Already, an ugly, mottled bruise marred the perfect flesh beneath his whiskers. His skin had split open under the force of Lucien’s blows, and he was bleeding as well. Scarlet rivulets ran down his throat, caressing his prominent Adam’s apple.
“Don’t what?” she asked harshly. She was a hodgepodge of conflicting emotions, love and anger and confusion, resentment and fear and rebellion, all at once. “Don’t fight for you? One of us must, if you will not fight for yourself.”
“You fought enough for me, love.” He flashed her one of his rare, tender smiles, the sort that never failed to melt her. “And I have done you enough harm.”
“Griffin.”
“Lady Violet, you must move away,” Mr. Swift said, reaching for her elbow as if to assist her in rising. Forcibly.
She wrenched herself from his odious grasp, glaring up at him. “Do not dare to touch me, Mr. Swift. Not ever.”
His ordinary, obsequious mask dropped for a beat, and she saw him. Therealhim. Anger and wrath. Dark eyes swimming with sinister intent. And then, before she could blink, he was smiling benignly, as if he had not just kicked a felled man so violently he may have broken his ribs. As if they were sipping tea and trading banalities on a social call.
“Forgive me, Lady Violet,” he said smoothly, withdrawing his hand. “But I am afraid I have orders from your brother. The Duke of Strathmore is to be taken into my custody this night and transported to London, where he will face the repercussions for the villainy he has perpetrated upon the Crown.”
“You will not take him,” she vowed, for suddenly, her upset paled in comparison to the notion of the man she loved being taken to prison. Laid with charges of treason. Perhaps facing the hangman’s noose.
She could not allow it to happen. How could Lucien not see he was wrong, that there was another person responsible for the treasonous breaches of information to the Fenians? Time had been running out on them, and their investigation had faded into the background in favor of their retreat from London and madcap nuptials. They had not continued their investigations with proper time and attention. And the fault for that was hers, was it not?
Lucien had come calling at Harlton Hall, and she had gone running straight to him. Guilt and confusion roiled within her, at odds.
“Lettie, you must step away from him now,” Lucien interrupted, his tone gentle, but unyielding. “We will have the marriage annulled. Have no fear. His reputation will not taint you. Many young ladies before you have lost their hearts to scoundrels. You are not the first, and neither will you be the last.”
“Vi,” Griffin said in her ear. “Do as your brother asks. It is best for you.”
She could not shake the feeling that, if she allowed Griffin from her sight, nothing would ever be the same. That he would be lost to her forever. She wanted to rail against him, to shout and cry and beg for him to fight. To stand up and refuse to allow himself to be taken away.
But Lucien had laid him low, and then Mr. Swift had kicked him so viciously. She shuddered to think of the injuries he could have sustained. He could be grievously injured. Already, he was bleeding, and he could have suffered a cracked rib.
She held on to him, this man she had wed. This man she had known for mere weeks, but who had changed so much for her in that time. “Was it true?” she asked him, tears stinging her eyes.
His gaze did not falter or stray from hers. “Everything,” he said. “Even the part where I made an arse of myself because I was too stupid to realize I had already fallen in love with the boldest, most beautiful, loyal, bravest woman there is.”
“Do I know her?” she whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “You.”
Her heart lurched. Ached.
She loved the Duke of Strathmore, and she knew without question it was a lifetime love; deep and true and resilient. It was the sort of love that could weather anything. Misunderstandings, hurt, pain, betrayal. Love did not ameliorate all trespasses, but it made forgiveness possible.
Violet saw and understood that now with blinding clarity. It was how she had been able to forgive Mama for leaving her and Lucien when they had been so young, how she had forgiven Father for not trying harder to understand and support Mama. How she could love both Griffin and Lucien, even when they were wrong.
Love.
That was all.
That waseverything.
“Your Grace, if I am to travel back to London this evening, I am afraid I cannot tarry here much longer,” Mr. Swift said above her, addressing Lucien. “I have a fresh set of horses awaiting me, and there is no reason why I cannot have the prisoner in custody within the next few hours.”
At Mr. Swift’s words, she froze, her gaze locked on Griffin’s. What she read in his eyes was reassurance, but also concern. He did not trust this situation any more than she did, and the knowledge heightened her conviction.
She glanced up at her brother, who was hovering over her with an expression of mingled concern, fury, and disapproval. “Lucien, you cannot send him away in the midst of the night with no new evidence against him. The evidence you have is not sufficient, else he would already be imprisoned.”
“The investigation is none of your concern,” her brother countered. “Now rise, if you please, and step away from Strathmore.”
“Do it, Vi.” Griffin’s voice was stronger. So too his expression, as lucidity returned to him. His quiet resilience was once more in full force. “For me.”
