general facing an enemy army in battle. His mother was the reason, Violet was certain, why he had never settled down and married prior to courting her.
If one did not know better, one would suppose Lady Almsley did not wish for her son to take a wife because she wanted to assume the role herself. It was an unkind thought, and Violet knew it, but she could not banish it from her mind as she faced Charles’s mother now. The woman’s disapproval was as deafening as it was obvious as she sipped her tea and settled her cup back within its saucer.
“It was good of you to pay us a call,” Lady Almsley said without a hint of sincerity. Her tone, like her expression, was an undisguised composite of grim and sour. She looked at once as if she had sampled a spoiled dish at her greatest friend’s funeral dinner.
