by Lavinia Kent
“That I would believe. But with whom?”
Violet slid the book back and tried to decide which smile to answer with. A knowing one always worked.
“That doesn’t matter now, does it? You know I am always discreet.”
“So you are still involved with Peter.”
“I certainly did not say that.” Violet hoped she didn’t sound shrill.
“It is all in what you didn’t say.” Marguerite shared her own smile, one of satisfaction. She sat back in the chair again, shifting from one hip to the other. “I don’t understand why you keep it so secret. There is surely no shame in keeping company with the brother of a marquess. If Peter showed interest in me I’d parade him before all of society. He is quite adorable.”
“Your husband might have something to say about that.”
“It would be a little scandalous. I might enjoy that. I could use the excitement after being kept at home these last months. I do not understand why my condition should prevent me from venturing forth in society. Perhaps they are afraid there would be no more babies if women were allowed to see what this is like.” Marguerite leaned back in her chair and lifted her feet from the floor, legs straight. She bent her head to the left. “I cannot see them, you know; my feet, that is. I cannot fit them in any of my old shoes and I cannot see them.”
Violet wanted to close her eyes or to look away. She had expected that coming here, to Peter’s family, might be difficult, but she had not considered this—that it might also be painful.
It was time to face this head-on.
“You know about Peter and me. I don’t believe that anybody outside of my household staff realizes, except perhaps Peter’s valet.” She kept her feet firmly planted as she spoke. She refused to pace. “I would not normally come to you, but it appears I have no choice. I need information about Peter.”
“Does this mean gossip and delicious tidbits?” Marguerite’s cheeks flushed with satisfaction.
“I am not quite sure I would have phrased it that way. I merely wish to inquire as to his whereabouts. I have not seen him about Town these last days.”
“I do not believe that is all you wish to know. If it were such a simple thing you would have sent a note of inquiry to his apartments. Have you quarreled? Why else would he not have informed you himself about his travels? He has taken Felicity to Brighton for a few weeks. His mother did not wish to travel alone.” Marguerite straightened in her chair. “What did you fight about? Is there more you wish to know? I do love to play matchmaker.”
Violet paused and considered. He had left Town without telling her. No doubt it was intended as some kind of punishment. “I have never known his mother to need a companion before. Felicity knows how to enjoy her own company. I’ve always admired that about her.”
“So you want to know why he went and you avoid my questions about a quarrel.” Marguerite was looking smug. “It was Felicity’s suggestion, but I do believe he seemed rather relieved at the excuse to leave. He probably did not realize that Felicity was planning on visiting a friend and her four daughters. I do believe she means to find him a wife.” Marguerite stared hard at her, and Violet could almost feel her searching for any response to that word—wife.
Wife. Peter with a wife. She had never considered it. “I would have thought Felicity would be content with her first grandchild on the way.”
“On the contrary, it seems to have spurred her on. She sees how happy Tristan is and she wants the same for Peter.”
“Happy, am I? And why would that be?” Wimberley strode into the room and walked straight to Marguerite. He bent and kissed her, much more fully than Violet would have expected from a couple married more than a year. It was still hard to believe the dashing marquess had become such a doting husband.
“I was telling Violet that I was never going to let you touch me again.” Despite her words Marguerite nestled back against her husband.
“Now that would certainly not make me happy.” Wimberley attempted a stern look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “So, are you going to tell me what would make me happy?”
“Not you, Peter.”
“Why are you worrying about my brother’s happiness? I would have thought you had enough to fill your thoughts.” Wimberley’s hands slipped lower and rested on his wife’s belly. He squeezed gently.
Violet had to look away. It was disconcerting watching the emotions playing between the besotted couple. She still had questions, but they would have to wait.
She shook her skirts and smiled at Marguerite. “I am afraid I must be going. I do promise to visit again.”
Peter stared up at the roof of the carriage, his foot tapping against the edge of the bench opposite. Why had it never occurred to him that his mother had plans of her own?
The moment they had arrived at Brighton there had been a flurry of feminine activity, and then, before he could even descend from the carriage, a lineup of marriageable misses. One petite brunette, two almost identical blondes, and…He couldn’t exactly remember the fourth, but there had been one.
He had not needed to see the slight smile pulling at the corner of Felicity’s mouth to understand the situation. He was the boy in the sweet shop, but in this store it was the confections who grabbed and chose.
Before he knew it he’d had a blonde on each arm, another girl ahead, another behind, and two proud mamas sailing before. At least avoiding pointed comments and flirtatious looks had kept him from thinking of Violet.
Violet.
Damn.
He’d made it fifteen minutes this time without thinking of her and the real reason he was headed back to Town without spending more than a night in Brighton. He’d even left at first light to avoid his matrimonial-minded mother.
He’d love to tell Felicity that he also had a mind for marriage, but until Violet came around he would have to hold to his own counsel. And she would capitulate. Of that he was sure. She was being difficult, trying to make him want her more. Didn’t she realize that would never happen? He was already hers in every possible way.
He leaned his head back against the well-padded squabs and closed his eyes. His fingers ran over the nap of the velvet seat—so very like Violet’s skin. He could almost imagine it was she, lying beside him as the first morning sun began to peek over the trees in the park. He ran a finger down the indent of her spine, traced the dimpled swelling of her buttocks. It was not yet a touch of desire, still only one of exploration and morning greeting. He felt her stir beneath his touch. In a moment she would roll over and open those pansy eyes. Her gaze would still be heavy with sleep, but he’d see the fires beginning to burn in her darkened pupils. He ran his finger back along her velvet skin and…
The carriage shook and almost sent him flying to the floor.
He missed her.
It was easy to concentrate on the physical and pretend that was all he missed, but he knew the truth. The physical, the sex was easy. It was better with her than anyone, but if the state of his body was any indication, he could make do with a velvet pillow.
But his mind, his heart. They wanted so much more. They wanted her smile, her conversation, her quick wit and refusal to let him get away with anything. They wanted to trail her about the house picking up the scarves and gloves she left in her wake. They wanted to leave her gifts in surprising places, waiting for the smile that filled her face and wiped away every trace of sadness. The smile that was the same for a daisy plucked from his mother’s garden as it was for the amethyst ear bobs that matched her eyes.
Why didn’t she see that about him? Why did she try to act as if the sex was all he wanted? He couldn’t deny that he did want it—what man wouldn’t?
He was thinking in circles. He needed a plan, a way to make her see him and his desires in their entirety. He would show her he was a man, not a boy who cared only for one thing.
Violet slowed as she approached her home. There was a hired hack in front of her house. Who would come calling in a hack? Peter?
Her heart gave one fast beat, before she pushed the thought away. He had both a curricle and a carriage. He would not arrive in a hack, and even if he did, she wouldn’t be excited by his arrival. She would act as if nothing had happened.
She started walking toward the door, but more slowly. If it wasn’t Peter, then who? A list of friends and acquaintances sped through her mind and were dismissed.
Well, there was one way to find out. She glanced at her dress, smoothed out a crease, adjusted the angle of her new feathered bonnet, placed a curl over her shoulder, tilted back her shoulders, pulled up the corners of her mouth into a society smile, and headed up the walk.
The door opened and a lady’s half boot appeared, then the flounce of a sprigged day dress, a cinnamon curl, and then—Violet’s smile loosed and then reformed. This time wider and more genuine.
“Isabella.” She called her sister’s name as she lifted the edge of her skirt and scurried forward. “What are you doing here? I thought that Masters had decided you were not to come to Town this year. I swear it took me a day to finish his letter describing all the estate’s needs and how the heavy rains this spring had led to additional costs and that it would be impossible for you to come.”
She stepped back and surveyed Isabella. “Your dress will simply not do, though. It screams country. I will take you to my modiste. I can’t imagine that our dear brother will notice a dress or two. Do say you will let me? How long are you here for? It is late in the year for there to be much happening about Town, but I can always find a soiree or musicale. Have you had tea? I know it is still early, but…”
Violet sputtered to a stop as she watched Isabella toss her head back and release a bellow of a laugh. “I am rambling, aren’t I? But I am so pleased to see you.”
Isabella lowered her chin and stared straight at Violet. “And I too, sister. I hadn’t been in Town an hour when I decided I must sneak out and see you. I cannot describe my disappointment when you were not at home. Masters would not be pleased if he knew I was seeing you alone. He is of the opinion that you have a scandalous reputation. Do you?”
“Is that glee I hear in your question? Do you want me to be scandalous?”
Isabella’s nose wrinkled, and Violet knew she was trying to hold back a giggle. “I suppose I do. Life has been so boring in Derby and a bit of scandal sounds delightful. Still…” Isabella paused, more thoughtful. “I would hate to give our brother any further excuse to not let me visit.”
“Perhaps you should have waited to ask him.”
Isabella ducked her head, hiding the glint in her hazel eyes. “Yes, but you know it would have taken days for him to decide to call on you. From your surprise I don’t believe he even bothered to let you know we were coming to Town.”
“That’s true—”
“Don’t tell me to be patient.” Now it was Isabella moving ahead and pulling Violet into the parlor.
“I wasn’t going to. I was only going to say that sneaking out was not the best way to prove to Masters that you don’t need to be watched.”
“I know, but I couldn’t resist. It’s been over two years since you visited and you’ve given no indication that you’ve another trip to Derby planned.” Isabella dropped into the seat that Violet waved to. “How long was I supposed to wait? You are the only sister I have—for all that you’re old enough to be my mother.”
The last words were said with mischief and a grin, but they still pricked at Violet’s already tender skin. She’d thought she was tougher than this. Isabella and she had always joked at the dozen years between them, but now it was unpleasant reminder. Violet had said almost those exact words to Peter. In fact, Isabella was exactly the type of wife that Peter should be seeking—nineteen, sweet, and ready to believe in all that life promised.
“Oh, don’t look so glum,” Isabella said, evidently perceiving the shift in Violet’s mood. “You’re still well-preserved. I daresay you don’t look a day over thirty.”
Violet forced a smile and seated herself, gesturing for the footman who hovered at the door to send for tea. “No, I was thinking what a babe you still are, hardly out of short skirts. I am surprised it’s not a nanny our brother has chasing after you.”
“Don’t even whisper that. He may get ideas.”
“I imagine you’re safe,” Violet answered. “If Masters has finished with the services of a nanny, I can’t imagine him loosing the funds to call her back. I imagine even your guardian maid and footmen have a host of other duties.”
Isabella nodded at the truth of that statement. “I am happy to be here. I don’t even want to think of him. I can’t wait to explore. It is so seldom he brings me to London…even though it’s time that I am out. Do you know I’ve never seen a menagerie or the Crown jewels? Would you take me to see the Elgin Marbles? Am I pretty enough to find a husband? It would be wonderful to move away from Derby. I could live in London, like you. I also want to go for ices. They sound so wonderful, and—”
“Slow down, little sister; only you would consider trying an ice and finding a husband in the same breath.”
“I know, but I want to get it all said before I have to hurry home. I am still hoping that it will be assumed I am somewhere lost in the hustle of arrival. I don’t believe it will occur to anyone that I have left.”
Violet could not fault the logic; arriving in Town for a lengthy visit was always hectic. It was doubtful that anyone had bothered to keep track of Isabella. Still…“And what if Masters does realize you’re gone?”
Isabella pursed her lips. “Then I will tell him the truth. He will not be pleased, but you are our sister. He cannot fault my eagerness to see you.”
Violet stared across at her sister. The girl’s cinnamon curls were slipping loose from their knot. Her build was far slimmer than Violet’s had ever been, although the curves were filling out. She sat still and quiet; not even a toe tapped on the floor. Her eyes looked more brown than gold or green in the light—large and placid. There was very little, except years, to separate her from the gentle sister Violet had always known and loved.
But there was something.
Something had changed.
She looked again, but could not say what was different. The sister she had known would never have dared Masters’s displeasure. Yes, something was different.
“You’re staring at me. Have I grown two heads?” Isabella raised a brow in question.
“No, you’re still the same pretty girl as always.”
Isabella nodded with the easy assurance of a girl who had always been confident in her looks. That had not changed.
“I am hoping my appearance will help bring me a good husband.” Isabella fluffed a loose curl. “I understand that is how it works.”
“It is not quite as simple as that, but you are correct that appearance counts.”
“I am counting on you to help me with the rest. I am sure you must have learned something with all your scandals.” Isabella grinned, and the calmness left her face. “You managed to catch three husbands, so you must have some clue how it’s done. Although I am not sure if you’ll be able to chaperone me, we don’t want to risk damage to my reputation should society wonder if you’re lax.”
Violet examined her sister again, and this time she saw it. There was a sense of self-importance and self-assurance that had never been there before. Neither was a bad thing in a woman, but they were mixed with a slight edge of calculation—there in the tightening of the lips, and a hard glow as she examined a crystal vase on Violet’s table. None of that had been there two years before. Had Isabella been left too long under Masters’s care?
Masters never missed the chance to better himself or his wallet, and for the first time Violet could see the same qualities in Isabella. They were perhaps not bad qualities to have, but they were not what she wished for her sister. Violet knew too well how much they could cost one.
She spun her feet to loosen her ankles and then placed them on the floor. “Isabella, dearest, surely it is t
oo early for all this talk. Surely you can save your plans until later, when society picks up again?”
Isabella glanced down at her hands and then looked back at Violet. “No, I don’t think I can. I am not sure that Masters will ever choose to come to Town at a better time. I must do what I can now. I want you to help me land a husband. I realize you’re too old now to do so yourself, but I am sure you remember how.”
Violet positively disliked her sister’s mood. She’d felt nothing but warmth and gladness to see her, and now…She had to bite back the desire to inform Miss Isabella Masters that she had been proposed to only days before and by a most eligible, most handsome, most young man. She chomped down on her tongue to hold back the words.
“Oh Violet, I can see from your face that I have upset you. I did not mean that you are old, only old for marriage.”
Violet had used that same argument with Peter, but it sounded very different coming from another.
Isabella lifted a hand and patted Violet’s arm. “I am not saying this well. I know you have the life you want. The few times you visited you told me how wonderful everything in your life was. I could never understand how you loved those wrinkled hands, and drooping bellies, but you always assured me that you did. And now…” Isabella’s gaze swept around the finely appointed chamber. “Now I can see how wonderful a life you have, the freedom you are allowed. It seems you have everything you ever told me you wanted. I imagine you even manage your own money. Do you wish me any less? I know my choices will be different, but I want what you have—plus maybe a babe or two.”
That cut deep. A myriad of thoughts spun through Violet’s mind. Had her sister really believed that she could have loved a gassy old windbag like Sir Dratton? Isabella had been only twelve the last time she had asked Violet about marriage. Carrington had been dead only a few scant years, and Violet had thought only of him when answering. What else was she supposed to have said when asked such questions by a mere child?
And, why did her “wonderful life” seem so empty when Isabella kept staring at gilt-edged frames and silk upholstery? Did her sister not understand all she had paid to secure what she had? And choices, there had been so few of them. How did you explain to a young girl who still had eyes full of innocence—and they were, no matter the touch of calculation—that life did not offer women many choices, and the ones they were offered must be seized?