Justaway.
Leaving felt like her only option, her sole recourse. For as friendly and wonderful as the ladies of Harlton Hall were, they were not her true friends. She did not know them well enough, and nor did they know her well enough in return, for her to seek their counsel. They were the wives and mother of strangers. And the only man she had thought she had known, the man she had married and given her body and her innocence to, that man was the greatest stranger of all.
Her hands shook and her heart was a huge and painful burden in her chest. Somehow, her feet were moving. She did not know where she was going or how she would get there. All she did know was she could not remain here. Not in Harlton Hall. Not with the Duke of Strathmore.
His words echoed in her mind with each step she took.
I have no fear of falling in love with her.
Cutting her to the marrow. Humiliating her and mocking her. Stripping her bare and raw, and then laughing at her helplessness.
Her mind registered the presence of servants. Some of them scrambled, wanting to aid her, to ready a carriage. Did she wish for a walk? Did she need to travel somewhere? Where did Her Grace wish to go? What would please Her Grace?
The answers were all simple: she did not know where she wanted to go, and nothing would please her. Nothing except leaving. Lips compressed in a tight line, body stiffened with resolve, she left.
Out the door she went, leaving a gaping butler and footmen in her wake. Leaving everyone and everything behind. Down the front steps. Onto the gravel drive.
The day was yet sunny and warm, unseasonably warm. The leaves on all the trees were deep, verdant green and abundant. Signs of life, of spring and resilience and the beauty of the countryside, abounded.
But Violet scarcely noticed any of it. All she could think about was the man who had taken her innocence and betrayed her. The man who had kissed her so sweetly, and then spoken with such cold, unfeeling ice. The man she loved. The man who had used her, the man who had manipulated her, and yet, consummated their marriage.
How she hated him. It struck her, fierce and strong and ugly, and as painful as a knife biting into her flesh. She needed to escape the pain. To escape him. Not just him, but the life that had been prescribed and preordained for her.
When had she ever been free, truly and completely free?
Never, came the answer, bittersweet and true.Never.
She did the only thing she could do then.
She ran.
She grasped handfuls of her borrowed skirts and lifted them high. One foot in front of the other, faster and faster. She ran until her lungs burned. She ran with her boots pinching her feet and rubbing her heels. She ran with her breath coming in strange and heavy pants, her heart pounding against her chest as if it wanted to break free.
She ran until she could not run any more, and then she walked. She walked and walked, and she did not look over her shoulder. Not once.
It was only when she reached the outskirts of Harlton Hall land, only when she saw the carriage fast approaching her, that she felt any sense of relief, however small. Perhaps its occupants could assist her, provide her with the means of escape. Traversing much farther on foot would not get her far enough away before Griffin noticed she had gone and came searching for her.
He needed her, after all. She was his pawn in the game he played with Lucien. She had been the means to an end for him, the way he could save himself. And meanwhile, she…She had been losing her heart. She had been foolish enough to think all their time alone together, all the countless conversations and the sharing of their pasts and the kisses and the embraces and, God help her, the way he had made love to her meant something.
She had been stupid to think she was more than the sum of her parts. She had fallen helplessly in love with him, and he had remained impervious.
I have no fear of falling in love with her.
She was pathetic and weak, and she had been so very wrong. She had betrayed her brother’s trust, had left her family behind, and all because she had believed in a man who had not even bothered to tell her the truth.
What had she thought?
Had she truly believed a man like the Duke of Strathmore, beautiful and jaded and wicked, could ever love someone like her, boring, plain Lady Violet West?
But she was not Lady Violet West any longer, was she?
As the carriage neared her, she moved to the side and waved her arms frantically, hoping the driver would stop. Hoping the occupants would prove willing to aid her.
And nor was she the Duchess of Strathmore, for she refused to answer to that bitter appellation. Her marriage had been mired in dishonesty and manipulation. No indeed, she was neither of those names, neither of those women. Lady Violet West had broken free from her mold, running wild. The Duchess of Strathmore had been a brief, brilliant burst.
A different Violet would raise herself from the ashes.
A new Violet.
