Page 39 of Only a Mistress Will Do

Chapter 16

Tristan leaned his head against the door to Violet’s chamber, resisting the urge to bang on the smooth wood. He’d prayed against all odds she would understand at least a little. Her brother’s death had been mostly accidental. The man had lunged at the exact time Tris had drawn his sword. He hadn’t aimed to kill James Carlton. Of course, his sister wouldn’t see it that way at all. Only a fool would hope so, especially given Violet’s circumstances. His blade had dealt the mortal blow. Not something lightly forgiven. Perhaps never.

Her sobbing squeezed his heart. He laid his hand flat against the door, as if he could touch her through it. In his heart, he feared it would be the last time he did. Turning away, he dragged himself down the stairs.

Susan stood at the bottom, hands on hips. “You should have told her, my lord. The very first night she came here.”

How could he be angry at her impudence, when she was completely right? “You should go to her, Susan. She has need of a friend now.” He passed the disapproving servant, collected his cloak and hat, and let himself out. The afternoon had turned dark and a light snow blew around him as he mounted Lucifer.

The ride to his townhouse seemed interminable.

No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, his thoughts always circled back to the devastated look on Violet’s face when he spoke those damnable words. God, the image was seared on the inside of his eyelids. The silence of the deserted streets only emphasized the sound of her voice in his head, telling him she never wanted to see him again. Well, he would make sure she got her wish.

Relief washed through him as he trotted Lucifer into the mews behind his house in Mayfair. Here at least he could mourn her loss in solitude.

“I am home to no one, Marks.” He drew off his cloak and handed it to his butler. “If you value your position you will allow no one to cross this threshold.” Tris paused, an impossible hope raising its head. “The sole exception would be a young lady or a maid. The name would be Miss Carlton.” If her anger cooled and by some miracle she forgave him, he damned sure wouldn’t want to turn her away.

“Very good, my lord.” The tall, thin servant whisked his outer things away without even a questioning glance.

Tris hauled himself up the stairs to his room, cold despite the roaring fire. He might never feel warmth in his life again. When Saunders, his valet, approached, he waved the man away. For once clothes and appearance meant nothing. He paced the room, shedding jacket and waistcoat and untucking his shirt as he went. The garments fell unheeded to the floor, leaving him in shirt, breeches, and boots. At the writing desk he paused to grab the decanter and a glass. Flopping into the chair before the fire, he poured the expensive cognac into the tumbler until it slopped over the rim. He raised the dripping glass, contemplating the swirling liquid. If only he could drown in it. Then, with a practiced hand, he poured the fiery spirit down his throat, gulping it until he drained the glass. The only way he would endure this long afternoon and eternal night would be through oblivion.

* * * *

Violet allowed Susan to undress her, although she refused a bath. It might have soothed her and she didn’t want soothing. She wanted to hold on to her anger, revel in her pain. She wanted to feed the outrage each time she recalled the man she had thought she loved had killed her brother and ruined her. Oh, yes. She wanted no possibility of calming enough to consider Tristan’s…Lord Trevor’s explanation. He had killed her brother, forced her to destitution and a life of prostitution, and debauched her into the bargain. There was no other way to view it.

“Shall I brush your hair, miss?” Susan bustled around the room, setting everything to rights.

Except her. Never again would she be right.

Violet shook her head, tears flowing. So many things lost. Her brother, her reputation, the life she might have had with Tris that could never be.

“It will do you good, miss. You’ve had a shock. Let me get you some hot tea with a drop of brandy in it and then brush your hair.” Susan turned down the bed and fluffed the pillows.

Fresh sheets on the bed. Bless Susan for a thoughtful and efficient maid. Violet wanted no reminders of the night past. She needed none. Every moment had been scorched into her memory.

“Thank you, Susan. I would like that.” The brandy might dull her enough to let her sleep. If not, the decanter on the sideboard had been replenished, so she could doctor her own tea.

The maid finished the bed and left Violet sitting on it to brood and weep, as she’d been doing ever since Tristan’s departure. She must put the scoundrel out of her mind, look to her future instead, with Lord Donningham perhaps. He was an honorable man, one who could provide her with a safe and secure life.

Oh, Lord. No, she couldn’t do that. Violet twisted back and forth on the bed. She couldn’t pursue Lord Donningham or any other decent man. The one thing of value she’d had—her virtue—was gone, swept away in that night of passion by a man who couldn’t marry her. A man she would rather die than marry now.

Sinking down beneath the covers, she couldn’t stop the tears streaming down her face. No friends, no money, and now no virtue to recommend her. On the marriage mart she’d be less tempting than a used suit of clothing. What was she to do? She couldn’t stay at Lammas House one minute longer than it took to make a plan and pack her things. Packing would take no time as she intended to leave with only the same clothes she’d arrived in. She refused to take anything Tristan…Lord Trevor had given her. She’d not give him the satisfaction of providing anything for the family of his victim.

Then where was she to go?

The door opened and she peeked out from the cover.

“Here you go, miss.” Susan entered with a tray in her hands.

Violet poked her head all the way out. Pray God Susan had been generous with the brandy. “Thank you.” Sniffling, Violet dragged the sleeve of her nightgown across her eyes and wiggled into a sitting position.

“I brought some of Mrs. Parker’s scones, hot out of the oven. You need to eat something, miss.” Susan settled the tray on her lap and tucked a napkin over her gown.

“I suppose you heard our whole conversation?”

“Rather hard not to hear in a house with thin walls.” Concentrating on the tray, Susan straightened the dishes slightly. “Have you decided what to do, miss?”

“Not exactly.” Violet shook her head and took a sip. Sweet and strong. The brandy trailed a comfortable burn all the way down her throat. Bless Susan. She would miss her terribly. “I haven’t worked out a plan, but I won’t remain here.”