by Lavinia Kent
Only with each second that passed she could feel the tension rise and grow. The men were looking at each other again and violence was in the air.
She had to think of something.
Even if she did chose one she wasn’t sure the other would leave peaceably.
She had to find a way to play for time. If she could delay things long enough, surely boredom would set in—no, that was foolish. She’d played enough games of cat and mouse with men to know that they only grew more eager the longer the hunt.
Maybe if she chose one quickly.
Ian was younger—more trainable—but more unpredictable.
Struthers she understood—but she could feel the danger in him.
She didn’t want to choose. She didn’t want either of them.
There must be a way to delay without leading them to believe it was part of the game.
As if sent by the angels, there was a light tap at the door and her porter entered. “Forgive me, my lady, I know you wished to be left undisturbed, but an urgent note has come from the Marquess of Wimberley. The messenger is awaiting your reply.”
She was handed a heavy piece of folded parchment. Rising from her chair, she moved to the window, away from Struthers and Ian, before breaking the wax.
Marguerite was poorly.
The doctors were insisting she move to the country for the remainder of her confinement. She could not delay or she would not be able to travel.
She wished Violet’s company—could not bear to be without a female friend in this hour of need.
Wimberley’s mother was still in Brighton.
Each thought moved through her mind individually. Confinement. There was no place she had less desire to be. Marguerite was a friend, but Violet wanted nothing to do with birth and babies.
She would send a refusal. Marguerite would have to understand.
Then Violet looked up. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I must depart as soon as possible. A dear friend needs me.”
“I can guess what kind of need.” Struthers stepped toward her.
“Actually, I am attending a confinement. Would you like to come?”
Chapter 7
Rain.
Rain.
Rain.
Violet pulled back the heavy curtain of the carriage and peered out.
Rain.
She’d known it was raining from the steady pound on the roof, but she was beside herself with boredom, and even the brief moment of adjusting the curtain was something to do.
Marguerite slumbered on in the corner of the opposite bench, well packed in with a multitude of pillows that cushioned and cocooned her body. Violet was glad her friend had found escape in sleep. The trip had been miserable for Marguerite. She’d been queasy from the start, and an extra day of slogging through the mud was certainly not helping the situation.
Violet pounded her hand into the plump cushions. She’d been insane to come. She disliked the country. She hated long carriage rides, even when they weren’t delayed by rain. And she really was not comfortable around Marguerite.
She knew that was really the problem. She was distressed by the whole idea of delivering a baby. She pressed one hand tight into her own belly and with the other pulled back the curtain again. She pressed her face against the cold, foggy glass.
She hadn’t always felt like this.
She pressed her face harder, wishing the cold would seep into her brain. Her cheeks were damp, and she told herself that it was the condensation on the glass.
She’d married for the first time expecting babies of her own, just like any young bride. It wasn’t Marguerite’s fault that such thoughts now turned to blood and loss. And pain.
Her whole life could have been so different, if only—
No, she was not going to dwell on that now. It was depressing enough sitting in a swaying carriage on such a dark, dull day. There wasn’t even enough light to read. She’d packed The Duke’s Darling in her bag in the hope it could redeem itself, but so far the strain of reading in the dim light had proved too much.
Violet wiped her cheeks on her sleeve and turned back to look at Marguerite. She looked so beautiful and contented despite the slight gray tinge her skin had taken on over the past week.
Violet hoped that the country air would prove as beneficial as the physician had suggested. Marguerite deserved happiness. As if she’d picked up on Violet’s thoughts, Marguerite shifted and finally opened her eyes. She smiled as she caught sight of Violet and then grimaced as she pushed her body upright. She rubbed her eyes and then pushed back the curtain to stare out her own window.
“We are almost there,” she murmured, her voice still husky from sleep. “We’re coming upon the village now and then it’s only a few more miles.”
“It can’t be soon enough.” Violet kept her voice light.
“You are such a dear friend coming with me. I know you would probably have been happier staying in Town and this journey has been miserable, but I am still so glad you came.”
Violet reached over and patted Marguerite’s hand. “Of course. I would never have dreamed of refusing.” That was not strictly speaking true—or, well, maybe it was. She would just never explain to Marguerite exactly why she hadn’t considered refusing for more than a moment.
“As I said, you are a dear friend,” Marguerite replied. “You did not even complain once about the inn last night, mutton that couldn’t be cut with sharpest knife, and damp beds that must have been stuffed with rocks.”
“It really wasn’t that bad. It was only your condition that made it seem so dreary. I was quite comfortable.”
“You are lying, but I will not hold it against you. Besides, we are almost there. Do you hear the pounding of hooves? Tristan must be racing ahead to the house to be sure all is prepared. He is such a wonderful husband, riding all day in the rain just to be sure I have enough room in the carriage.”
With any other man Violet would have taken a much more cynical view of why he would choose to ride in the fresh air instead of closed in a carriage, but she’d watched the way Wimberley looked at his young wife and had to admit Marguerite was probably right in her reasoning.
Peter looked at her that same way before he brought her chocolate to the bed or rubbed the aches out of her feet.
The carriage slowed to a halt, and Violet was glad of the interruption of her thoughts. She was not going to think of Peter any more today. Maybe sometime during her stay she’d sit down and figure out what to do, but not now.
Now she would be glad that the trip was over and that things could only improve. She felt a distinct lightening of spirits as the door opened and she took Wimberley’s hand to step out.
It was time for things to get better.
Peter slammed a billiard ball into the corner pocket, almost scoring the felt. Why had he decided to come to Glynewolde and not return to London? If he’d had any idea that it was going to rain for days without ceasing, he certainly would have headed for Town.
If he’d gone home to London he might be ensconced at his club right now, enjoying a large brandy and a warm fire.
It was true that he could find both brandy and a lit hearth here, but it just wasn’t the same when he was alone in the house with only the sound of the rain for company.
Even the house party would have been preferable to this. He could have survived a few more days being chased by Isabella. It wasn’t as though he was unpracticed in avoiding marriage-minded young misses. If only Isabella had been more like her sister.
He chose another ball to target and, with the click of the stick, sent it careening across the table. He wasn’t even playing well. He should have had at least a couple of drinks before his play hit this level, but he’d had no desire for solitary whiskey.
He took a deep breath and spent more care choosing just the right angle of attack. The cue bounced at the opposite corner of the table before rolling straight into the pocket.
Violet would have laughed, that deep, husky laugh t
hat filled the room and echoed in the hall. That deep, husky laugh that lit fires within and made him feel that all was right in the world.
She’d lean over the table, fully aware of the display she was making, and ask if he needed help with his stick work. She’d lick her lips and smile that full smile that made him think how much he’d enjoy her help—and then his next shot would be worse.
He missed her.
He’d told himself at first that it was just the sex and easy companionship he missed. But now he admitted the truth.
It was she.
It was all of her, even the annoying parts. He missed how she rolled in bed taking all the covers with her. He missed how she refused to ever let him have the last word in an argument unless he actually left the room before she could get the words in. He even missed the way she refused to take him seriously, always assuming that he hadn’t put any real thought into his words.
Maybe he’d have that drink after all. It was better than moping about a woman he couldn’t have. A woman he should know better than to want. A woman who would never see him as more than a boy.
There was a sudden flurry of activity in the hall. The pounding of footsteps sounded, and he could hear the maids calling to one another. He dropped the stick on the table and went to see what was happening—maybe the vicar had braved the weather for a game of chess, or perhaps the river had flooded and somebody was in need of help.
Whatever the cause, it was bound to be better than being alone with his thoughts.
She froze when she saw him. Violet felt the breath leave her body and was fortunate that everybody else was too busy to notice her shock—everybody except him, of course. He saw her. She felt his eyes move over her before his lips pursed in displeasure. He was not happy to see her.
It hurt. It should not have, but it did. She forced herself to inhale, before pasting a smile on her face and moving farther into the room.
Peter glared at her for another moment and then turned and met his brother in a warm embrace. She watched the two men, and something clenched in her gut at the emotion flowing between them.
They looked so different, Peter, large and dark, and Tristan, blond and elegant, if without his brother’s physical strength. At a glance, nobody would ever have taken them for brothers, but together the filial love was so strong it was unmistakable. She had never belonged to anyone like that; even Isabella had never loved her like that.
She turned away, pretending to shake the rain from her hair.
She saw Marguerite watching the brothers also. Her face glowed with belonging. She too was part of the family. She moved eagerly into Peter’s embrace when he finally released Wimberley.
Then it was her turn.
He moved toward her stiff and formal, taking her fingertips in his own, raising them almost to his lips, but not quite. “It is good of you to accompany Marguerite, Lady Carrington. Tristan tells me she is worried, and it is good of you to distract her from her cares.”
“It is good to see you, Lord Peter. We have missed you in Town,” she replied.
He nodded and turned back to his brother. He did not say that he had missed her or even that it was good to see her.
She stood for a moment, alone.
She could still feel the quiver of his touch in her fingertips, could still feel the heat of him, the scent of him.
But now he had moved away from her into another world, a world he had invited her into and she had refused.
So why was she so disconcerted now?
When Marguerite smiled and sent a maid to show her to her rooms, Violet went willingly, anything to be removed from the stage. She needed time to understand her own feelings before once again being on display.
“What on earth is she doing here?” Peter had not planned to phrase it in that manner, but the words had spilled from his lips the moment Violet was gone.
Marguerite looked up at him from where she had settled in a comfortable chair. She’d wanted to rest before climbing the stairs. There was a knowing glint in her eye. “I thought we’d explained that. I wanted a friend and she was good enough to accompany me.”
Peter turned away so that they could not see his face. “But why her? I would have thought there’d be somebody more appropriate.”
“I can’t see who.” It was Tristan who spoke now. “I would have asked Mother if she’d been in Town, but the physician stressed the importance of not delaying the travel. Most of our other friends had left for the summer, but I believe Violet would have been Marguerite’s first choice anyway.”
Peter clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles were so tight that he felt each individual tooth grind. He needed to get himself under control and fast. It wouldn’t do for Marguerite or Tristan to understand how Violet’s presence affected him.
“I don’t see why you are so interested,” Marguerite spoke. “I thought you liked Lady Carrington, and even if you do not care for her—which I cannot believe—why should it matter to you? She is here to keep me company, not you.”
“You are correct. I am merely surprised.” Peter forced his face to softness and turned. “I was not expecting to see any of you here, and now I am blessed not only by your company, but by that of an additional guest. That is all.”
Marguerite did not look satisfied.
He wondered if she knew something. Surely Violet would not have told her. “Perhaps,” Peter continued, wanting to get this over with, “I was surprised because she has no children of her own. I had always been under the impression that only women who had children of their own attended a lying-in.”
“I believe that only applies to unmarried, impressionable girls—those who might be frightened or disturbed by what they will see.” Marguerite looked up at him. “Do you see Lady Carrington becoming scared or upset?”
Peter had to admit that he could not picture Violet becoming disturbed by any situation. She was always in control.
Tristan walked over and clapped him on the back. “Then I take it having an additional guest will not trouble you?”
“Why no, I promise to be an exemplary host.” He smiled back at his brother, and adopted an almost ducal manner. “She would be gone by now if I felt otherwise.”
Tristan slapped him on the back. “I am not sure she’s the one who would be gone. So what are you doing here at this season? You spoke of your surprise at our arrival, but never explained why a young buck is alone in my house during a rainy summer. I would have thought you’d have found greater entertainment elsewhere.”
Peter glanced at Marguerite. She was resting her head back and did not look healthy. “I suggest we save that tale for another time. I think your wife is ready to retire.”
Tristan turned and without another word swept Marguerite in his arms and headed for the door. “I’ll join you for a drink before dinner. You can tell me then.”
Peter watched as Marguerite pretended to protest and then let her head fall against her husband’s shoulder. It was good to see his brother so contented and relaxed, but Peter felt a tightening in his chest as he observed the close bond between the couple.
Then, he was left alone.
Dinner could not have been more awkward. Marguerite had chosen to take a plate in her room, pleading exhaustion, and Wimberley had decided to join her.
That left Violet alone with Peter. She could not imagine a more impossible situation. At least they had been seated with the length of the table between them. If they had been seated next to each other—it didn’t even bear thinking about.
“Do you think it will ever stop raining?” Peter asked.
“I am sure it will have to at some time,” she answered.
“The soup is really quite good.”
“I’ve never been partial to onions, but combined with the beef broth it is delicious.”
Silence.
Fish.
Silence.
Roast pheasant.
Silence.
“It sounds like the rain has slowed. Perhaps it will sto
p soon,” Violet said. She wanted to pull her hair and scream. How would he react if she threw the baked peach the length of the table? Would some emotion show on his face then? Why wouldn’t he even look at her?
Then he lifted his eyes to hers. “I met your sister at Summerton’s. She is not much like you.”
She didn’t know why his words chilled her, but they did. “Isabella?”
“Do you have another sister? No? I didn’t think so.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin. “I was surprised by her attitudes.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But she was afraid she did. She had not forgotten how Isabella had admired Peter at Lady Smythe-Burke’s.
“She is not as opposed to some things as you are. In fact she is more than enthusiastic.”
“Some things?” She felt like a parrot mimicking his words.
“Yes, matrimony for one.”
Violet closed her eyes. She had known what he was going to say before the words left his lips. She wanted to ask him for every detail of his interaction with her sister, but she knew that Isabella was not really what this was about.
She approached the real problem head-on. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said.
“You didn’t.” He picked up a peach and examined it for bruises. “I am not sure why you mention that now. I thought we were talking of your sister.” He cut a peach in half and brought it to his mouth.
She let her eyes follow the movement of the fork. She watched as it slid between his lips. She inhaled deeply, letting her breasts push at her tight bodice. “You know you only mention Isabella to hurt me. I don’t want to play those games with you. If we’re going to play, it is not Isabella I want to speak of.”
She lifted her own fork and raised it to her lips. Her tongue darted out to lick at the heavy syrup. She savored the aromatic flavor.
He was focused on her lips now too.
She slowly, gently drew the peach fully into her mouth. She watched as he swallowed and shifted in his chair.
Then he shook his head and put down his fork.