She swallowed the knot that had risen instantly in her throat at his words. It was a confirmation of her fears, that he had cared for the woman, and she had repaid him with not just betrayal, but a defection that led to his incarceration and torture. Unease blossomed inside her like a fresh July rosebud.
His heart was closed off to her. Perhaps forever. But she did not love him, she told herself, and it ought not to matter. For she had not loved Charles either, and yet she had been preparing to wed him.
Why should the Duke of Strathmore be any different? Why should his inability to love her or believe in her love for him haunt her so? Why should it make her feel so ill, as if someone had delivered a blow to her midsection, and she was now gasping for breath?
None of it made sense, and she told herself so. Their marriage would be an arrangement, and she wanted to wed him because he made her feel alive. Dwelling upon his past would only be a detriment to them both. She could not rewrite his history, and neither could she erase the scars on his heart and his skin.
They came to each other as they were, and that was that. She could not hope for more.
But you can try for more, Wicked Violet reminded her.You can make him soften for you in other ways.
Yes, she could.
But today was not about being wicked and wild, or rebellious and passionate. That had been yesterday. Today was about being the Violet who would take this man as her husband. It was about finding a man with scars and damages and pain running deeper even than her own. And it was about letting him know she was here for him. They were cut from the same cloth, after all, and that was probably what had drawn her to him from the start.
That and his mouth, chortled Wicked Violet.And his face. And shoulders. And broad chest. And lean waist. And long legs. And—
“I suppose I shall just have to work extra hard to convince you to change your mind,” she told him, interrupting Wicked Violet’s extensive taunt.
Because yes, she found the Duke of Strathmore hopelessly irresistible, and it was undeniably true. If she had not been so incredibly drawn to him, if she had not felt the deep, inexplicable connection she felt to him, she would not be sitting alongside him now, hurtling along on the course to an unknown destination.
For a long time, he said nothing, merely staring straight ahead, his attention upon the road and their horse, who had a marked tendency to stray from the road and slow every few minutes, in search of grass he could devour. And then, just when the questions roaring inside her reached their pinnacle, her worries and her fears colliding, he spoke once more.
“I have a feeling you could change anything you wanted, Violet,” he said softly. “Anything in the whole damned world.”
She could not quell the smile on her face. From him, it was the greatest praise. And on this day, she would accept it as victory. For today, it was more than enough. He had shared some small parts of himself with her, and she was nothing if not persistent. She would win this man, one way or another. She may be abominable at crocheting, but she excelled at loving people. And she was beginning to suspect she was falling in love with the Duke of Strathmore after all.
Over and overagain, as Violet held herself to him, her left breast crushed into his side, her warmth and scent—sweet, musky woman, rose petals,Violet—overwhelming him, Griffin told himself he had made a mistake. That her gentle caring, her compassion and tenderness, would not appeal to him as much if he had already sank his cock deep inside her. That he should have bedded her last night.
The softening inside himself for her, the tenderness and caring she brought out in him, was beginning to concern him. It was all-consuming. He had shared more about himself with her than he had with any other woman, and he did not even know why. Yes, she was going to be his wife, but in his world, the love his parents had shared was an anomaly. In his world, marriages were based upon bloodlines and riches, upon alliances and duties, and not even mutual respect was required, let alone something as gauche asfeelings.
If he had only gotten her out of his blood, out of his head, out of his…everything…perhaps the journey to Oxfordshire and Harlton Hall would have been easier. Perhaps it would not have left him with shaking hands, trembling confidence, and the uneasy realization Lady Violet West had the sort of power over him he had never before experienced.
Not with anyone else.
Ever.
But he could not face any of that now. Not when the pathetic excuse for a horse and cart he had been able to buy for their conveyance—a rickety farm wagon and a horse who should have been put to pasture long ago—was approaching the front doors of the impressive old edifice Clay Ludlow had made his home.
Ludlow was a former League member and half brother to the Duke of Carlisle. It had been Carlisle who, in his final hours as leader of the League, told Griffin to seek out Harlton Hall and Ludlow should he ever require aid. At the time, Griffin had almost dismissed the suggestion outright as utterly ludicrous.
Today, he was heartily glad he had not.
For he had nowhere else to turn. Cut off from his connections as he had been, as Arden’s prisoner at Lark House, he no longer knew which of his homes were being watched. Perhaps all of them were. He had not dared to go to any of the places where Arden would have instantly suspected he would have gone, which meant he could not seek out his good friend Sebastian, the Duke of Trent.
He needed Ludlow. He needed aid. Christ, he needed a friendly face. The last fortnight had sent him straight to hell. True, this time, there had been no knife-wielding Frenchman, no whips, no terror.
But he was running just the same. And this time, he was not running alone. He was running with Lady Violet West, an innocent who had defied her brother to defend him. The knowledge of it still robbed his breath and made his heart perform disconcerting feats in his chest.
Griffin stopped the horse and threw down the reins, dismounting from his side of the cart. He skirted the hapless vehicle and went to her side, extending his hand in as gentlemanly a fashion as he could muster.
She accepted it, and took his help, stepping down from the cart in a rush of silken skirts that were notably incongruous with the quality of conveyance they had been forced to accept. Thank God they had not passed anyone on the road, for they must have been quite the spectacle, and as such, would have been noted and recalled with ease, rendering it that much easier for Arden to hunt them down.
“Where have you brought me?” Violet asked then, taking in the sprawling edifice curiously.
“I have brought you to the place where we will be married.” He did not release her hand, but instead, raised it to his lips for a reverent kiss. Even her skin here smelled of roses, and he was convinced she bathed with rose soap. It was the only explanation. And Lord God, she was driving him wild with that delicate, womanly scent. “It is called Harlton Hall.”
He wanted to fall to his knees before her and worship her with his mouth as she deserved. But it was daylight, he reminded himself, and they were approaching the double front doors, hand in hand, as if they were incapable of being parted. And he did not know what awaited him on the other side of those doors.
