“Why is that, do you suppose?”
“He has not spoken very much of it, but it seems that his early life was not filled with very much affection and understanding. I don’t believe kindness was encouraged.”
“Ah, then you must hold a very special place in his heart.”
Unable to encourage the pretense of the lie that they were a happily married couple, Violet said, “It is merely the kindness he tries to keep hidden.”
Mrs. Mitchell scoffed, adding salt to the pot of stew. “Is that what you believe? He takes care of you because of his kindness?”
Violet paused in her ablutions and glanced back at Christian. Though he faced her window, he had not once attempted to look inside. Perhaps the light was such that he could not see her in the bath, but as foolish as it sounded, she wanted him to at least want to see her nude. Oh! She looked away, disgusted at her own thoughts when he was simply being honorable.
“Yes, I fear he doesn’t . . .” How could she explain to this woman that her own supposed husband didn’t want her? What a predicament. They were not truly married. He was behaving the way any gentleman should. “I fear that my convalescence has dampened his attraction.”
The woman glanced at her again and then out the window. “You don’t see how he gazes upon you, lass, when you’re not looking. I think he keeps his hands away because he fears hurting you.”
This time Violet blushed with pleasure. Her right side was covered in blue and purple bruises, and he did carry guilt even though she had told him the accident and her injuries were not his fault. Could it be true? “Perhaps.”
“Here, let’s stand up and give you a rinse.” She came over and helped Violet rise, pouring warm water down her body. Then she handed her a length of toweling before bringing over a fresh bolt of white cotton fabric for more bandages.
“Might we leave them off tonight? They’re uncomfortable for sleeping, and I really am feeling much better.”
“All right. Perhaps I can convince Dr. Mitchell that the sling will be enough for the evening. We can wrap you back up in the morning if he insists.” She placed the fabric on the table and retrieved a cotton nightgown, helping it over Violet’s head. It was clearly borrowed from the older woman, as it hung loose with the wide neck falling off her shoulders. It would be fine for bed, however, because Violet could arrange it around herself.
“It is not my place to say . . .” began Mrs. Mitchell as they walked back toward the stairs together with the woman’s strong arm around Violet’s hips to support her. Everyone seemed to think that her legs were broken.
Instinct told her this would be about Christian. “Please feel that you can speak freely, Mrs. Mitchell. I so appreciate all that you have done for us.”
The woman brought them to a pause at the bottom of the stairs. “I have something that might help. Please do not mention it to Dr. Mitchell. He’s a bit more traditional in his thinking than I.”
Intrigued beyond measure, Violet nodded. “Of course. It will be our secret.”
The woman gave a brisk nod and walked through the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the front of the house. Leaving the door propped open, her purposeful steps took her to the room at the very front, which Violet had been told was Dr. Mitchell’s office where he occasionally saw patients. The woman disappeared inside. Shaking her head at the odd exchange, Violet helped herself up the stairs. She would not be an invalid any longer. She was convinced that one reason Christian had pulled back from her was that he found the waiting on her tedious. She couldn’t blame him.
“You should not have attempted the stairs by yourself,” Mrs. Mitchell scolded a few minutes later when she found Violet upstairs running a brush through her hair. She used her right arm, testing its ability after being confined for several days.
“I am much better. I made it up with no problems.” On that note, it was time to start exerting her independence again. “I think I shall come down for supper tonight and eat with everyone else.”
“If you insist, and Dr. Mitchell approves.” Pursing her lips in mock disapproval, Mrs. Mitchell walked over and held out her hand. Violet could just make out the edge of a small tin.
“What is this?”
“Shh . . .” Mrs. Mitchell glanced toward the door as if she expected them to be discovered in their scheme—whatever it was—at any moment. “It strikes me that your new husband might be concerned about . . . you know . . .” She glanced meaningfully at Violet’s midsection and offered her hand again.
“No, I am afraid I don’t follow.” Violet took the tin from her. It was small and rectangular with a hinged blue lid and the words Prophylactic, 1 treatment, written in black ink.
“Getting you with child,” she whispered. “He might prefer you not in that condition until you are more recovered. I must say it would be a kind opinion, and I agree. You have plenty of time to begin a family when you are fully healed.”
Violet had felt her face heating with every word spoken. “This is . . . this is for me? To prevent a child?”
The woman smiled kindly but shook her head. “For him, lass. I know you are but newly married. Has he not lain with you yet?”
Violet shook her head, her mouth too dry to speak for a moment. Swallowing, she said, “No . . . we were waiting. The truth is that we haven’t known each other very long.”
Mrs. Mitchell sighed in approval. “He is an indulgent man. Take your time, then. But when you are ready, give the sheath to him. I suspect he will know its purpose.” She patted Violet’s hand and left her alone.
Violet stared at the little tin, still quite uncertain what it was that she held. She only knew that it was naughty. It had to be if it was meant to prevent conception and she was forbidden to speak of it to Dr. Mitchell. Placing the brush down on the table, she brought the tin closer, as if it were a treasure she had found that warranted further investigation. Her breath caught as she worked the lid open. The unmistakable scent of vulcanized rubber met her nose, though it was faded and not very harsh. The item within was impossible to make out. It was rolled and the color of parchment. If it was a sheath, then perhaps it was meant to go on that male part of him.
That thought set her imagination down a path from which there was no return. Her entire body warmed, and she noticed the way the fabric of her nightgown scraped against her skin, as if her nerve endings had become highly sensitive. She had thought of what it would be like to lie with him many times in the carriage. Perhaps it was possible . . . if he still wanted her. If she could make him look at her as he had those nights at the inn.
A door downstairs closed with a bang, and a male voice filled the kitchen. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a wild thing looking for escape. She could not allow Christian to catch her with this, not yet. Hurrying to the bed, she shoved it under her pillow.
Chapter 16
He was depravity and his name was Lord Lucifer.
V. Lennox, An American and the London Season
Christian paced in the darkened kitchen, unable to convince himself that he could return to the bedroom they shared and everything would be as normal. He could not believe that because there was no truth to it. Everything had changed. He had seen her nude, and the sight of her had held him captive the rest of the day.
The sun had come out today—a rare and welcome sight—so he had suggested a game of chess with the good physician outside while Violet bathed. His disreputable mind had kept imagining the scene of her bath, but outside and away from her it didn’t matter. He was not physically close enough to act on his baser impulses. Impulses that were growing stronger every day. It was to the point where he made certain he awoke before her in the morning, simply to avoid the issue of her having to witness the inevitable morning cockstand he could not seem to control.
But today, things had gone further, almost out of his hands. The bright sun had obscured the window, hiding t
he scene he knew was unfolding inside. However, he had happened to glance up when she rose from the bath. The very moment a cloud had drifted across the sun. For a single moment that would play itself over and over in his mind from now into eternity, she had stood there gloriously nude. Her breasts high on her chest, their nipples tight as rosebuds, the curve of a hip, the dark triangle of hair between her legs, he had seen all of her. It lasted the length of a heartbeat before Mrs. Mitchell covered her with a towel. After, he had been forced to pretend that all was the same as the moment that had preceded it.
But he was changed. The lustful brute inside him, the one that he had been able to keep a rein on, had broken free. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to stay seated and not go find her in the kitchen and carry her to bed. The meal had been a laughable display. Him sitting there, eating and barely tasting his food, while scenting the lavender from her skin all the way across the table. Though she was completely covered by a nightdress that could have wrapped around her two or three times, and a dressing gown that was tied up tight, concealing her from neck to foot, his lustful gaze still lingered, knowing that she was naked beneath her clothes, unencumbered by corset or petticoat or drawers. He had but to slide his hand up her leg to find her hot and damp for him.
He took the final draw on his cigarette, closing his eyes as the smoke burned through his lungs. Usually, the exhale left him more relaxed, putting a soft edge on things. It was why he had immediately walked to town after the chess game to acquire the luxury, his own cigarettes having been destroyed in the ravine. The absence of them hadn’t bothered him until now. He typically only enjoyed the occasional smoke after dinner. But now he needed something, anything, to save him from his own impulses.
Tossing the remnant of his cigarette into the cold hearth, he walked toward the stairs like a condemned man approached the gallows. He could not stay down here all night. She would almost certainly be asleep by now anyway. The lamp on the bedside table was turned low, and her chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. He breathed a sigh of relief and quietly began to disrobe down to his drawers. He reached for the nightshirt borrowed from Dr. Mitchell but decided against it. He rarely slept clothed, and the shirt was scratchy and served to keep him awake. Though he had worn it their first few nights here, there was hardly a need since she was asleep and he would be dressed before she awoke in the morning. Abandoning it, he slipped into bed, thankful she faced away from him on her uninjured side. He could not look upon her beauty tonight. It was too much to ask of himself. He laid as close to the edge of the bed as he dared to keep space between them and reached up to turn the lamp down.
“Wait.” Her voice was raspy with sleep, and he cursed himself for waking her.
“Do you need something?” he asked, careful to keep his gaze straight ahead on the ceiling.
She shifted, pulling the blanket taut across his hips. Traitorous creature that it was, his cock stirred at the sensation. He closed his eyes and forced out an even breath.
“Do you think you might rub my lower back? I’ve been abed too long. It aches.” She gave him a shy smile over her shoulder.
“Should I retrieve Mrs. Mitchell?” Please say yes. Touching her would be too torturous.
“No.”
“All right,” he said, his voice noticeably huskier. Clearing his throat, he sat up. “Do you think you can lean forward?”
She complied, sliding onto her belly. He stared at her small body swathed in yards of cotton fabric and wondered how he could find this so arousing. The outline of her hips and the swell of her arse drew his gaze, and he busied himself by settling the blanket in his lap, lest she see how much he already ached for her. Without the bandages, he had no way of knowing by feel where her bruises were, so he said, “Guide my hands. I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“Lower,” she said when he pressed fingertips to the middle of her back. “Lower,” she urged, guiding him downward. “There.”
He started softly, pressing the pads of his fingers to the muscles he felt. She sighed, a sound that vibrated down his spine, settling with a flickering and tightening heat in his scrotum. He shifted as his blood thickened like honey in his veins. This was too much to ask of him. He was already drunk on arousal and need. It swam through his head like whisky, making his thoughts give way to instinct and consequences appear murky. His hands roamed lower, until his fingers touched the softness of her bottom. Gratification roared through him, but he forced his hands higher back where they belonged. She didn’t seem to notice.
“More pressure, if you please,” she said.
Certain all the time that he would hurt her, he pressed down, but she only hummed in pleasure. It was a sound he heard with his cock. Christ! He closed his eyes tightly as his blood roared in his ears. Softness met his hands again, his palms this time. He squeezed, and his hips gave a barely there thrust in automatic response as he imagined sinking into her tight, hot grip.
“Christian.” Her aching whisper forced him to open his eyes.
He held handfuls of her perfect arse. It took a herculean effort, but he managed to release her. “Violet.” He meant to apologize but could only repeat her name. He had never been this undisciplined with a woman, especially one he was meant to leave alone. He would not ruin her—while it might be too late if people ever found out about this jaunt, he would know that he had not corrupted her.
Surprising him, she turned over and took his wrist with her left hand. As if she sensed his need to run, she said, “Don’t leave.”
He shook his head, unable to speak for the moment as he saw his own desire reflected back at him in her face. “I have to,” he finally managed, his voice tortured and deep.
“Stay.” Through eyes that had somehow become disconnected from his body, he watched her guide his hand back to her body. She led it to her left breast, the nipple already puckered. Despite his intention to remove his touch, he caressed her instead, testing the weight in his palm and letting his thumb brush over the tip. Her breath came faster in response, and she never took her wide brown eyes from his face.
“This isn’t right,” he said, even though his thumb continued to disobey him, circling around her nipple before brushing over the extended tip. He longed to see beneath her nightdress. “I have no claim to you.”
“Does that matter? I want this. Isn’t that enough?”
He dragged his gaze from her breast to her face. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
She frowned, her jaw clenching. “I’m not a child, as you can plainly see. I know what I want. And I know what you want. Now, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been treating me like a sister. I thought perhaps I had misread your earlier interest.”
“A sister?” He was incredulous. How could she possibly think he had treated her that way? He gently tugged her nipple, drawing a gasp from her. “I do not think of you as a sister.”
“Then why have you been so distant?”
“Because I have been trying to keep my hands off you.” Which is what he should be doing now. With a groan, he finally managed to do just that and pull his hand away.
She sat up, and the nightdress slipped off her shoulder. His gaze lingered on her creamy skin before he managed to look away. He had to leave and find somewhere private where he could momentarily assuage his need for her.
“But I don’t want you to keep your hands off me. I want your touch, Christian.” Her voice was breathy, and it shook with her want.
He groaned, clenching his teeth in an effort to keep himself in check. He did not deserve to touch her. “You do not know what I’ve done.”
“I don’t care—”
He reached up and covered her mouth with his fingers before she could entice him further. “Violet.” But he only became caught up in the sight of his thumb pressed against the pink of her lips. He traced over her b
ottom lip, savoring the silken feel. “You would hate me if you knew all I’ve done.”
She smiled and he watched, helpless to resist as she bit the pad of his thumb then soothed it with her tongue. When she sucked the tip into her mouth, he groaned again, imagining the sucking of her tight body around his cock. His head swimming in arousal, he could no longer resist. He took his hand from her, only to fall over her, his mouth devouring hers as he held his weight above her with his palms on either side.
She made a sound of triumph deep in her throat as she kissed him back. Her kiss was wet, eager, and wildly inexperienced but intoxicating nonetheless, perhaps because of all of those things, coupled with the fact that this was Violet and he had spent endless hours wanting her, longing to touch her, smelling her scent, listening to her voice. He knew each intonation; the ones that told when she was happy or annoyed or teasing. Somehow in their time together he had learned her like he had never bothered to learn anyone else.
The need for breath made him release her lips, only to drag his mouth down the column of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin. She moaned when he bit her earlobe. The sound fueled something visceral deep within him. Something that only understood need and want and possession. He dragged the sleeve of her nightdress down, revealing her breast to his greedy eyes. Her nipple was drawn tight and pink.
“Please,” she whispered.
He vaguely wondered if she knew what she asked him for, but just as quickly, the thought was overtaken by instinct. He tongued the distended tip before pulling it into his mouth and sucking until her back arched off the bed. As he worked, he shifted onto his side so that he would not hurt her with his weight, giving his hand the freedom to pull her nightdress up. Her legs were toned and firm, but softened a bit when he reached her thighs. She did not hesitate to part them for him.
“Christ,” he whispered when his fingertips brushed the soft hair guarding her sex, dipping between her lips to find her wet and hot. “Violet.”
The Devil and the Heiress Page 16