He had carried her home that way.
“I want your happiness,” he bit out. “I have had Almsley thoroughly investigated. He does not have a mistress or any great debt. There is no history of infirmity in his lineage. He is calm and mild of manner. He is intelligent and kind. He does not gamble or drink to excess. He would never hurt you.”
Nor would he ever thrill her or make her feel even a speck of what she felt when she was merely alone in a room with the Duke of Strathmore. But she could not say that to Lucien. Nor could she confide in him her true intentions. Her heart ached for him, because she knew his highhandedness had emerged from the painful wound their mother had left upon his heart.
“We cannot live in fear of reliving what happened with Mama,” she told him softly.
“I do not live in fear, but in prevention.” His tone was bitter. Dark.
The scars of the past were not mere scars for her brother, but aching, festering wounds. She wondered if they always would be. Time had continued to pass, but in so many ways, he remained the youthful boy of her childhood, tormented by the thought of their mother floating away into the sea.
She must come home. I will bring her home if it is the last action I take.
And he had done as he vowed, bringing Mama home, cradled in his arms, tears streaking his cheeks. It had been the very last time Violet had ever witnessed her brother weep.
“I have tried to love Charles, Lucien. But I do not.”
“Do not be hasty in the rush to make such a decision,” he countered. “Love is like a seed. It must be planted in good soil and carefully tended for it to grow. It requires light and water. Later, it must be kept free of weeds as the shoot bursts forth. Eventually, it bears fruit, but in order for that to occur, time and patience and attention is required.”
Her brother was not wrong in his analogy, she was sure of it. But the trouble was, the thought ofbearing fruitwith Charles made her queasy.
“Is this the talk mothers have with their daughters prior to their wedding night?” she could not help but ask, struck by morbid curiosity.
“No, devil take it. That one will be left to Aunt Hortense.” His ears were crimson once more.
Wicked Violet emerged before she could stifle her. “Did husbands and wives have a wedding night in 1845?”
A smile quirked her brother’s lips, before he quashed it, replacing his expression with a stern frown instead. “I am certain they did, else they would not have had progeny. However, none of that is pertinent to this discussion. What is important is that you understand Lord Almsley will make an excellent husband to you. Trust me in this, Violet.”
She believed her brother thought he was acting in her best interest. Truly, she did. But her mind had been made up.
“I do not like aspic,” she told her brother then, opting for Strathmore’s analogy instead. “Regardless of how many times I partake of it, it retains the same perplexing texture, and I do not enjoy eating the stuff. If I do not like it now, what makes you so certain I would change my mind?”
“Some things are an acquired taste.” Her brother’s frown grew more severe. “Lord Almsley will be good to you. By his own admission, he is hopelessly in love with you. Even if you do not return that love, I feel certain that, in time, you will.”
Yes, Charles did claim to love her. But he had also never mentioned her brother had approached him first, not in all the months of their courting. She thought again of his kisses. Of the broken flowerpot and his reaction. Of his mother, the dowager, and her sour face of disapproval. Of living with her, of suffering Charles’s dry, overeager kisses for the rest of her life.
No.
It was all she could think.
Just, simply,no.
But she would not allow Lucien to see her true reaction now. Instead, she recalled the real reason behind her request for this meeting, which had not been to reveal her feelings about Charles at all, but which had instead been to attempt to ascertain when Lucien intended to make a move regarding Strathmore. She needed to know how much time she had left.
“Very well, I shall defer to your wisdom in this matter, Lucien, as I know you would never lead me astray.” The response was perhaps too biddable, and she hoped he would not take note. “Perhaps my misgivings can be attributed to bridal jitters.”
Her brother flashed a relieved smile at her. “I am told it happens to all brides and grooms. There is no harm in it, now your head is firmly set upon your shoulders once more.”
Or so he thought.
“Have you come any closer to finding out who shot at the carriage the other day?” she asked next, cognizant of her need to segue into the true meat of their conversation.
His expression closed instantly, just as it always did when any mentioning of his Home Office and Special League work arose. “Closer, yes.”
“Closer?” she probed.
He cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Violet, you know very well I cannot divulge the finer elements of the investigations I conduct for the League.”
