The man she was going to marry, she reminded herself, as she laced her fingers together at her waist and paced the confines of the parlor. The home was empty, not a servant or other soul to be found, but its waxed floors and lived-in scent suggested its owners were not far. Strathmore had been quiet when she had inquired where they were stopping and why.
Much of him was steeped in mystery, and she could see now it would take some time for him to open up to her fully. For him to trust her. Already, he had trusted her enough with this: himself, the great risk they had taken for his life and freedom. He had led her from Lark House without injuring anyone. Indeed, he had almost made it seem too easy, too simple.
The blade he had fashioned had been held near her throat, but never against it. Using her as a willing shield, he had retreated from Lark House, and he had done it so quietly, with such finesse, that only two men had even been aware of what had occurred, before she and Strathmore emerged from a servant’s entrance and found their way with ease to the waiting carriage.
How he had managed to have a carriage ready and awaiting them was yet another mystery, though she imagined the missive he had instructed her to smuggle out of Lark House on his behalf had been the source.
With a deep breath, she paced the length of the chamber one more time. She had done it. Strange how leaving with the duke did not make her feel any differently. If anything, it made her feel more at ease, as if she had finally reached the place where she belonged.
By Strathmore’s side.
Yes, she had meant it when she said the words to him earlier. It was difficult indeed to describe, or even understand herself, for the sensation was unlike anything she had ever experienced before him. A part of her had been missing, and she had not known it until the moment he had fallen into her lap. But she had found it, there in his eyes. Being with him felt…
She turned on her heel, and suddenly, there he was, looming on the threshold of the chamber; tall, dark, debonair.
Hers.
Violet stopped, losing her breath. Losing her nerve.
How could this beautiful man ever truly be any woman’s, let alone hers? How could she imagine he would ever want her in return, a plain Violet like her namesake, rather than a glorious lily or a rose?
“You were gone for quite some time,” she greeted him, instead of giving voice to the multitude of foolish thoughts roiling through her mind.
“I was helping the driver tend to the horses,” he said simply. “He is spending the night in rather cramped quarters in an uncomfortable stable on our account, so I deemed it only fair.”
It was not an action she could imagine a duke taking, endeavoring to help a coachman, but she supposed the Duke of Strathmore was no ordinary duke. His body was covered in scars, he did and said everything he should not, and he did not seem to fear anything or anyone.
He was dangerous.
“Are there not servants here to do such a duty?” she asked, curious once more about where he had brought her. “This home certainly seems lived in, and yet it appears as if there is no one about.”
He flashed her a brief smile, and though it was small and fleeting, she felt it to her toes. “The less witnesses we have, the better. Fortunately, I was able to get word to some of my acquaintances in advance of our plans, and this home is ours for the evening. No one will ever suspect you and I are staying here this night. We are safe.”
Safe.
Just the two of them.
Somehow, that sounded anything but safe. It sounded instead a myriad of things. Wicked. Promising. Delightful.
Terrifying.
She looked at his beautiful mouth, wondering how she could be alone with him without wanting to kiss him. Withoutkissinghim. Without throwing herself into his arms like the wanton she had become.
What is wrong with that?asked Wicked Violet.
Nothing, said her heart.
Oh dear.It did not bode well for her heart and Wicked Violet to be in accord.
She needed to distract herself. She also needed to stop ogling his gorgeous lips. “You are certain no one will find us here?”
It was the only coherent question she could find to ask, aside from,Will you please kiss me again, and that would be a very, very bad idea.
“As certain as I can be of anything, my lady.” He approached her, and the crisp scent of the countryside was on his coat, mingling with pine and musk. He wore neither hat nor gloves, his wavy, dark hair ruffled and falling rakishly over one blue eye. “If I am an agent of the Crown worth half my weight, I ensured no one will be capable of tracking us. But we cannot linger here beyond morning light. We are still too near to town, and your brother is likely already tearing apart London with his bare hands, determined to find you and send me to rot in prison. We will move on to our destination, and when we are there, we will wed as quickly as we can.”
His expression was solemn, but his eyes blazed. He enjoyed this, she realized. He appeared so very vibrant, so alive. His vitality made him even more irresistible, and she did not realize she had even moved until she stood nearer to him than was wise, so near her hem brushed over his shoes. So near she could touch him if she wished.
Oh, how she wished.
