The vibrant fabric mocked her disillusionment—her disillusionment with Simon, but also herself—for being so dreadfully naïve about…
Everything. She’d been a fool to go searching for him—thinking he would be…there—thinking he would be watching over her. Thinking he would have wanted to be near her.
On one of the most important events of Greystone’s life, Simon, who was not only her cousin’s butler but some sort of friend as well, had simply… disappeared.
Holding up her arms for Gwen to drop the night rail over her head, Violet shivered. Something dreadful must have happened for him to abandon the ball as he had.
But how had he convinced Mr. Sterling to fill in for him? And why would a duke’s butler agree to do it?
What power did Simon have over the man?
She hated that she doubted him. There must be a reasonable explanation. There had to be.
Violet lowered herself onto the stool at her vanity and stared into the glass. The maid drew the brush through Violet’s hair while her own hands shook in her lap.
The hour had grown very late. Was he still going to come?
She’d entered this affair impulsively—because for the first time since Christopher’s death, she’d met someone who had been worth the risk of sharing herself. But it was only an affair.
She’d made a mistake by building it into something more.
He wasn’t coming, surely. Not after having been called away for some mysterious emergency.
Gwen touched her shoulder. “You’re freezing. Shall I have tea sent up?”
Violet hadn’t even realized she was shivering.
“Yes, thank you.” Tea was always an excellent idea. The hot liquid would bring her back to life—and then she would sleep.
She would try, anyway.
“I’ll have one of the kitchen maids bring some up and then attend to Lady Posy.”
“Of course.” And then, before the door closed behind her, Violet added, “Thank you, Gwen. What would I do without you?” She was feeling unusually grateful to her maid that night for being as utterly dependable as she’d always been.
Alone at last, Violet collapsed on the tall-backed chair beside the hearth, thinking how lovely a fire would be.
But that would be silly; it was practically summer. The room would be stifling in moments.
The tea would take away her chill.
But could it fill this emptiness inside her?
Simon glanced up and down the corridor outside of Violet’s chamber. It would be morning soon. The ball had dragged out considerably later than expected, but he’d told her he would come. She’d know by now that he’d neglected his duties for the evening, and of course, she would want to know why. Although Simon had a vague excuse readied, he already hated the thought of lying to her. This charade was almost over. A few more weeks and he could tell her everything.
But for now, tonight, he wanted to see her. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, hold her for the short time he had before the household came to life again.
He pushed her door open easily. But she wasn’t in her bed. Instead, she had fallen asleep in a chair by the hearth. He closed the door and locked it behind him.
Had she been waiting for him?
He should have come up earlier, but there had been trouble lowering the chandeliers, and then, of course, he’d needed to settle a skirmish between two of the footmen who’d taken it upon themselves to dispose of the leftover champagne.
Simon knelt beside the oversized wing-backed chair she’d fallen asleep in and then cursed his injured wrist.
He’d need both of his arms to carry her to the bed.
Dash it all. Sliding it out of the sling, he lifted her out of the chair.
