More time to spend with the Duke of Strathmore,chimed in Wicked Violet.
Yes, there was that. More kisses too.
“What an excellent notion, Aunt Hortense,” Violet said, prompting her brother to send her another disapproving frown. “I need to finish Lucien’s scarf. He is most eager to wear it.”
“His scarf?” Color returned to Aunt Hortense’s pallid cheeks for the first time since the carriage kerfuffle. “It is dreadfully uneven, my dear. Perhaps you ought to take it apart and try from the beginning.”
Perhaps the scarf was woefully constructed, as much of her crocheting was. And she supposed she ought to be grateful her sad attempts at constructing a garment for her brother were responsible for extracting Aunt Hortense from her doldrums.
Her brother’s lips twitched, the wretch. “Now then, come along. It is best to conduct such interviews while the information remains fresh in your minds.”
It was only as they were en route to her brother’s study that an odd thought occurred to her. The man she had seen on the streets, the man she believed to be the shooter, had rather resembled the slight, sandy-haired form of Mr. Swift.
Chapter Six
Nearly an hourafter she had arrived back at Lark House, Violet found herself at last approaching her bedchamber and the beckoning solitude it contained. The incident in the carriage had shaken her, and she could not deny it.
But what had shaken her even more had been Lucien’s reaction to the news. It had been subtle, but over the course of the interview she and Aunt Hortense had suffered, she had seen the depth of his concern. Though he had schooled his featured into the mask he wore each day, she knew her brother better than anyone else on God’s great earth.
And the shots that had been taken at the carriage bearing his crest and containing herself and Aunt Hortense frightened him.
It was Lucien’s fear, along with his announcement there would be additional guards scattered outside and within Lark House, that settled beneath her skin, worrying her. Filling her with apprehension. It was the pallor of her brother’s skin, the sudden drawing of his mouth into a grim, flat line, the lack of certitude with which he had spoken, invading her mind as she made her way over the threshold of her chamber, closing the door at her back.
She sighed within the familiar confines—wallcoverings in striped purple and cream damask, lace everywhere—her initial terror as the bullets had torn through the cab of the carriage returning tenfold. Now she was alone, the silence palpable, and she had no distraction. All she could think of was what had happened. All she could do was wonder when it would happen again. What might occur next time. To worry next time the villains behind it would not miss their mark.
Would she be killed? Wounded? Who had shot at her carriage, and why?
She needed a pistol, and she did not care what Lucien said of it. She would not go forth in this mad world of theirs without the ability to defend herself or Aunt Hortense if necessary. She was a female, yes, but she was not helpless, and she refused to be treated as if she were. As if she could not possibly be taught to shoot a weapon because she was a lady.
Why, it was nonsense. Ludicrous. Old-fashioned thinking. Her brother being far too protective as usual. She did not give a fig for the conventions of society. She wanted a pistol, and she wanted to know, if she found herself on the floor of a carriage again, she would have the means to—
A creak on the floorboards sounded then, just behind her, and the overwhelming sense of another presence, the feeling she was not alone, hit her in the next breath. Panic swirled through her.
“Lady Violet.”
She jolted and let loose a scream that was swiftly muffled when a large, masculine hand clamped over her mouth. She was about to kick and claw and bite until she recognized the musky pine scent and felt lips grazing the shell of her ear.
“Hush, my lady. It is Strathmore, and if you insist upon caterwauling, you shall bring all five hundred of Arden’s guard dogs down upon us.”
Strathmore.
Her fight fled, and she sagged against his strong lean form, relief rushing through her like a warm current. Of course it was him. She ought to have known from that deliciously deep baritone, from that sinful voice. Her head was upon his chest, one of his arms wrapped around her waist.
For a moment, as her madly galloping heart gradually returned to its normal pace, she found herself reveling in being held against him thus, enveloped by his heat and power. He removed his hand, and she found her voice, recalling belatedly where they were, where she had been earlier that day, and why this was altogether wrong, even if it felt altogether right.
“What are you doing in my chamber, Strathmore?” she demanded, extricating herself from his grasp, even though she longed to remain where she was, and turning to face him.
“I heard about your carriage. The household is abuzz with the news.” He frowned at her, his expression severe, his jaw rigid. “I wanted to see for myself that you were indeed uninjured, and given my jailer’s decree to remain within my rooms, I decided awaiting you here would be the most efficient method.”
She took a more detailed inventory of him. He wore shirtsleeves only and dark trousers with bare feet. A man’s feet ought not to be a thing of beauty, but of course his somehow were. He looked sinfully handsome and disheveled, and for a moment, she could do nothing but drink him in.
Had he been worried for her?
Close the distance between the two of you and kiss him, ordered Wicked Violet.
Wicked Violet was a wanton wretch, and Violet ignored her.
“As you can see, I am perfectly hale and hearty.” She held out her hands, palms up, and spun in a slow circle that set her skirts fanning out about her.
