The Devil and the Heiress

by Harper St. George

  “Violet.” He sighed, reluctant to leave things like this and wanting to take her into his arms. “Let us talk. Do you not remember—”

  “Christian, no.” For the first time he saw the struggle on her face. Her fight to keep her pain from showing to the world. Her eyes glistened before she was able to blink back her tears and calm her expression. This was the Violet he knew. “We cannot talk. I’m sorry, but it’s not possible. You lied to me, and you manipulated me. I don’t know how to think of that, and the truth is that I cannot be near you right now. If we talk, then I will be lost.

  “I don’t know what is wrong with me that I cannot think clearly when you are close by. I am not very sophisticated, perhaps. But when you touch me, I am not able to think as I should. I lost myself to you once, and it hurt me terribly. I cannot allow it to happen again.”

  She could have stabbed him with a knife and it wouldn’t have hurt as badly. He would welcome that pain over this. “Then we are to simply exist, near each other but never with each other?”

  She nodded. “It’s all I can offer you now.”

  “Violet . . .” He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Once we are away from your parents, and have some time to—”

  “Please understand. I have lived my entire life under the thumb of my parents. I ran away only to run straight to you. I need to be on my own for a while. I need to know my own mind and make my own decisions. I cannot have anything to do with you. Not if I want to stay true to myself. If you have any bit of affection left for me, you will honor me in this.”

  If? His love for her had not faded since the day her brother found them near that brook. In fact, it possessed him, like a wildfire, willful and uncontrollable in its passion. “Of course I do.”

  She flinched, and he didn’t know what to make of that except that his affection hurt her.

  “Then please keep your distance.”

  He took in a breath, nearly gasping at how it raked over the jagged edges of his heart. “As you wish,” he said when he could finally speak past the pain.

  She nodded her thanks and walked out of the room. When he had finally recovered enough to follow at a much slower pace, he found her in the entrance hall, her mother fussing over her veil and hair to arrange them for the portrait. He stood there watching as the photographer took her photograph in two different poses. His heart hardly dared to beat.

  “My lord.” Mrs. Crenshaw smiled, seemingly the only Crenshaw content with her new son-in-law, and beckoned him over. “Now let us have one of you both together.”

  He glanced at Violet. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Walking over to join her, he allowed the man to place him just beyond her shoulder, so that she stood mere inches away, her body heat warming his front. Her scent teased him. It was the French perfume he remembered from the ball, but underneath was her own sweetness that he recognized so well. He had breathed it off her naked skin, licked it from her, and fallen asleep floating in a cloud of it.

  “My lord, over here if you will.” Christian had been staring at her neck. The photographer lifted his arm, finger raised to show them where to look.

  Before he knew what he meant to do, Christian put his hand on her waist. Her breathing changed, but she didn’t step away. He promised himself it was the last time he would touch her uninvited. When he would have dropped his hand, she covered it with her own, a soft, gentle touch that nearly brought him to his knees with his need to have her in his arms.

  The photographs were over much too soon. She drifted out of his arms, and the guests began arriving. They set up in the drawing room beside each other on the far side of the room, but never touching, to greet the well-wishers. Most of them had come to gawk and ascertain for themselves how much of the gossip was real. She smiled at the appropriate times and laughed when she was meant to, but she wouldn’t look at him. It was the same throughout the meal. Near but so far away she was unreachable. Less than two hours after he had given her the ring, it was time for them to leave.

  They left together for appearances. Following her into the carriage, he sat across from her, reminded of their trip north not so very long ago.

  She waited until the carriage was in motion before she said, “Helena believes that after a week we should begin to be seen in public together to help minimize scandal.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I suppose she’s right. If it takes a few times for people to see us together at a ball or the theater to stop the gossip, then we can certainly endure it.”

  Endure. There was no better word, save for torture, perhaps, to describe how it felt to be in her presence and know she wasn’t his, that his own actions had pushed her away.

  “All right. If that’s what you want.”

  She nodded and returned her gaze to the window. He tried to be civil, to do the same, to be polite and honorable, but he was none of those things, and he could not change himself to become that man. Instead, he couldn’t keep his eyes from her as he tried to get a handle on the brute within him that wanted to take her in his lap and kiss her, show her that they were meant to be together and this being apart was unnatural and not good for either of them. He managed to keep to himself, but only because he knew how very badly she needed him to.

  All too soon they arrived before the house on Upper Belgrave Street. The white stucco and stone-clad exterior blended with those around it. He had never liked the place and would have sold it if his pride could have borne it. It had felt much better to take it apart piece by piece, undoing the years of work his father had bestowed upon it to make it grand. Now he was condemning Violet to live here with its barren walls and empty corridors. She deserved a real home, something he was coming to realize he wasn’t capable of providing her.

  Her trunks had been brought over as soon as the contract had been signed to allow the servants time to have things settled for her arrival, but this would be her first visit. When a groom opened the carriage door, he started to move, but she was faster.

  “Goodbye for now,” she said. “I’ll send you a note once I decide on our first outing together.”

  She didn’t want him to see her inside.

  “I shall await your word.” He nodded and sat back in the seat, a lump settling in his stomach as he watched her hurry up the steps and disappear inside. For the first time in his life, he longed to be welcomed within those walls. He watched the door until the carriage turned the corner, taking him to the club.

  Chapter 23

  Lord Lucifer realized that his life would unfold in one of two ways: with her beside him, or apart from him. There was no question in his mind which version he meant to live.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  The door to her new home opened, and Violet stepped inside to be greeted by a skeleton crew of servants. “Welcome home, Lady Leigh. My name is Winston, your butler.” The man was tall, portly, gray haired, and very polished. His manner seemed reserved, if proficient, and she didn’t detect any of the skeptical deference she sometimes felt from the servants in other London homes. Perhaps this would go very well.

  “Good afternoon,” Violet said, taking in the expansive marble floors in the entry hall. They gleamed white and gray from a fresh cleaning. White columns spanned the two-story foyer to a ceiling inlaid with gorgeous moldings. Two crystal chandeliers would light the space at night. It was an impressive entry that was only marred by the golden wallpaper that had faded to a brownish-yellow, the discolored rectangles left behind where paintings had once hung, and two pedestals obviously missing their busts.

  “Will you be expecting Lord Leigh?” Winston asked. He had the grace to look her in the face instead of peer behind her at the carriage she knew must be retreating by now.

  It was a fair question, but it still caused a pang of longing to sting her chest. “No. Not today.” Nor any other day. She swallowed past the unexpec
ted lump that welled in her throat.

  His polite expression didn’t change. “Very good. Please allow me to introduce you to the staff.”

  The servants were made up of Winston, a footman, the cook, and a scullery maid. They all seemed very polite if a bit wary to meet her. She couldn’t blame them. Not many brides arrived on their wedding day without a husband to a home that had likely been shut up for years.

  “I am very happy to meet you all,” she said after the introductions. “I am certain that we can get along very well together.” The maid and the footman curtsied and bowed before disappearing to the back of the house. To the cook and Winston, she said, “I hope to meet with you both over the next day or two to sort out any needs you might have.”

  “What time would you prefer your dinner tonight, milady?” Cook asked.

  She paused, never having had the question posed to her before. In all her life, her schedule had always been influenced by someone else’s needs. Dinner had been at the leisure of others. When Mother returned from visiting, when Papa finished his meeting, when Max could work stopping by into his schedule, when August could put her reports aside. The power of this decision was heady. “Please have a tray sent up at eight. I won’t dine in the dining room tonight.” Though maybe she would now that she thought about it. She had her own dining room.

  The woman did not blink at the order and gave a curtsy before she scurried off to the kitchen.

  Turning to Winston, she said, “I’ll have a tour of the house now before going up to rest.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  The tour took about a half hour. It was obvious that the main floor had been divested of all its treasures. Although the furniture was mostly intact, it was all very old-fashioned, leading her to believe that the house had not been refurbished except for minor comforts since it had been built some thirty-odd years ago. Much of it was in need of new upholstery. The walls and carpets were uniformly faded, and the wood floors were dull with discolorations in the varnish where more valuable possessions had once stood.

  This is what Christian had meant when he had told her that he sold off everything of value. He was so smartly put together in his suits and walking sticks that she had hardly dared to believe that his poor finances had all been true. Max had assured her that his income was enough to support a stylish lifestyle, and the basic upkeep of this grand house, but it fell far short of bearing the strain of Amberley Park and the complete refurbishment needed here. She tried to imagine the boy he had been, dealing with the overwhelming burden of a failing earldom, and her heart hurt.

  The only portraits remaining seemed to be family members. She found one that she was certain was his mother. The beautiful woman was very stylishly dressed and appeared to be no more than Violet’s own age at the time. She had light brown hair and the gray eyes that she had bestowed upon her son. Her expression was happy, but she somehow seemed lost.

  Later she found two that she was certain were of Christian. One was a small painting of him as a boy of around eight years lounging with a hound by a stream. His face was open and confident, not yet closed off as she had seen him so often before Yorkshire. The other was a more formal portrait, likely done after he had inherited. His shoulders were already wide, but his frame was still wiry, and his expression was glacial and haughty. She imagined this was the boy who had come to Thea seeking vengeance. Thank goodness the woman had shown him a better way.

  The final portrait hung near the upstairs landing that led to the bedrooms. A life-size man stood glaring out at her. His hair was the same rich shade as Christian’s, but it was cut much shorter, and his eyes were darker. However, they held the same gleam of wickedness that she had seen in both Christian and Jacob’s eyes, except there was a coldness about them absent from those of his sons. His lips were thinned in a line of haughty disappointment. She imagined it was the look he had given Christian when he’d fallen from that horse. Despite the similarities to her husband, she despised him on sight.

  “The late earl,” said Winston respectfully.

  “Have it removed to the attic.”

  He didn’t reply, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the earl to ascertain if his silence indicated displeasure.

  “Immediately,” she added. She would not allow the man to sit as a portent over the house any longer.

  “Yes, milady, Thomas and I will see to it.”

  She nodded, and he led her to her bedroom. He stopped at the door, politely not stepping over the threshold, so she peeked inside. It was of a good size with perfectly serviceable furniture, but like the rest of the home seemed a bit tired and faded. She was happy to see that the windows overlooked the garden.

  “This room adjoins the late earl’s chamber. It is also the only bedchamber fully furnished. Lord Leigh uses it when he sleeps here, but that hasn’t been for some years.” Likely not since Montague Club and the suite of rooms he kept there, she imagined.

  Slowly, she took a step into Christian’s room. She could find no sign of him from the dulled damask bedspread to the armoires already filled with her clothing. He was long gone from this place. Before melancholy could set in, she said, “This will do quite well. Thank you, Winston.”

  “Will your lady’s maid be arriving soon?” he asked from the doorway.

  “No, I’m afraid I’ll need to hire a new one.” Ellen was at Amberley Park now, and Violet didn’t think she could trust her even if she were brought back. That betrayal still stung. She had borrowed Helena’s up until now. “It appears we’ll have to hire several new members of the staff.”

  “I expected as much, milady. I shall see it all arranged tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, but I would have candidates sent over from Lady Helena March’s charity, the London Home for Young Women.”

  His brow creased with disapproval. “The fallen women, milady?” He whispered the word fallen as if it were a curse he couldn’t speak of but had no choice.

  “They are merely women fallen on difficult circumstances. She assures me there are several that have been well trained for the task. They simply are in need of someone to hire them. We could also hire a couple for the rest of the positions.”

  “Of course,” he relented, inclining his head. “Certainly, you will wish to retain more footmen as well.”

  “You mean besides Thomas?” Wasn’t the one footman enough?

  “Well, yes.” His expression indicated that it was only expected. “You will need footmen to serve at the table when you entertain and to assist your guests.”

  She took in a breath, certain that Winston might very well be moved to resign on the spot once she explained. “I am well aware of the custom, but I have decided not to honor the tradition. Maids can serve my guests just as well as footmen.”

  “But . . . you . . . milady.” His mouth closed as the battle raged within him. His need for continued employment won, so he bowed. “Of course.”

  Her voice gentled. “You will find me to be a very generous and caring employer once we discover our way together.”

  “I expected nothing less, milady.”

  Nodding, she added, “I would also like the names of several firms with experience in renovations. I would like to see this home restored as soon as possible. Perhaps even new livery. In this I will be appreciative of your expertise and judgment.”

  That seemed to meet with his approval as his shoulders relaxed. “Of course, milady.”

  “That will be all for now.”

  He bowed and left her.

  For the first time that day, a genuine smile touched her lips as she inspected the room. This would be her home, and if Christian’s words were true, she would have the funds to make it her own. There would be no one to second-guess her choices, no one to tell her no. Now she understood why Helena had chosen not to remarry. She could get used to this freedom.

  But could she ge
t accustomed to the loneliness? The bed was freshly made, the bedspread likely a sunny yellow damask that had faded to brown, nearly matching the wallpaper downstairs. Was this the bedding Christian had used when he slept here? Would she feel the imprint his body left in the mattress? Would he ever hold her again? No, she couldn’t allow her thoughts to take her down that dark path.

  Her exploration revealed a package wrapped in the finest paper she had ever seen set on the table near the window. A large red ribbon held it all together. Picking up the note set on top of it, she read:

  My dearest Violet,

  A belated birthday gift along with my regrets for not celebrating as we should have.

  All my love,

  C

  Tears filled her eyes as she touched her chest where the locket rested beneath her clothing. She wore it still because she couldn’t forget the morning he had given it to her, nor how she had felt, dumbstruck and silly with her love for him. A terrible but true way to describe the sheer bliss that had surrounded them. Blinking away the tears, she unwrapped the package revealing four books: Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Agnes Grey, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. A quick examination revealed them to be all first editions.

  Dropping into the chair, she read his note again two more times. Her finger traced the C. As much as she despised what he had done, she couldn’t stop herself from missing him.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next several weeks saw Violet writing madly on her story about the American heiress in London. She had thought the anguish would distract her or make her too melancholy to write, but in fact, the exact opposite happened. She wrote whole chapters over a matter of days, when before it would have taken her weeks. It was as if every bit of sadness she felt was infused in her pen and served as the fuel to push it across the paper. Much to her surprise, she found herself focusing on the budding romance between Lord Lucifer and Rose Hamilton instead of the larger social commentary she had originally planned. She wrote every part of them on the page, holding nothing back, not even the parts she knew she would have to edit out or be forced to wear the modern equivalent of a red A on her chest. On the pages, she could control their story as she could not control her own.