Except he had never set Violet aflame with his kisses.
And after today, she was not convinced he could.
She swallowed heavily, uncertain of what to do with that particular misgiving, and moved into action, tying off the yarn and using her small scissors to snip it free. In truth, the seed pouch was not finished. But she did not much care for crocheting, and she would be relieved to be free of the thing.
“There you are, Your Grace,” she said, keeping her attention carefully trained upon the seed pouch.
“Thank you, Lady Violet.” His voice, so deep and delicious and decadent it sent a frisson of desire through her once more, forced her gaze to his. His light-blue eyes burned into hers. “I shall test its mettle and report my findings.”
Why,oh why, did such innocuous words make her feel as if she were aflame? And why was she staring at his lips once more, this time recalling what they had felt like moving over hers, with such sinful bliss?
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Great Aunt Hortense intervened. “Thank you for your efforts. Perhaps, however, you may be better served to remain in a different portion of the house, where your presence will not cause undue stress to the household.”
“Forgive me,” Strathmore said gallantly. “I had not realized my presence would be a hindrance. I rather thought I was doing Lady Violet a favor.”
Violet’s brows raised, her alarmed gaze shooting back to his.
But she need not have feared, for he preferred subtlety. He liked to tease and drop innuendos like crumbs. In truth, he had done her no favors today. All he had done was show her how thin her connection to the man she intended to marry was.
All he had done was force her to realize she could be on the precipice of making the biggest mistake of her life.
The moment the thought hit her, she banished it. How unworthy. How awful. Charles loved her. Charles would do anything for her. Charles…
Oh, blast.
Charles could not hold a candle to the Duke of Strathmore, and it was as plain as the nose upon her face. Her wanton embrace with the duke had proven as much, and there was no going back from where she had already been.
“It is most kind of His Grace,” Violet forced herself to say to her very disapproving Great Aunt Hortense. “Please, Aunt. His Grace was merely offering to test my design so I can be certain the gift for Lord Almsley will be worthy of him.”
She noted the manner in which Strathmore clutched the seed purse, his fingers clenched in a tight grip. His jaw was rigid, his blue gaze unyielding. He was strong, tall, formidable.
“I shall take my leave,” he said, surprising Violet with his sudden intent to defect.
She frowned, for the chamber already seemed to have lost its luster at the prospect of his imminent departure. His presence owned the room, reaching her where she stood, making her hot. Making her weak.
He bowed exquisitely.
Violet watched him stride from the chamber, and she could not deny her gaze was riveted upon his long legs, his broad shoulders, and his firm bottom. It seemed almost a dream he had pressed his mouth to hers. That his tongue had been inside her mouth. That she had tasted him, and he had tasted her.
She swallowed against a rush of unfamiliar sensations.
Great Aunt Hortense was watching as well, her lips compressed into a fine line of disapproval, even after the door had closed upon the duke and Violet’s seed purse both.
“Horrid man, though he may be a duke,” her aunt said dismissively. “You can be thankful you have a betrothed as wonderful as the Earl of Almsley, my dear. Mark my words, you will be best served to keep your distance from Strathmore. No good can come of any association with him, however distant.”
“Yes of course, Aunt,” she agreed by rote.
But the truth of it was, everything in her was drawn to one man far more than the other. To the wrong man.
Chapter Two
He was unutterablypathetic.
Scrubbing his hand over his face and heaving a massive sigh of disgust, Griffin stalked back to the chamber he had been assigned like the chastened lad he was, holding—of all goddamn things—a crocheted seed pouch fashioned for another man. To be precise, it had been fashioned for the horridly boring, woefully inadequate, Earl of Flowerpot, who had dared to snare Lady Violet’s hand.
Yes, she had crocheted the earl aseed pouch, as if it were an item a man would ordinarily require.
Jesus.
