Only Griffin had changed that, for each meeting with him had been new and thrilling and unlike the last. He had opened her to change, but not so thoroughly she did not feel like a fish plucked from the water without him at her side.
And so she excused herself and made her way to the study, knowing it was where Griffin had closeted himself along with the Duke of Carlisle, Mr. O’Malley, and Mr. Ludlow. All the men were forbidding and large and dark, possessed of a dangerous air. But Griffin was different. He was sharp edges and stark planes, but he was also hers.
He felt like home.
With the aid of a servant, she located the study door, and she was about to knock to make her presence known when the deep, familiar rumble of her husband’s voice reached her. Her hand stayed, mid-air, mid-knock, her knuckles never grazing the surface.
“I have no fear of falling in love with her.” Griffin’s voice was strong, carrying to her easily through the door. “She is the sister of my greatest enemy.”
Dear God, he was talking about her, she realized. And his tone was different. It was not gruff and warm and personal, but rather cool. Almost cold. As if he spoke of someone else. As if he had never kissed her or made her his wife, as if he had never made love to her so passionately, in such achingly exquisite fashion. As if he had not kissed her nose and declared his love of her freckles.
“But sometimes even enemies can find peace,” the Duke of Carlisle said then. “The two of you certainly seemed the happy couple yesterday.”
“She is happy.” It was Griffin’s voice once more. “She thinks this entire affair—her running away with me and wedding me—was her idea alone. She has no inkling I had reached the determination on my own, that the only way I would be able to stave off Arden and escape from Lark House, was with her as my pawn.”
Violet sucked in a breath. The pain was so visceral and deep and unexpected, it took her by surprise, and she nearly cried out. With great effort, she maintained her silence, knowing she needed to hear more, even if she didn’t want to.
The ugliness of Griffin’s words twisted inside her, repeating themselves like a waterfall blasting through her, endless in its surge.
With her as my pawn.
She has no inkling.
She thinks this entire affair was her idea alone.
Good God, that meant he had been manipulating her all along. This entire time, their every interaction, was suddenly suspect. Had he meant any of the things he had told her?
Shame washed over her then, for it made perfect sense. She had wondered how and why a man as gloriously handsome as the Duke of Strathmore would want her. But he had told her she was beautiful, and how easily her head had been turned. He had made her feel beautiful.
And she had believed it. Had believed him. Had betrayed her brother for his sake. Why? Because he had kissed her? Because he had made her feel desired when no one else ever had?
How easy she had made it for him to dupe her. The worst realization was he had never even deceived her, not truly. He had admitted to her in the cottage his reasons for wedding her. He had never claimed to love her, had never spoken of tender feelings. She was the one who had stupidly opened her heart.
Now, she felt nothing but shame. Shame and disgust and hurt. Horrible, awful hurt. She had fallen in love with the stranger on the other side of the door. The stranger who was speaking about her in the same detached manner he might discuss a chair or a broken piece of crockery.
She swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat, biting her lower lip to stave off tears that burned her eyes and threatened to fall.
“Have you misled her?” Mr. Ludlow asked. “Do you have cause to suspect she will not stand by your side, that she will not choose you over her brother?”
“I have misled her, yes,” Griffin said. “With regret. I could not allow her to think I had orchestrated the plan. It was important for her to think it her own. Otherwise, she may have lost her courage. When she understands the implications of what I have done, I have no doubt it will not go well for me. But by then, it may well be too late.”
His words echoed in her shocked mind, a litany she did not want to hear.
Too late. Too late. Too late.
“Many have embarked on marriages of convenience only to fall in love with their wives,” commented the Duke of Carlisle then. “Lord knows I did.”
“Yes,” Griffin agreed. “You are disturbingly in love with your wife, and it is plain for all to see. Fortunately, I do not suffer from such an affliction, and nor will I ever. My father was in love with my mother, and it tore him apart. I have no wish to lose myself for a woman.”
“Too late?” Ludlow asked, echoing the words Violet’s troubled mind had fixated upon. “For what, Strathmore?”
“To annul the marriage. She may already be carrying my child. All the more reason for Arden to keep from arresting me,” Griffin answered.
It was all she needed to hear.
She could not bear to hear more.
Any more, and she would break. She would crack open and the fragments of her would be everywhere, darkening Mr. Ludlow’s immaculately pristine rugs. Not truly, but it was how she felt. It was the sentiment which sent her away from that door. Away from that hall. Away from the Duke of Strathmore, a man who had been intimate with her, a man who had married her, a man who had seen and tasted every inch of her flesh and had been closer to her than any other person ever had. A man who had used her.
