Lady Almsley cast her aggrieved expression in Violet’s direction before Violet could avert her gaze once more. The elder woman’s lip curled. “Very well. A few minutes, no more, and do not go beyond our sight.”
“We would never dream of conducting ourselves in any fashion other than that most becoming to a gentleman and a lady,” Charles said seriously. “We shall be back in a quarter hour’s time, just long enough for us to take an informed turn about the hothouse.”
Charles had redesigned a portion of the townhome to accommodate a small conservatory, connected to the drawing room by a wall of glass, so he could enjoy his plants whilst entertaining. Yes, he was eccentric. A bit odd. Far too enamored of his mother. But for all that, he was a good man. Fine and decent. A lady could suffer far worse, it was certain.
Not precisely a glowing advertisement for the earl as a future husband, she realized grimly, rising on cue when he did and joining him. She accepted his outstretched arm, aware his mother’s glare bored holes into her back the entire time.
It was not until he had swept her into the sun-drenched confines of his conservatory, filled with his projects and specimens and plants in varying stages of growing and blooming and budding, that she felt comfortable. Here was Charles as she knew him and liked him best, at ease amongst his plants.
She waited for the calm blanket of familiarity to envelop her, to warm her, to soothe over any frayed or jagged nerves. He was the same Charles, and she should be grateful for their respite from his harridan mother, relieved to have some time alone with him, and yet all she could do was compare him to another.
To Strathmore.
There was no comparison, not truly, and the realization filled her with guilt and dread in twin measures. No one had ever moved her the way the duke did, and though Charles had been the most appealing of all her suitors, and she had convinced herself she could find contentment with him, now…she was no longer certain.
The winds of life could shift and change too easily, so suddenly. One day, she had been convinced marrying Charles was her fate, even if it was not what fulfilled her—it would have been safe—and the next day, she could not fathom binding herself to such a life.
To his mother.
To forever be answering to another, to be judged and found lacking, to be looked down upon and ordered about. It was not the life she wanted, and if she could not find a means of keeping Lady Almsley in check, Violet was beginning to fear for future happiness more by the moment.
“I am dreadfully sorry for Mother’s mood today,” Charles apologized softly, as if sensing the bent of her thoughts. “I do hope you did not find offense. She loves you as a daughter already, as I am certain you know.”
Charles was a good man, the sort who believed the best of everyone around him, even when he shouldn’t.Especiallywhen he shouldn’t. Violet herself was an excellent example of that.
She frowned, her grasp on his crooked elbow tightening. “I do not think she loves me as a daughter. Indeed, I do not think she loves me at all.”
“Nonsense,” he said, leading her to a grouping of orchids in various stages of growth.
Some were dormant, others blossoming with vibrant beauty, faces outstretched to absorb the heat of the sun. The conservatory was warm, and it smelled of dampness and soil and ever so faintly of the dung he used upon his plants. She tried to imagine herself spending time within its glassed confines with him, and failed.
Plants did not interest her, and they never had.
In truth, she was not certain what, if anything, did. Lucien was so protective of her because of what had happened with Mama that she had not had the opportunity to experience anything of life beyond the walls of Lark House and his country seat since she had been a child.
They stopped before an orchid that looked sickly, its leaves drooped.
She turned to him, searching his familiar, handsome face and soft brown eyes. “She does not like me, Charles.”
“She is overjoyed we will be wedded in two months’ time.” He took her hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze of affection. “I know she can be trying at times, but her intentions are good. She loves me and wants to see me happy. When we are wed and she sees how very happy you make me, all her reservations shall fall away. I am certain of it.”
Oh how she wished she could borrow his certitude. But all Violet felt was alarm.
Two months. They would be married intwo months. Her freedom was dwindling. Her chance to escape fled her more and more by the day.
It was awful of her, and she knew it. Accompanying the dread came guilt, vicious and raw. Charles was so earnest, his face unfettered and honest. He believed she could make him happy, when Violet very much feared she could never find contentedness as his wife.
It had been a fear before she had kissed the Duke of Strathmore.
But now, that extant fear was a painful open maw, enormous and threatening. She liked Charles. He was comfortable and familiar and kind. She knew what to expect of him. He never quarreled with her, and he cared for her. He would make an excellent husband for the right woman.
Violet feared she wasnotthat woman.
The problem was, she did not love Charles, and she most certainly did not love his mother.
“You do not seem yourself today, my darling,” he said, interrupting her wildly vacillating thoughts with his gentle voice. So calming, so soothing.
She scoured his face, stared into his eyes, looked at his mouth, and wished she could summon even a speck of what Strathmore sparked within her. “Would you kiss me now, Charles?” she asked suddenly.
