by Lavinia Kent
“It won’t work,” he said.
“What won’t?”
“We’ve played at this before. I know you love food and you know I love watching you eat. I don’t care how many times we’ve ended in your bed before dinner was finished. This will not be one of them.”
“But I wasn’t—”
He cut her off. “Weren’t you?”
She flushed under his gaze, but held firm. “Yes, Peter, I admit I was trying to get you to react, but, no, I was not trying to get you in my bed. If I had been, we would be there now. When have I ever failed?”
Peter rose and came around the table. He stopped several feet before her chair.
Her body quivered at the nearness of his. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch him. The connection sizzled between them. A physical thing.
“Did you ever consider that I chose to let you win?” His voice flattened again. “I wanted you and you let me have you. I’ve never denied that desire. I desire you even now, but I am not going to do this. You know my terms. They have not changed.”
Violet lowered her eyes. She could take his anger, but there was an edge of pain in his voice that shook her. “I am sorry. I wish you could understand why we can’t.”
“And I wish you had the faith to see that we could.” He turned and walked away from her toward the window. The rain started again and drummed heavily against the glass.
He placed his hand on the cold pane, resisting the desire to lay his head against it. He should have left the moment she arrived.
It was not a practical solution, but he should have done it anyway—what was a day or two of slogging through the rain compared to the torture of being here with her? He wanted to pound his hand on the window with the frustration of it all.
She knew him too well. Even his ploy in mentioning Isabella had not worked. There was no distracting her from the truth.
He wanted her. And she knew it.
When she’d first walked through the door behind Tristan and Marguerite, he felt as if his every prayer had been answered. For a brief second he’d believed she’d come for him, that she’d changed her mind.
Then he saw the shock on her face and realized the truth.
She wasn’t even thinking about him.
He turned from the window and faced her.
She was so beautiful, full of color and life. Even after days of traveling through the rain in the carriage she was radiant. He wanted to sweep her in his arms, adore her as she deserved to be adored.
He took a step.
Her eyes dropped to his boots and traced his step. When they slowly ran up the length of his body he felt himself tense and harden.
He took another step, then half a step back. He would not give her that power. He turned to his side and paced away from her toward the fire.
“Are you running from me?” Her voice was low and husky.
“Do I need to run?”
She paused at that.
He turned to look at her and saw the thoughts flickering across her face.
“I don’t know,” she answered finally. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
She took a step toward him.
Then another.
His body shook with tension. Why not just give in? Tristan and Marguerite would not be down again and none of the servants would dare interrupt.
He moved toward her, stopping only when they were a hand’s distance apart. He reached out and took her hand in his own. It was small and fragile. Normally he didn’t think of her as dainty, but when they were this close he was aware of the vast difference in their sizes.
He lifted her hand and brought it before his face, examining it, the slender fingers, the pale skin, the single freckle at the base of her thumb.
She had a scar on the back of her ring finger. He remembered when she’d dropped a glass and cut herself the year before. He’d never realized that it scarred.
He brought her hand to his mouth and laid a gentle kiss on the scar. He could feel the slight roughness against his lips and placed another kiss upon it.
“I remember when you did this.”
“I was careless. Who drinks wine in bed?” she answered.
“You do. We do,” he said. “Or should I say we did.” He placed another kiss on the back of her hand.
“We did have good times.”
“The very best.” He took her hand and placed it against his heart. “We could again if only you would let us.”
She looked into his eyes.
He wondered what she saw.
She pulled her hand away and turned. “It is not me that has stopped things. If it were up to me we’d be making good use of that rug in front of the fire. It looks very thick and soft. Instead we are stuck sounding like the heroes of some tragic play three pages before the end. The rug would be much more fun.”
He closed his eyes against the temptation. “You are a very selfish woman.”
She stared at him, her face momentarily devoid of emotion. His words were unexpected. “I cannot see why you would say that. When have I ever been selfish with you?”
“When have you not?” There was an edge to his words, but he was learning that cruelty could be a champion defense.
She pulled herself together at that, then pulled away from him. “I gave you everything you wanted. I don’t understand why you would complain now. You aren’t even the jilted lover. I believe that would be my role.”
“Aren’t I?” He walked to the rug and with deliberation sank down before the fire. “We see the situation very differently. You have not even considered my point of view.”
She stalked toward him and stood over him. “What you miss is that I am thinking about you, and that is why I answer the way I do.”
He looked up at her, past the soft belly and lush breasts that he loved; it was her eyes that concerned him now. “Tell me how you have been thinking for me—as you must believe I cannot think for myself.”
“I will not even dignify that last remark, but tell me, Peter, how would you react once we are wed, when I am your wife, and we walk into a room and more than one man looks at me with intimate knowledge? Can you face the fact that I have had other lovers?”
“I have survived it before, why should that change?”
“I was never yours before. Do you really want to take ownership of something so used?” She ran her hands down her body in mock seduction.
He followed her every move. The gesture was meant as both a taunt and a symbol of self-depreciation, but all he saw was her strength and beauty.
He said nothing, until she was forced to stand and watch him watching her. He started at her feet and let his eyes wander up her as he had on that first night they argued.
Tension sizzled in the air.
At last he spoke. “I have never wanted ownership.”
Violet fought the urge to turn away. “Then why do you insist on marriage? What is marriage, but ownership?” Damn, she sounded like a hissing viper.
“Sharing. Companionship. A promise. Marriage is a promise.” He accepted the vulnerability of his position lying below her on the rug. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her evening slipper. “Why do you have to see the dark side of everything?”
“Rubbish. I merely have a realistic viewpoint. Let us remember which one of us has been married.”
“Yes, I know. You have been married three times and are therefore an expert on the subject. You know all there is to know.”
She pursed her lips and did not answer.
He waited and then continued, “But you are not an expert on marriage between us. Am I the same as your husbands?”
“No.” It came out grudgingly. “You know you are not. But neither were they like each other.”
“Did you love them?” He knew the answer—no, no, not completely—but was still compelled to ask.
“Have I ever said I loved you?”
It hit him so hard he would have fallen if he had not alread
y been down. She stepped back as she saw the expression on his face. He knew she would have taken the words back if she could, but it was too late.
He pushed to his feet and left the room.
He closed the door with the gentlest click.
He didn’t even care that she’d had the last word.
Chapter 8
It wasn’t raining. Somehow that seemed wrong. Violet had lain awake all night staring at the bed’s canopy. It had stopped raining just before dawn.
The sun’s rays lit the still cloudy sky, and she wanted to see it as a sign of new beginnings.
It should still have been raining.
She pushed back the covers and climbed out of the high bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She walked to the dresser and poured water into the bowl.
It was cold. The maid had not been in to freshen it.
She splashed her face.
She should have never said that to Peter.
The expression on his face.
She splashed again, wishing she could wash away the memory.
Have I ever said I loved you?
No, she hadn’t. He knew she hadn’t. She knew she hadn’t, but the words had still been brutal. She didn’t know why she said them.
Yes, she did. She’d needed him to stop.
He’d looked so delicious lying on the rug before the fire. She’d wanted to kneel beside him and kiss away the worry lines marring his brow. He was too young, too innocent to have so much worry spread across his face.
He’d looked so delicious—she’d been ready to say anything to be with him again.
He’d looked so delicious—they should have been entangled in each other’s arms, damp and exhausted, utterly at peace with the world and with each other. They’d never fought in the past—well, that was an exaggeration—but they’d never actually been angry.
Not before he’d asked that bedeviled question. Will you marry me?
She realized she was holding the water pitcher between clenched fingers as if ready to toss it across the room, only toss was too gentle a term for what she wanted.
Will you marry me?
The words filled her with fury.
She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She was working as hard as she could not to hurt him. Why couldn’t he understand that?
She put the pitcher down.
Marguerite would need her soon. There was a purpose to her being here at Glynewolde.
Violet would ring for the maid and dress. Having her hair brushed would ease the tension building in her temples. She would go down and eat a light breakfast and prepare to be delightful company to Marguerite.
And if she saw him—she would apologize.
He deserved that.
The bloody, bloody woman. Peter slathered butter on his toast and crunched down, hard. Nothing could be worse than last night. Nothing could be worse than having Violet make it clear she lacked all tender feeling for him.
She’d once admitted she married her last husband because she truly cared for him—even loved him in some way. The man had been eighty-two.
The idea was ridiculous.
The man had delighted in bringing her erotic tomes.
The man had slept in her bed every night until he died.
Violet’s eyes watered sometimes when she spoke of him.
The man had been eighty-two.
And a twenty-year-old Violet had loved him, perhaps.
Violet did not love Peter.
He should have realized it before. He’d had blinders on for too long. It was time he accepted the truth.
Violet would never marry him.
He bit into the bread again and swallowed it with a large gulp of tea.
He had held out for too long believing she would change her mind and realize how right they were together. He would not do that any longer. He had pretended he was ready to move on before, but it had only been pretense.
He was through with that. Life would go on without Violet.
He need never see her again.
The door swung open and in she strode. She stopped when she saw him; her mouth opened, then closed, a fish blowing bubbles—only some beautiful exotic fish, something that existed only in fairy stories.
He pushed his chair back and stood, letting the half-finished bread fall to the table. He didn’t say a word as he walked past her.
“I am sorry,” she said.
He paused and looked at her. Violet did not apologize. She didn’t make mistakes.
“For what?” he answered.
“For what I said last night.” She placed a hand on his arm. “I should not have said it.”
“So you do love me?”
“No—I just mean I shouldn’t have—”
“To put it simply you are now apologizing for not loving me. I hadn’t thought things could be worse.” He stared at her for a moment, gave her the chance to refute his words. He pushed past her, but stopped in the doorway. “I was wrong.”
For once he had the last word.
Violet had nothing to say. She had plenty to scream, but nothing to say. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with Peter? There were couples who thrived on argument, but she and Peter had never been one of them. Now arguing seemed to be all they could do.
Only she wasn’t thriving. Every time they argued she felt diminished.
She walked into the dining room and sat down staring at her empty plate. The servants had vanished into the woodwork with her first words, and it would be a few moments before they deemed it safe to reappear.
She reached over and took the remaining slice of bread off Peter’s plate. Judging by the number of crumbs spread across the table, he’d been at war with the previous one.
She nibbled at the edge and then placed it back on her plate. She wasn’t hungry. She would go check on Marguerite. That was why she was there.
How long would it be before the birth? Did she need to stay until then? It seemed impossible that she could live alongside Peter in this state of hostility. Maybe he would leave. He seemed an expert at running, given the number of times he’d stormed out of the room.
That was not fair. He stormed out of the room because she gave him reason to. Apologize—how great an idiot was she?
Marguerite. Birth. Babies. It somehow didn’t seem as fearful as it had yesterday. The thought of facing Peter over dinner filled her with much greater terror than the thought of a baby.
She would spend the day with Marguerite, and if Marguerite and Wimberley chose to eat in their chamber then she would dine in hers. It could not be that long before she could return to London. She could always make an excuse that Isabella needed her if the situation became impossible.
All she had to do was not be alone with the blasted man.
Peter stared across the dinner table at Violet. How on earth had he ended up alone at dinner with her again? The facts were easy. Tristan and Marguerite had both started the dinner with them. An urgent message from a tenant had taken care of Tristan. And then the whole fresh trout had vanquished Marguerite.
He should have left with his brother. A flooded cottage and the rising river could certainly have required another pair of hands. He would have enjoyed a little struggle against nature and helpless odds to even out his mood. It might have put his life into perspective. Only Tristan had asked him to stay and care for Marguerite, to make sure she didn’t try anything foolish. He could not refuse his brother or the hopeful smile of his sister-in-law.
It had been impossible to follow Marguerite when she went dashing from the table since there were some duties a man could not be expected to perform. He did hope she was not badly off. She had not looked good even before the fish had arrived.
He looked across the table at Violet, who was picking at the fillet, but not moving a single piece to her mouth. Her wineglass had been refilled several times. Normally she could make a single glass last the meal.
“Are you going to eat any of that?”
She started at h
is voice, glanced up, then looked back at her plate. “I am not sure.”
“I thought you loved fish, and this is excellent.”
“Do you think I should check on Marguerite? I should have gone with her, but she made it clear she wished to be alone.”
“Perhaps you should,” he answered.
She did not move, continuing to push bits of trout about her plate.
The plates were cleared and the next course brought in. Still she did not leave. Neither did she eat. She continued to stare sullenly down at her plate.
She didn’t look good. Her skin was more pallid than usual and her eyes deeply shadowed. She must have lost weight over the past weeks since her dress hung slightly on her, and Violet had never been one for loose clothing.
“You really should eat.” He sounded like a governess. Why did he even care? She was no concern of his.
She raised her eyes and looked at him. She placed her fork beside her plate.
Could they really be arguing without words? What right did she have to be angry?
She continued to stare at him.
Yes, it was definitely a fight.
He would not be baited. They could not fight if he didn’t respond. He would just let her be, not say anything. “You don’t have the right to be upset. I have done nothing to hurt you.”
Her eyes flashed at that, but she did not answer. She took another swallow of wine.
“I should have known you would respond like this.” He couldn’t let it go. “It’s always about you.”
She leaned forward across the table. “I don’t see how you can say that. I am not the one who keeps storming from the room like a spoiled child.”
“No, you simply throw words like cannon shells and then wait for them to explode.”
“Which is why I am choosing not to speak. Every time I try and answer you it comes out wrong. I want to explain, but you keep reacting badly and then I make it worse. I can’t seem to say anything without hurting you further. Now I just want to eat my dinner in peace,” she answered. “Besides, it is not a crime to wish not to marry.” She leaned further toward him. He could see the freckle that topped her left breast. He forced his eyes back to her face. She was breathing hard, her lips vibrating with emotion.