Perhaps kissing her had been a means of entertaining himself through his boring forced imprisonment. Perhaps the thought of kissing the sister of the man he must surely view as his nemesis had pleased him. He claimed to have means of procuring her a pistol and giving her lessons, but thus far, she had received nothing from him but silence, and with the louts Lucien had assigned as her protectors dogging her each footfall, she could not escape.
It was insupportable. She was once more boring Lady Violet West, in possession of an equally boring fiancé, who loved his orchids and his mother more than he loved her, and who kissed with the precision of an invading army looting a village. Her brother had no time for her. Aunt Hortense was her only companion.
Oh, how foolish she felt by the murky light of the afternoon three days later, when the world outside was gray with fog and drenched by drizzle. Why had she thought Strathmore would suggest himself?
She dropped a stitch and cursed again. Her distraction was getting the better of her.
“My lady, is anything amiss?” asked her current guard, a tall and menacing-looking man named Pye, of all things, from the threshold of the small morning salon she had chosen to crochet within today.
Lord, how she hated crocheting.
And Lord, how she detested being watched.
It rendered sneaking into the Duke of Strathmore’s chamber impossible.
Oh dear. There she went again, thinking ofhim.
She frowned at the errant thought and Pye both. “I am merely growing frustrated with my crocheting. I am not very adept at the art, I am afraid.”
“My mother is a deft hand at it,” Pye informed her helpfully from the doorway. “Perhaps I can ask her for some advice and pass it along to you, my lady. That scarf looks right lovely though. Anyone would be pleased to wear it.”
“What about you, Mr. Pye?” she asked on impulse. “Would you care to wear it?”
Pye, who looked rather rough and brutish, flushed and shuffled his feet. “I would be honored, my lady.”
Was heflirtingwith her? Yes, she rather fancied he was, and she did not mind. The attention buoyed her sagging spirits. Charles did not need the scarf. Perhaps his mother ought to crochet one for him.
That was rather spiteful of her, and most unbecoming, and she knew it, but Wicked Violet was like an epidemic, and plain old Violet was growing vexed with everyone in her life, from her brother to her betrothed to her…to the Duke of Strathmore. For he was nothing to her, she forced herself to acknowledge. Perhaps not even a friend. She had offered him aid, and he had accepted. He had kissed her, and she had liked it.
But none of those things meant anything at all, did they, if not bolstered by actions?
Marry anyone else.
Perhaps she would marry Mr. Pye, just to spite every other man in her life, and he would proudly sport her misshapen scarves made with string the color of dung. There was no other means of describing the hue of the scarf she’d been distractedly crafting, and she knew it. She had chosen it with Charles in mind, for he loved brown, as it reminded him of the soil, and he adored dirt.
Is this what you want for the rest of your life?Wicked Violet chose to re-emerge and ask in that moment.Crocheting scarves for Charles, living in the shadows of his mother and his plants?
No, of course not. The answer was plain as day. She wanted adventure. Excitement. She longed for the unpredictable. The enigmatic.
The Duke of Strathmore’s face came to mind.
Drat him.
She smiled at Mr. Pye. “This scarf shall be yours, sir, and I will be most honored to see you wear it in cooler weather.”
An idea formed then, and it was a wicked one indeed. The very best sort, she was beginning to suspect, if she could only dare to find the courage to carry it out. And there was no doubt about it, the execution of her idea would require boundless bravado, and nothing less.
“Thank you, my lady.” Pye’s flush deepened. “I would be honored. If His Grace allows it, that is. I could not accept such a generous gift without his approval.”
Referring to any of her creations as a gift, let alone a generous one, was a stretch. Bless Mr. Pye’s heart. She had a feeling he would prove easy to manipulate.
“Dear me, I do believe I require a finer hook for the more intricate details on this scarf. You would not mind, would you, Mr. Pye, if I were to go and retrieve it? I know I have the proper size in my chamber, but I am not precisely certain where. It may take me some time to find it. I do believe my Aunt Hortense has one if I cannot find mine.”
She rose, leaving her crocheting abandoned. Even Aunt Hortense, who possessed an indefatigable constitution, had closeted herself within her chamber today, claiming a megrim. Here, perhaps, was her chance.
“Of course, my lady.” Pye was only too happy to please her, and she was doubly grateful for his lenience. Her other jailers had not been so pleasant or easily swayed. “I shall await you here.”
She gave him her most beaming smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pye.”
