His declaration of love and subsequent proposal had seemed so sincere. It hadn’t been a formal proposal. There had been no ring, and he had not asked her father’s permission, but to Violet it had been no less real for the lack of those things. They had been sitting on the beach on a piece of driftwood, and he had quietly spoken his heart to her.
I love you, Violet. When I imagine my future, I only see you. Will you promise to marry me?
She read the letter yet again, unable to believe this was written by the same man. Each florid stroke of his pen seemed more like insincere babble with every pass. How had she not noticed his terrible writing voice before? This time she fixated on his closing. And give your father my thanks.
Thanks for what, she would like to know. Had Papa gotten to him? Had Teddy’s affections been so easily bought? He couldn’t possibly need money, so what favor had Papa performed for him? Her parents had been so set on her marrying Rothschild that perhaps their desperation had pushed them to it. She didn’t want to believe that, but the idea had been planted.
She wouldn’t accept Teddy now if he pleaded on his knees for her, but she had to know if her parents had interfered. Stifling the urge to throw the letter into the nearest fireplace, she folded it and placed it in her desk drawer. She was too angry to be sad.
Was she even sad? Shouldn’t she feel devastated? To be honest, she hadn’t spent very much of her time in London missing Teddy. She had told herself that it was because she didn’t see him much during the year anyway, but could there be more to it? Could it be that she had only felt mild affection for Teddy and had seen him as a safe way to thwart her parents while continuing her writing?
She didn’t like what that said about her, but she also couldn’t deny there was some truth to that.
* * *
• • •
Pasting a smile on her face, Violet knocked on her father’s study door several minutes later.
“Come in,” he called.
“Good morning.” She closed the door behind her and made her way to the carved rosewood side chair at the end of his desk where August usually sat.
He glanced up, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “Yes, thank you, darling. I have a few letters that need to be sent out. You know I don’t have the patience for letter writing.”
Or the penmanship, she silently added. “Of course, Papa,” she said, reaching for the parchment and pen he had set out for her. “Oh, I received a letter from Teddy today.”
“Teddy?” He muttered, distracted by the papers scattered in front of him.
She stared at the gray wave of hair artfully arranged above his ear, idly wondering if her anger would be enough to ignite it. Keeping her voice light, she said, “Theodore Sutherland of the St. Louis Sutherlands. We know him from Newport.”
“Sutherland . . . Sutherland.” He repeated the name as if he didn’t know it. “Aha.” Picking out the piece of paper he had been searching for in the assortment before him, he placed it before her. “This letter is the one I dashed out this morning.” It was a combination of chicken scratch meshed with dangerous ink slashes. August had taught her the secret of deciphering his nearly illegible writing. “I’ll need it to go out in tomorrow’s post along with the ones you will write now.”
Accepting it, she said, “About Teddy. He sends you his thanks.”
Papa finally looked up at her, confusion still clouding his expression. Dear Lord, could he have truly forgotten that he had paid a man to call off his proposal so easily, or was he simply a good actor?
She smiled. “He sends his highest regards to you and Mother, and then specifically writes to give you his thanks.”
The fog cleared the very moment he realized who Teddy was. “Ah yes, Sutherland.” A satisfying flush rose to the apples of his cheeks. At least he had the grace to be a little ashamed of himself.
“Why was he thanking you, Papa?” She glanced down at the paper as if his answer was not the least bit important to her.
“Oh . . . uh . . . nothing really.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing. Don’t be so modest.”
“I wrote a recommendation for him so that he could pursue his legal studies.”
A heaviness settled over her. Is that all she had cost? Surely there was more to it than that. “Is that all? He made it seem as if there was more.”
Papa shrugged a shoulder but glanced down, clearly uncomfortable. “Also a small contribution to him.”
“How small?”
He shrugged again.
“Papa?” All pretense at nicety gone, her voice filled with warning.
“His parents had discontinued his allowance because of his poor grades. The boy was nearly a pauper. Don’t worry, darling, it was hardly any amount we’d miss. You’ll finish your Season in style.”
Perhaps it was the last bit that sent her over the edge. Her parents always insisted that their ideas were her own. She wasn’t the one who wanted to accept every single invitation. That was Mother. She wasn’t the one who insisted on a new gown for every dinner and event. That was also Mother. “I do not care about finishing the Season in style. I care about what you demanded from Teddy in exchange for those funds.”
His eyes widened in apparent shock at her forcefulness. She was supposed to be the mild-mannered one. “That is hardly any of your concern.”
“Hardly my concern? You had him withdraw his proposal!”
“It was not a serious proposal.” He sighed, not even bothering to deny it. “He is too young to marry.”
“He was twenty-one on his birthday, barely a year older than I am.”
“And he would not have gone through with it anyway, not without my blessing.”
“But why would you refuse your blessing?”
Sighing again, he took off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Finally, he said, “Violet, answer me truthfully. Would you like to marry a man who could so easily be bought away from you?”
The chair was suddenly uncomfortably hard at her back. She shifted like a nervous child. “No, but that isn’t the issue at hand. Why are you so against him?”
“Because he isn’t good enough for you. Frankly, I have received multiple offers for your hand, and Teddy is by far the lowest contender on the list.”
She gasped. “Multiple offers? You have offers aside from the initial one from Rothschild?”
“Of course. His Grace was one of our top choices, but there have been others since and even before Rothschild. All of them titled gentlemen. Not one of them a ne’er-do-well who cannot make the marks needed to keep his university career on track.”
“Are you saying that you are considering these offers?”
“What sort of father would I be if I didn’t?”
“A father who listens to his daughter. Have you considered that perhaps I do not intend to wed yet?”
“No.” He laughed. “Because you decided to betroth yourself to Sutherland, I assumed the state of marriage was something to which you aspired. Was I misguided?”
Anger brought her to her feet. “You might have considered that I loved Teddy.”
He stared at her solemnly. “Do you love him?”
She pressed her lips together so hard that they started to go numb. Teddy had confessed his love to her, but she had never said the words back to him. It wasn’t that she held no affection for him, but the words had never seemed right. “That is hardly any of your concern now, Papa. You are still insistent upon me marrying a nobleman, aren’t you? No matter that I would prefer to return to New York.”
“I did you a favor. Any man who would walk away from you for such a paltry sum does not deserve you.”
He said it with such vigor that she was momentarily stumped. She couldn’t refute him, because she would not have Teddy now under any circumstances.
“I simply
want what is best for you, darling,” he continued. “A secure marriage with a secure future. A home with a respectable social position for you and your children. Is that so very terrible?”
“Yes, it is if it means that my wishes do not count for anything.” She was disappointed that she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her, but even more disappointed that her parents were not satisfied now that they would most certainly be getting a duke for a son-in-law.
They wanted more. That more meant that she would be bait on a hook.
“Will you at least grant me the opportunity to present a suitor for your consideration? Believe me, Violet, no one wants to force you to do anything.”
Violet took in a steadying breath. She had learned from their ordeal with the Duke of Rothschild that outwardly thwarting their parents had gotten them nowhere. She would have to be smart about this, which meant she needed to get a handle on her emotions. In that spirit, she said, “Fine. As long as we both understand that I won’t be forced into anything, then I will cooperate.”
“Thank you in advance for your cooperation.” He smiled and indicated the rosewood chair. “Now, could we please continue?”
She sat, but as she worked, her mind was consumed with the issue. Her parents had their duke with Rothschild. They should be satisfied. But if it turned out they weren’t and insisted on her marrying, then escape would be necessary. Was she truly prepared to go to such an extreme? The glimmer of a plan began to form.
Chapter 3
His lordship regarded her with the same curiosity with which she observed him, cautious but bewitched, nonetheless. She was not his usual quarry, but this was not his usual hunt.
V. Lennox, An American and the London Season
Not only had Lord Ware been eyeing Violet’s cleavage all evening, but he was scowling at every man who dared to dance with her. The look did not suit him, making him appear a petulant adolescent with a hairline in imminent danger of receding. When the waltz she danced with Lord Atherton ended, she requested he escort her to the opposite end of the ballroom from Ware. And that was exactly how she had phrased the request. Much to Lord Atherton’s delight, if the curious tug at the corners of his mouth was any indication.
When he gave a stiff bow and left her, Violet smiled at everyone she passed, slowly making her way toward the terrace. Every one of these stately townhomes seemed to have a terrace. This one ought to, but between the bodies ahead of her she could only see a row of tall windows with no doors. Damn.
She turned on her heel and changed course toward a corridor that would lead her to the ladies’ dressing room. Anywhere for a few minutes of peace without Ware making eyes at her bosom. His head was already bobbing between the crowd on the other side of the dance floor in search of her. Spurred on by her girlish delight in thwarting him, she nearly ran from the room. A laugh broke from her throat when she left the room and loped down the deserted corridor, mindful of the way her shoes pinched her toes.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to meet Lord Leigh roaming these halls? He always seemed to be skulking about at these events. Never dancing. This would be the perfect scene to write with her heroine escaping to an assignation with Lord Lucifer. Her face burned hot at the mere thought, and she giggled again at her own foolishness. Aside from his physical attributes, she didn’t care for the man. All that wickedness couldn’t be healthy for a person.
Turning into the first open door she came to, she found herself in a salon surrounded by priceless artwork on either side. It was a room that called for graveness, so she stifled her laugh as she hurried through it. The next room was similar, but with one very important difference. There were already two people inside, and the very angry man said, “I cannot believe I allowed you to come tonight. You are an embarrassment.”
Violet pulled up short in the open doorway and meant to back out of the room before they could see her, but she realized the golden-haired woman was Camille, who was with her much older husband. He faced partially away from Violet, but his distinctive muttonchops made him hard to mistake for anyone else.
“I have nothing to do with your embarrassment, Hereford. You’re overreacting.” Camille crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin, but her expression seemed stricken. Twin spots of color rose high on her cheeks.
“Do not tell me I am overreacting. My wife strives to be a strumpet. Not only do you traipse about London at all hours without a care for your reputation or mine, but the moment I allow you out of the house, you are throwing yourself at every man who dances with you. We are at a ball, Camille, not a brothel.”
Camille’s gasp was audible from across the room. “How dare you? I only danced, and there was absolutely nothing improper about our conversation.”
Hereford’s voice hardened. “I will decide what is proper and what isn’t. And this is not a conversation I will have with you here. You are going home for the evening.”
“Hereford, you’re being unreasonable.” She rolled her eyes. When he moved toward her, Camille took a step back. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m staying here. I was having a lovely time until now.”
“You are going home. I will simply tell everyone you developed a headache.” He followed her retreat and took her arm in what appeared to be a viselike grip.
Violet flinched at the contact, wondering if it was a sign of further unseen violence. Uncertain what to do, but knowing she had to intervene, Violet stepped farther into the salon and said, “Camille?” Both heads whipped toward her. Camille’s expression was horrified, and Hereford’s merely a reflection of his anger, but at least he dropped his hold Camille’s arm. “Is everything all right?” Violet asked.
The very air stood still, simmering with tension as it waited for someone to act. Finally, Hereford turned back to his wife. “I shall go have the carriage summoned. Do not force me to come and retrieve you.” Ignoring Violet, he left through the far door, letting it slam behind him.
Camille’s face crumpled the moment he disappeared, her hands coming up to muffle her low sob. Violet hurried over and pulled her friend into her arms. “That was awful. Are you injured?”
Camille sagged against her friend for a moment, accepting the comfort before she pulled back. Giving her head a shake, she wiped at a tear that threatened to fall. “No, he didn’t hurt me.” Though the pale skin above her elbow-length gloves was pink from his grip, it didn’t appear as if it would be bruised.
“Does he hurt you, Camille? Are you safe with him?”
“He doesn’t harm me, not in the way you mean.”
“In what way, then?”
Camille only shook her head, clearly struggling to find her composure. Violet felt helpless to do anything to help her, and she hated the way that set heavy on her chest. Camille was nearly the same age as her and should be enjoying herself back home in New York by going to parties with friends. She was far too young to have been married to a stranger nearly three times her age and shipped across the ocean with no family or friends.
Anger spurring her words, Violet said, “It’s obvious he cares very little for your well-being. Come home with me.”
Camille gave a short bark of laughter and shook her head. “You are right on that count. He was merely greedy for the money my father settled on me. I am an inconvenience he doesn’t need or want.”
“Then do it. Come home with me. He likely won’t even care,” Violet urged.
Camille put her hand on Violet’s shoulder and shook her head sadly. “You’re very sweet, Violet, but I can’t possibly do that. Everyone will know, and as much as I am unhappy, I cannot bring that disgrace upon my family. It’s not fair to them.”
“But it’s not fair to you, either.”
“No, but I did marry him. If I leave, he will see it as a personal affront. I simply have to figure out a way to make do.” The misery in her eyes when she glanced toward the door Hereford had exited throu
gh tugged at Violet’s heart. “Besides, your parents wouldn’t allow me to stay.”
“Then we can go away somewhere.” If Violet had to escape, it would be no hardship to include her friend.
“But where?” asked Camille.
Home to New York? No, they would be found easily, perhaps even before the ship left Liverpool. Even if they made it to New York, the scandal and gossip would give them no relief. Besides, Teddy wasn’t there waiting for her. They needed to go somewhere where they wouldn’t be found for a bit. Somewhere they could find relaxation and comfort.
“Windermere. I read an advertisement in the paper a few weeks ago about an estate there accepting boarders. It’s something of an artists’ house. Women only. We can go there together, and no one will know where we are.” Saying the idea out loud gave it some weight, as if it were actually a viable alternative. Violet had kept the advertisement because it had seemed like a very romantic place to dream about. But all of this marriage business made it seem much more of a possibility. She refused to end up like Camille.
Her friend gave her first genuine smile. “An artists’ house? How lovely.” Then she seemed to shake herself from her wistfulness as she asked, “Oh, dear, have you heard back from the publisher about your manuscript? I’m sorry I haven’t asked you before now. We haven’t seen very much of each other since you’ve been in London.”
Violet had sent in her finished manuscript weeks before they had left New York along with her forwarding address in London. Every day she waited felt an eternity. “I haven’t heard yet, but I hope to soon. And please don’t worry. We’ve both been busy.” Though to be truthful, Hereford had been angry that Camille had gone with August to a bare-knuckle fight in Whitechapel a few weeks ago and had essentially kept her prisoner in their home since then with very few approved outings or visitors. The little they had seen each other, Violet’s mother had been present, so they hadn’t been able to properly chat.
The Devil and the Heiress Page 3