Chapter Three
After dinner thenext evening, Aunt Hortense settled herself in her favorite chair in the drawing room and promptly began to snore. Violet frowned into her lap at her latest crocheting venture, a scarf for her brother Lucien, which seemed to mock her. The chain was all wrong, and she had miscounted, leaving the end larger than the middle.
“Drat,” she muttered as Aunt Hortense emitted a particularly dreadful sound.
She would have to take the wretched thing apart and begin again. Aunt Hortense whistled through her teeth, then snorted and jerked, and snored some more. How irksome to be relegated to the tedium of this empty chamber with nothing but her aunt’s company and her hook and string and her abysmal lack of proficiency.
Lucien was always far too busy with the Home Office for her these days, and Aunt Hortense alternately slept and groused her way through the day. Their ignominious guest was not invited to join them at dinner, or afterward, leaving Violet alone as ever.
And curious.
What was Strathmore doing now, at this very moment?
She had been in his bedchamber, a room that smelled of the spice of his cologne and the crisp earthiness of his soap, and something else that was indefinably male. And he had kissed her with that wicked mouth of his, kissed her as no one had ever done before him and as she instinctively knew no one would again.
Charles certainly did not kiss with such passion. His lips were not full and sensuous. He did not possess a devil-may-care aura that suggested he did not give a fig for what anyone else thought of him. Nor did he steal her breath nor make her heart thump wildly. He did not make her want to commit sins with him.
Her stitch slipped, and she lost her place altogether.
How hopeless it all was, her betrothal to a man who did not move her, her very presence at Lark House, being presided over by the doddering Aunt Hortense, her brother she scarcely saw, the man she should not want to kiss again…
“Damnation,” she cursed, flicking her wrist and sending the scarf flying from her lap to land on the carpet with a soft thud.
The door to the drawing room opened, and her brother entered. Lucien was tall, his medium-brown hair longer than fashionable, his neatly kept beard hiding the angles and planes of his commanding face. He looked very much like their father, or what she remembered of him: menacing and forbidding all at once.
“Violet,” he said, his tone brusque. Rife with disapproval.
What had she done to warrant his displeasure this time?
“Brother,” she greeted, hoping he had not seen her tossing his scarf to the floor.
“Would you care to explain why you are flinging notions about?” He stopped and glowered down at her misshapen handiwork. “Is that the scarf you promised me?”
She flushed. “No.”
“Good,” he grunted. “It looks like something Aunt Hortense would wear.”
Violet cast a glance in the direction of the woman in question. Aunt Hortense merely issued another long, teeth-rattling snore, her slumber blissfully uninterrupted.
She frowned at her brother. “You need not be unkind. Besides, Aunt Hortense would never wear such a thing. It is not black, and it does not bear a vexing amount of lace trim.”
He flashed a rare grin her way, bending to pick up the crocheting she had flung, before examining it himself. “The old girl does love her lace, does she not?”
Violet pursed her lips. “You are beastly, Lucien.”
He ignored her admonishment, returning the discarded scarf to her, dropping it into her lap. “You are the one who mentioned lace, sister. Thisismy scarf, isn’t it?”
She stared dejectedly at the sad misshapen object she had created. Crocheting was the devil’s own work. “Perhaps it is. But you are a good brother, and you would wear it with pride.”
“I would wear it when I was assured no one else would see it,” he drawled. “Long walks in the park before dawn. Perchance tucked beneath a coat.”
Violet scowled up at him. “Why must you hover over me? Haven’t you any manners? Sit.”
“I cannot stay.” A weariness she had come to recognize settled over his countenance. “I have matters that require my attention.”
She sighed. “Matters at the Home Office again?”
He was grim. “Indeed. Do not ask me to elaborate, for I cannot. Suffice it to say, my presence is necessary.”
