And disappointed.
He’d handed her a handkerchief afterward, and as she discreetly cleaned up the mess, rather than feel closer to him, a cold distance fell between them.
“Always the lady, eh, Vi?” He’d grimaced as he opened the basket and popped a grape between his lips.
“What do you mean?” She’d reminded herself that he loved her. He wouldn’t have made love to her if he hadn’t loved her.
“You can’t be good at everything.” He patted her on the knee. “I forgot for a minute who you were.”
Violet remembered being confused. “You will write to me?” she’d reminded him. “I can keep you informed of all the wedding plans.”
“Write if you wish, but you know I’m not good with that sort of thing.” He had smiled.
He hadn’t kissed her again, just gathered up the picnic and walked her back inside to where their families had been playing cards and socializing. When she and her parents took their leave that night, Christopher had bowed over her hand, barely skimming his lips over her gloves.
He’d shipped out the following day, and that was the last time she’d ever seen him. She’d written him, feeling hopeful, but, of course, he’d not written back.
Three months later, his father had sent over the missive to inform her that Captain Christopher Donovan had gone missing and was presumed dead.
Only days after that, the rumors had started up. Rumors that he was alive.
She’d initially been thrilled, ecstatic to think he might still be alive somewhere. But if he was alive, why hadn’t he returned? Either he was being held prisoner or…
And then real tragedy had struck when the ship carrying most of her family capsized in the English Channel, just off the coast of France. Devastated, but numb, Violet escaped to Yorkshire with Posy and Aunt Iris. And in Posy, she’d found some purpose for her life.
Violet squeezed her eyes shut.
Christopher was dead. He had loved her, hadn’t he?
She was angry with herself for reliving the memory again.
And why? Why was she thinking about it tonight?
It had been the kiss.
She’d been disappointed after Christopher made love to her, but she’d never gotten over the feeling of need he’d awakened. Did all spinsters suffer these cravings, or just the ones who’d experienced intimacy?
Her hand drifted between her legs, but she knew it would be useless. Even when she was feeling the most on edge, the most… wicked, she’d never managed to reach the place she suspected existed.
Second Thoughts
Despite a restless night, Violet rose early. Tempted to keep to her chamber, she had letters to write, people to see. And, of course, she’d have to see him again eventually. So she donned one of her newer gowns, this one a jade color with conservatively sized sleeves. After tucking in her fichu, removing it, and fussing with it three different times, she chastised herself for being foolish.
Women of the world took lovers all the time. She was a grown woman with no intentions of ever marrying, and Mr. Cockfield would not feel forced to enter an affair or fear losing his job. The mere idea that he’d feel coerced into anything as unseemly as that would be laughable if it weren’t so tawdry.
Besides, she and Aunt Iris, and possibly even Posy, would be returning to Blossom Court soon enough. Mr. Cockfield wasn’t her servant at all. No, he was employed by Greystone.
Her most respectable and dignified cousin who was also a marquess.
She strolled past the paintings hanging in the corridor—the Greystone ancestors—which might as well have been placed there with the intent of reminding her that women born into this family were proper ladies.
And proper ladies did not have affairs with servants, did they? If it came right down to it, she doubted she’d even know how.
The meaning behind Christopher’s comments afterward had become painfully apparent in the days following his departure.
She hadn’t been good at it. What made her think she could satisfy a man like Mr. Cockfield?
As she reached the landing at the top of the steps, she peered over, not sure if she was hoping to see him or not. The foyer was empty, but noises floated up from the dining room—voices and clinking sounds, as though someone was counting the silver.
