“Yes.” Lady Violet heaved a sigh, startling him with her sudden capitulation and candor. “She is. I do not like her at all, if you must know, and I despair of the notion of spending the rest of my life living in the same household as a woman who cannot look at me without bearing an expression of long-suffering disgust and disappointment.”
He should not be affected by her revelation, but he was. The more he learned about her betrothal to Flowerpot, the more enraged he became on her behalf. A woman like Lady Violet did not deserve a boring milksop who was ruled by his mother as a husband. She deserved someone who would appreciate her.
Someone who would bring the fire burning within her to life. Someone who would worship her with his body, who would make her happy, keep those luscious lips smiling and the heat in those brilliant emerald eyes kindled. Someone who would take her like a man. Someone who would…
Damn it.
He was getting angry just thinking about the nameless, faceless bastard who was deserving of her. Because all he wanted was for it to be him.
And that would not do.
He had to recall what his true intention was: seduction. Clever maneuvering. Routing the Duke of Arden at all costs. It would not be Griffin’s neck in a noose, and certainly not on charges that had been falsified against him. He could only gather, from his meeting with Arden and Swift earlier, that they intended to proceed with the case against him, and soon.
Which meant his opportunity to save himself before he was cast into prison was fast disappearing. All he had left was Lady Violet and his own determination to remain free.
Once again, he moved across the distance between them, this time framing Lady Violet’s face in his hands. She made no move to resist. Instead, she brought her hands to his wrists, caressing them. Her eyes were wide, the bright green of fresh spring grass newly revitalized after winter’s thaw. How easily he could lose himself within their vibrant depths.
“The answer you are seeking is clear, Lady Violet,” he said. “You cannot marry Flowerpot.”
“But if I do not marry him, who else shall I wed?” she asked, her voice hushed, almost sad. “I cannot rely upon my brother forever, and I must find a husband. I am already four-and-twenty.”
Marry me.
They were the two most ludicrous words in the English language when placed in conjunction with any woman, let alone in relation to Lady Violet West, sister to the Duke of Arsehole. They were wrong. Deadly wrong. Horridly, altogether reckless and witless and…
He could not speak them aloud.
Here, obviously, was more evidence of Father’s madness bearing down upon him, for there was no other reason why he would, even now, be so tempted to make the offer to the beautiful siren standing before him. He had witnessed his friends and compatriots fall to the parson’s noose.
It had begun with Bast, his oldest and dearest friend, and it had then claimed Leeds and Carlisle thereafter. It had changed them all irrevocably. Griffin was happy as he was, except for the small matter of his incarceration, and he was well on his way to solving that problem.
So he did the sensible thing. He smiled benignly at Lady Violet. He ignored her lips. Took one last inhalation of the sweet bloom of roses. “Marry anyone else, my lady. Anyone but Flowerpot. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my cell before my jailer discovers I am gone. It would not do to be discovered alone with you in your chamber.”
But as he took his leave and slipped back into the hall undetected, he could not help but think of the disappointment in her expression. Nor could he deny the uncomfortable knotting in his gut at the thought of her marrying anyone else, Flowerpot included.
It was not until he reached the guest chamber he had been assigned, that an idea planted itself into his mind like a tiny seed, growing roots and taking hold.
Chapter Seven
Marry anyone else.
The Duke of Strathmore’s casual pronunciation remained with Violet for the days following her impromptu interview with him in her chamber. It haunted her each time she flexed her hands whilst crocheting and felt the pull and slight twinge of pain from the cut she had received from Charles’s flowerpot.
She huffed a sigh at the appearance of Strathmore’s insulting sobriquet for her betrothed within her own thoughts and cursed the scarf in her lap. This one, a drab brown affair, looked no better than the misshapen ruin she had crocheted for Lucien. It was meant for Charles, but with each chain of stitches, her thoughts were increasingly devoted to a different man.
Strathmore.
She had been trapped within Lark House, a virtual prisoner, and yet she had been denied the presence of her fellow prisoner, the man she longed for most. A handful of days had passed—three and a half, to be precise—since she had seen him last. In the wake of the carriage shooting, Lucien had assigned Violet a guard for her every waking and sleeping moment.
She supposed he meant it to be comforting. Instead, it was merely vexing.
With another sigh and a mumbled expletive, she began stitching another line.
Marry anyone else.
Naturally, he had not volunteered himself for the duty of marrying a nearly-on-the-shelf spinster such as herself.
Why would he?
