He felt her gaze upon him like a caress.
“What are you making?”
There was something about cooking for Lady Violet, and doing so within this house in particular, that felt right in a way that cut straight to his marrow. He did not choose to question it or look deep inside himself for the source of that feeling. He simply accepted it. Basked in its warmth, which rivaled the heat of the fire he had built to prepare their dinner.
“Egg and onion soup to begin. This is a recipe of my mother’s,” he said casually, giving the onions he was frying in butter a stir.
He was admittedly no trained French chef, but his mother, who had been his father’s cook before he had married her in the scandal of his generation, had taught Griffin everything he knew. Even after she had become duchess, cooking had pleased her, relaxed her.
His father had not cared if the servants gossiped. He had been in love with Griffin’s mother, and he had allowed her to have the run of the kitchens. As a result, Griffin had spent many a happy day in his youth watching Mama prepare soups and salads and joints. Or working her magic with cherry tartlets.
All these years later, his parents both nothing more than cherished memories, he still found comfort in preparing food. There was something about creating something from nothing, from crafting sustenance with his own hands, that appealed to him in a way he could not explain.
“Your mother’s?” Lady Violet asked, surprise mingling with curiosity in her dulcet voice.
“Yes.” He slanted a glance in her direction, noting she had taken off her shoes and the tips of her stocking-clad toes were visible beneath the hem of her purple gown. Toes—covered toes, blast it—should not send a rush of need straight through him, but somehow, they did. “My mother worked in my father’s kitchens before he married her.”
He waited for her shocked exclamation, perhaps even disgust. Griffin was well-accustomed to the prejudices of his world. To many, a duchess who had once been a servant, would forever be a servant who had reached above herself, masquerading as one of her betters.
But Lady Violet’s expression was contemplative. She considered him with a regard that almost made him uncomfortable, as if she were seeing him for the first time. Or perhaps seeing straight to the heart of him, the part he kept buried.
“Did she teach you how to cook?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested.
“She did.” A rush of bittersweet fondness hit him as he recalled his mother. She had been lovely, with a beauty that shone from within, and the kindest heart of anyone he had ever met. She had died when he was imprisoned in Paris, and he would never forget returning home, scarred and broken, learning the pillar of his life had been taken from him forever.
He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable by the stinging in his eyes. He was the Duke of Strathmore, by God, and he had been through the fiery pits of hell on earth without breaking down. He did not weep. Had not even done so when he had finally stood over his mother’s grave, wishing he could have told her one last time how much he loved her.
“You must miss her very much,” Lady Violet observed.
“Every day.” And it was true.
Lady Violet stared at him with that brilliant gaze of hers. Her regard did strange things to him. Things he did not understand. All he knew was he must not act upon the vicious instincts roiling through him now and stalk across the kitchen, hauling her into his arms.
Had he not learned anything from his father? His father had fallen hopelessly in love with his mother, despite their disparate worlds, and when he had lost her, he had been so despondent, he had taken to his chamber for a full month. Indeed, it may well have been the beginning of his madness.
Griffin had always promised himself he would not follow in his sire’s footsteps. He did not want to be ruled by his heart, to become so caught up with a woman, he could not bear to live without her. He had to cease this madness.
He turned his attention back to the task at hand, far safer, and gave the onions a stir. Satisfied they had been browned enough, he added water to the pot and stoked up the fire to get the water boiling.
“I lost my mother when I was ten,” she said into the companionable silence that had fallen between them. “She walked into the North Sea one day and never returned.”
It had not been what he had expected her to say, and the revelation left him shaken. He tried to envision a ten-year-old Lady Violet—a scrap of a girl, he was certain, with her dark hair in ringlets and big green eyes—losing her mother to suicide. His heart ached for the girl, for the woman she had become. For the first time since before his own mother had died, he longed to embrace a woman with compassion, rather than amorous intent.
He glanced back to her, studying her expression. There was no anger on her lovely face, only melancholy. “I am sorry, Lady Violet. I had no idea.”
“No one does.” She gave him a small, sad smile. “Not a soul, beyond the family, knows the truth of what happened that day, that my mother died by her own hand. I know Lucien has been harsh with you, but beneath his hard exterior, lies the heart of the boy who dragged his mother’s body from the ocean. What he saw and did that day—losing our mother in such shocking fashion—it changed him forever. It hardened him. Our father died a few years later, leaving the two of us alone, and Lucien with a mountain of responsibilities. The weight of the world is upon his shoulders, and it makes him unyielding and cold sometimes.”
“Christ.” He did not want to soften toward Arden, for the man was his enemy, hell-bent upon casting him into Newgate and letting him rot. “It must have been terribly sad and shocking for the both of you. While I admit I harbor no love for your brother, I would not wish such a thing upon my greatest enemy.”
“I do not tell you this so you pity Lucien, but rather, so you know he is not all bad.” Her expression was earnest, open.
She took his breath, this beautiful, vibrant creature. Each time he looked at her, he could scarcely believe she had trusted him, that she believed in him. It was humbling, but it also made him feel ten bloody feet tall. But then, inevitably, every emotion was blotted out by the sure and true knowledge he did not deserve her trust. That he was planning to destroy it. That there would be a chance Violet would not forgive him for bringing Arden down.
But he could not linger upon the murky possibilities of the future now. He had to instead keep his sight firmly upon the horizon and what needed to be achieved: clearing his name, sending the true villain to prison, and ruining the Duke of Arden.
“He cannot be entirely irredeemable,” he forced himself to say in as light a tone as he could muster through the dark thoughts churning within him, the need for vengeance. “He has you for a sister, after all.”
She sent him a soft smile. “He will see reason when we can prove your innocence. I know it.”
