“Everything?” He could not resist probing.
The devil in him urged him onward. For he needed her to know that, if they wed, it was not because it was a lark, or because she found it convenient to marry him and escape Flowerpot, without a hope of ever consummating. When they wed, it would be binding and true. She would be as tied to him as he was to her. When they wed, he expected her in his bed, atop him, beneath him, and any other way he could possibly have her.
The position did not matter, but what did matter, was that she was certain of the fate awaiting her. He did not want there to be any doubt. If he sold his soul to save his neck, it had damn well better be worth the price.
“Everything,” she confirmed.
The same devil within him had him taking her hand in his, guiding it to the rigid protrusion of his cock, hidden from her beneath the barrier of his dressing gown. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilating, but her hand curved, cupping his raging erection. Without his prompting, she gripped him firmly.
Fuck.Her innocent touch, coupled with the forbidden nature of this meeting—of the two of them alone together at all, to say nothing of his dishabille—was enough to make his ballocks tighten. Arden’s sister had her hand on his prick, and he was going to shoot off in her grip as if he had never before been inside a cunny.
He ground his jaw, plucking her touch away, and instead, bringing her palm to rest over his thudding heart. “Why, Lady Violet?”
“You said I should marry anyone else, anyone aside from Charles. But I do not want anyone else. I want you.” A tinge of uncertainty underscored her soft voice.
I want you.
Her confession was almost his undoing, but he soldiered on, determined. “I have more scars, my lady. My body is covered in them. Remnants from my service to the Crown.”
“One or one thousand, the number matters not.” With her other hand, she cupped his jaw with the gentle touch of a butterfly.
He resisted the urge to nuzzle her palm like a cat seeking a caress. More heat arrowed to his cock, and the voice inside his head reached a crashing crescendo.Mine. Mine. Mine.
He kissed her then, just once, quick and swift and closed-mouthed, lest he give in to his base urges. If they were going to marry without Arden’s knowledge, they would have to construct a careful, flawless plan. There would be no room for error.
“Very well, Lady Violet,” he conceded. “I will marry you. But we will need a plan, and for now, you have already tarried in my chamber far longer than is wise. We must tread lightly to escape detection, else this will never work.”
“I already have a plan,” she said with a bright, beautiful smile.
Of course she did.
He could scarcely wait to hear it.
Chapter Eight
“Dearest sister.” Lucienstartled Violet with the uncharacteristic warmth of his greeting as he embraced her and bussed both her cheeks.
She hugged him in return with only halfhearted strength, thanks to the wave of guilt crashing over her. She loved Lucien. He was her brother after all, and he had taken her beneath his wing when Mama had drowned herself. When Father had died not long after, he had become the closest kin she had. For so long, it had been the two of them against the world, and all they had possessed was each other.
But times had changed. Lucien’s role in the Special League had taken over his life, much like a red wine carpet stain that began small, then grew larger, setting in and blotting out the patterns beneath its mark. It had changed him as well. He was still the Lucien she had always known and loved, but parts of him were undeniably different.
“Lucien,” she greeted, feeling as brittle as fine porcelain within the circle of his arms. “How are you?”
“Tired.” He released her and motioned to one of the chairs opposite the massive desk in his study. For the first time in recent weeks, Mr. Swift did not occupy one of them, and she was grateful for it. She did not like the man, and she resented his encroachment upon her time with her brother. “Sit, if you please, Violet. I am curious to learn the nature of your request for this audience.”
It had taken two days of asking everyone within sight—including Mr. Swift, their butler, Aunt Hortense, and her various bodyguards—where her brother was, when he might return, and when she could obtain a private meeting with him. Ever since the attack on the carriage, he had been caught up in one meeting after the next, spending every waking hour away from Lark House, in an effort to learn the identity of the perpetrator and see him imprisoned before he could make any more such attempts.
But now, at last, she had him before her. Alone. No obsequious Mr. Swift within either sight or earshot.
She sat, dropping with a lack of grace into the seat, so preoccupied with her thoughts, she made no effort to make a soft, ladylike landing for her bottom. Instead, she collapsed, landing on the hard seat with a thud that rattled her teeth and sent an acute twinge of pain up her tailbone. The chairs in Lucien’s study were dratted uncomfortable, not a cushion on them, and she could only suppose the reason was, he did not wish those facing him in such circumstances to be comfortable.
Lucien seated himself in his plush-looking seat, his expression drawn. He steepled his fingers on the desk, looking stern, and reminding her ever so much of their father as he raised an expectant brow. “Now then, what did you want of me?”
She had plotted and planned this moment. Had rehearsed what she would say, how she would begin their conversation with some generic remarks concerning her future, before gently leading him into her decision about Charles. But everything she had strategized fled her now as she met her brother’s searching green gaze.
Her palms went damp. Her mouth went dry. Guilt tightened its relentless grip upon her, squeezing, squeezing…
“I do not want to marry Charles,” she blurted.
