“You didn’t answer me.”
Panic thickened her throat, partly at the fear of being discovered but also from her reluctance to answer his question.
She needed to think. And to do that, she needed away from him.
Acting impulsively was most unusual for her. And she was embarrassed to tell him the truth.
Because, yes, of course, she wanted him to kiss her.
The part of her that was physical, the instinct that required she have food and air and sleep and water—that part was screaming for him to kiss her.
Her brain, however, the rational and cerebral part of her, understood that this was likely the most reckless endeavor she’d ever considered.
Even more reckless than that night in the garden with Christopher.
She would do well to end this now, beg Greystone to order Mr. Cockfield away from Posy. And if that wasn’t effective, she would insist they return to Blossom Court.
But no. This could also very well be her last opportunity to fulfill that other need. She wasn’t ready to walk away. She needed to know…
“Perhaps.”
She jerked away from him and, when the door flew open, was gathering her belongings, fully intent upon making her escape.
Two maids had entered, both looking startled to find that the room wasn’t empty.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cockfield. We thought the lessons were finished in here. We can come back later, Miss Faraday.”
“No. The lessons are over.” The butler answered for them both. And then he sent Violet a most inscrutable glance. “For now.”
* * *
Back in her chamber and pretending her hands weren’t shaking, Violet reorganized the stack of music that she’d dropped earlier.
He’d nearly kissed her. What if she’d told him no?
What if she’d told him yes?
“Here you are, Aunt Violet.” Posy peered around the door without knocking. “That was surprisingly fun! I believe Mr. Cockfield might be a better dancer than Greystone, wouldn’t you agree? He somehow makes waltzing tolerable.”
Mixed feelings pestered Violet as her niece threw herself onto the bed. Half of Posy’s outrageous curls had already escaped the coiffure Gwen had twisted them into earlier that morning.
“I don’t think anyone dances the waltz better than Greystone.” What would it be like, though, to dance with her cousin’s butler?
What would it be like to waltz with Mr. Cockfield?
Violet shook her musings off. Regardless of this flirtation—diversion—distraction—whatever it was—that she’d initiated today, the one thing she would never do with Mr. Cockfield was dance with him.
He was a servant, and she was the cousin of his employer, who happened to be a marquess.
“You need to leave Mr. Cockfield be. He has work to do,” Violet told Posy for the umpteenth time, feeling guilty and a little… sordid.
“He doesn’t mind.”
“Of course, that is what he would lead you to believe. He won’t deny requests made by his employer’s family. Surely, you understand this.”
Was that how he viewed Violet’s suggestion? As a duty he must perform to sustain his employment?
Violet snapped the case of music closed and moved across the room to stare out at the mews. Her insides were all jumbled up. Likely because they wavered somewhere between disgust with herself and a most improper excitement.
