by Lavinia Kent
Peter had said something about Foxworthy. She needed to answer him. If only she were not so tired from the night before, her brain didn’t want to think.
She shook her head to clear it. “I fear I need to deal with Foxworthy again, no matter what.”
“What makes you think he will see you? He will not be kindly disposed after last night. He will probably instruct his servants to slam the door in your face—if they open it at all.”
Violet smiled bitterly. “Do you think so? I don’t. I think he will welcome me to his parlor and then shred every hope I have. He is a man who likes to see the pain he causes.”
“Then, why—”
“It will be my job to persuade him. I do not delude myself that I will receive an arrangement anywhere near the offer we agreed to before, but I am a woman of—of charm. I think he will listen.”
“What are you going to do, strip your ass bare and lay it across his table?” He blinked, stared at her. “My God, that is exactly what you think to do.”
She bowed her head and stared at her hands. The beginnings of a plan formed in her mind.
Peter’s voice echoed around the room, interrupting her careful thoughts. “I will kill him first.”
Anger filled every part of his body; the hairs on his toes twitched with it. Nobody was allowed to make Violet feel like this, nobody. Foxworthy would be the one begging Violet when this was done.
He’d heard Violet’s gasp at his words, but he did not take them back. He’d meant every one. He glared at her, letting her see the truth in his eyes.
She turned back toward him. Her voice was calm, reasoning, “And what does that accomplish? You will be in prison. Isabella is still unprotected, and Masters will just find somebody else.”
“He will anyway based on what you have said.”
Violet turned from him and began to pace back and forth across the room. Normally she was the still one while he sought the constant release of energy. Today anger held him rooted to the spot.
She began to speak as she walked, her pace growing ever faster. “Foxworthy holds something beyond money over Masters—maybe I can persuade him to give it to me. Then Masters would have to wait until Isabella is ready to make her own choice.”
“What does Foxworthy hold?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter—I am slightly hazy on the details myself. What matters is that if I can get it, then Isabella will be safe. Yes, if I have it then both Masters and Foxworthy will be without power.” Her voice grew stronger and more confident.
Peter grabbed her arm and stopped her momentum. “What you forget is that I truly will kill him before I let you go back to him.”
She pulled away at his words. “Peter, I am too tired to argue. Can you not let me do what I must? It will not be so bad. I know last night it was too much, but I am strong. I can do this and survive. I can even emerge from it the winner.”
Peter stared down at her, wishing his eyes could speak all the emotions that were in his heart; words were not enough. “I do not think that is possible. Whatever the outcome I doubt you will feel victory, you will be diminished if you do this.”
“Peter, I believe that I can win. Do not take that away from me.” She seemed to gain strength as she spoke, pulling farther away from him with her final words.
He let her go and turned away. “Violet, I do not doubt you are a strong woman. Always before I have realized that every man you had slept with helped make you the woman you are—even apparently Milber. But this is not in your character—it is why you failed last night. It will destroy you, and I cannot let this happen.”
She laughed then, high and shrill. It echoed through the room. “But I am a survivor. I can promise that I will emerge from this.”
“But not unscathed.” He wanted to shake sense into her. He clenched and unclenched his fist at his sides.
“You cannot do this.”
“You cannot stop me.”
“I can kill him.”
She looked straight at him. “But you will not.”
“Do not be so sure.”
She walked over to the settee and sat, drawing her skirts close in. She patted the space beside her. “Come, sit. Stop looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head. We need to be calm discussing this. Too many lives hang in the balance to let emotions rule.”
He sat, wondering if she was casting a web of manipulation about him. He might love Violet, but he was not a fool.
“Peter,” she began, “I should not say this, but I spend most of my life trying my hardest not to think of you. When I think of you I cannot do what I need to do. But I cannot afford to fail.”
“How can you decide not to think of somebody?” he asked. His body was still stiff with tension. “When I try not to think of you, all I can do is think of you.”
“I’ve had years of practice. Yes, it was a different thing. I am a master at shutting out what I do not want to remember. I hate to put you in that category, but it is not difficult.” She pushed away her failure last night. She should have been able to be intimate with Foxworthy. Her inability had done nothing but create more fences that must be jumped.
But now she had a plan. The goal was not to appease Foxworthy, but to gain whatever documents he held. She would do whatever Foxworthy demanded to gain those papers. And if that didn’t work—she wasn’t above theft.
“Peter,” she began again, needing to persuade him, “That is why I can do this. When it is over I will come home, wash myself, and it will be over. I will not think of it again. It is my choice.”
“But I have a choice also. Do not forget that.” His foot beat a rapid tattoo upon the floor.
“I do not forget, but I do not believe it is in your nature to kill a man for acting as many others do. It is not Foxworthy who demands this of me, it is I who demand it of myself.”
He ground his teeth and did not answer. It tore at her heart to see him like this. “Will you then kill every man I decide to sleep with?”
“This is not your decision—you don’t think you have a choice.” He barely opened his lips as he spoke.
“You are wrong. It is very definitely a choice.” She dropped her gaze. “You told me not long ago that you did not hold my past against me—can you not forgive me this?”
“How can you even ask that? There are some things no man should be asked.”
She spoke so quietly she could hardly hear her own words. “I am sorry that my actions do not lead us in the direction you want, but I am decided.” She moved to lay a soft kiss upon his lips. A kiss of good-bye.
He caught her face between his hands and pulled back until they stared at each other. He ran a thumb across her lips. He kissed her then, and it was not gentle—consuming, wrenching, passionate, but not gentle.
“Do not do this, Violet. Do not throw all we have into the gutter.”
He kissed her again.
She felt her soul in his kiss. She felt it whirl throughout her, flickering with energy and washing away the dirt. She could almost see it, glowing, fresh, and, yes, clean. She had always worried that it was a dirty, tawdry thing, and now it glowed and gleamed. With Peter she could be born anew.
She pulled away from him, waiting for her head to clear. She drew great gulps of air into her lungs. Souls. What a fanciful idea. It was surely brought on by the passion of his kiss. Passion she understood.
When she felt herself again, she examined him—the curling ebony waves of hair, the sun-darkened skin that was just beginning to flake on one of his cheeks, the lips swollen with kisses. And the eyes. Those ordinary brown eyes that filled her with warmth.
If she stopped this game now—found another way to stop Foxworthy and Masters—this would be hers. She wanted to see an idealistic boy, but when she looked at him she did not see a boy—she saw acceptance, a man’s acceptance. He looked at her. He truly saw her and still he wanted her.
It was that which made her feel clean again. For the first time someone knew her secrets and wanted
her anyway—wanted not just her body, but wanted her. She had to clench her hands to keep them from shaking.
“Don’t do this.” He said it again. “Violet, I love you. I will find a way to take care of you and Isabella.”
Oh, the temptation. He looked at her and she wanted to agree. She wanted his love. She would never say that to him, never even acknowledge that he had spoken the word, but, oh, how she wanted to.
But it was not just Isabella—even if they somehow managed to survive this tangled mess, there was still the rest of the world.
While he might be willing to accept her decisions, society never would. Even after last night opinions about her would be changing. She had appeared with Foxworthy in public and allowed him to fondle her. She had smiled a coquette’s smile at another older man and made her intentions clear. Society would not forget or forgive.
And who knew what Foxworthy would demand in return for the papers—he could ask everything she had and she might give it to him. She could be completely ruined.
She could never tell Peter; he would try to stop her.
It was all so unfair.
She wanted what he offered—wanted it all—wanted the dream he spun before her. Marriage. Love. Security.
Damn, this should not be so hard.
The need to move coursed through her. She wanted to pace. Instead she held herself still, forced all that energy into control.
She looked at him again, watched gold-tipped lashes open and close, watched the slight flare of his nostrils with each breath he took, watched his neck move with each swallow. When times grew dark she would need to remember him, remember this. If only she could hold on to this moment, then she could get through anything.
“Peter, it is already too late. We can never go back to where we were before this all began. I will only make you unhappy.”
“But—” he started to argue.
“I will not do anything immediately. Please, go now and let me rest and think. And promise me you will do nothing foolish. I need you out of this without any further wounds. When this is done there will be no place for us.”
He stared back at her. He blinked once. Twice. He understood what her words did not say. He spoke so softly she had to strain to hear. “So you will sacrifice yourself for my happiness just as you sacrifice yourself for your sister’s?”
“Yes.”
“Do you then love me as you love her?” The answer rose in her throat, but she could not say it. She longed to, but the word would not come.
Her eyes felt wet and she found herself blinking, trying hard to hold back the moisture. This was silly; she never cried, hadn’t cried in years. Tears solved nothing, resolved nothing.
She blinked again. Sniffed.
He reached out and wiped the dampness from her cheek. He brought it to his lips. The look he gave almost ripped the heart from her chest.
Still he did not speak, did not demand an answer to his question. He stood slowly, never taking his gaze from hers.
He walked to the door, his head still turned to watch her.
He paused before easing it open, then he stepped through.
Light from the hallway flowed in behind him, haloing him.
He looked so glorious.
She didn’t think she could bear for the door to close, to know that this was over. She grasped her seat to keep from running to him.
He smiled at her. Ruefully. Bitterly. Kindly. She could not tell through the haze of tears that still welled in her eyes.
“I will go because I too am tired of arguing. But tell me, Violet, why are you the one to make all the sacrifices? Does it ever occur to you that you are so busy making your own choices that you take away mine? And your sister’s?”
The door shut without a sound.
Peter stood outside Violet’s home. He looked up and down the street, unsure which way to head. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. He could head over to Jackson’s and find a good fight. A boxing match would clear his head and his need to slam his fist straight into a brick wall. His foot still throbbed from the night before.
She was going to do it. She might pretend indecision, but he knew her. She only wanted him out of the way so she could complete her hideous plan. She truly was willing to throw him away, to throw them away.
He had lost. She would never be his.
He should head to the nearest hell and drink until he couldn’t stand. He would probably cease to feel before he finished the first bottle, cease to care before he finished the second. He might manage to forget for days.
He could find a woman—any woman—and drown himself in lust and passion, show Violet that she was not the only one who could—
God. He sank down on her stairs, taking his head in his hands. The whole world could wonder at his actions and he did not care.
All his thoughts were those of a boy. Violet was right to think he wouldn’t handle society’s blows if all he could think of was drinking, whoring, and fighting.
His head ached with emotion.
He could not let her do this. Didn’t she realize that sometimes it was her turn to be rescued?
Resolution overtook him. She needed a knight and he would not fail her. He pushed back to his feet and headed off down the street.
This time his feet knew where to lead.
Violet didn’t move after Peter left. Tears left warm tracks down her cheeks, but she did not move to wipe them. She heard a carriage pass in the lane. A bird called its cheerful morning song. A maid whistled as she worked in the hall.
The world went on and she remained frozen, immobile. It should not be this bad. He was only a boy. One more boy in a growing line of them.
The tears continued to flow unstopped. Could one run out of tears? She probably had enough stored to last for hours if not days.
The sunlight shining through the window was so bright. How could the sun keep shining? The sky should have been dark and gray as it had been all those days at Glynewolde. All except those last ones.
She stood suddenly; the restless energy that had filled her earlier returned. Of their own accord her feet began to pace the room with ever increasing speed.
She had to do something. She had to be busy.
She’d go. She’d do it. She’d be done with it.
Surely Foxworthy would not refuse her. He might demand his goods up front this time, and take everything else she offered as well—but afterward—afterward he’d decide she was worth giving up Isabella. And then she would persuade him to give her what she needed.
She was out the door before she realized she hadn’t called for a carriage. She was tempted to walk, as she’d walked last night.
Last night. Peter.
God. She sank down on the stairs, straightened her back. Her neighbors would think her strange enough without her slumping like an ill-mannered maid.
Choices. Why did the word keep running through her brain? And in her brother’s voice.
Choices. Choices. Choices.
Violet, you’re too young to understand the choices that face us. You don’t understand what it will be to have no funds, to have the family name in shreds, to have not even this house around us. I must make the choice for you, therefore. Sir Dratton will treat you well. He’ll— Her brother’s words ran through her mind.
For a moment she was the scared seventeen-year-old who could only listen and believe. She didn’t know better so he made the choices. Had he believed he was acting in her best interests? Was it possible? And what about Milber? Could her brother possibly have thought he was doing the right thing then?
Her mind spun with questions she’d never considered. She’d also never confronted her brother with what her married life had been like. Did he have a single clue what he’d done to her? What he might be doing to Isabella?
Could there be another way?
Was it possible that if she talked to him again he might be reasonable, understanding? She had not forced him to listen to her or to answer to her.
What would happen if she did? What if she offered him everything—all the money with which she was prepared to bribe Foxworthy? With money came answers. She didn’t know the exact nature of her brother’s difficulties. She did not believe Foxworthy’s claim that he had committed treason. She might not know her brother well, but he had always loved his country. It was all such a tangle.
The effort of keeping her back straight became too much. She folded forward, catching her weary head in her hands.
Her brother had not been a monster during her childhood. She didn’t have many memories of him, those few years of age had seemed a lifetime, but he’d never seemed evil. She could even remember a smile or two, a doll he’d brought her, being led around the yard on a pony while he held the line. There weren’t many memories and none of them flooded her with warmth, but they weren’t bad memories either.
Could she have misjudged him all these years? She didn’t think so, but could she afford not to consider it?
She was willing to make huge sacrifices for Isabella’s comfort. Was she depriving Masters of the chance to do the same?
She pushed herself to her feet and shook out her skirts. She waved gaily at Mrs. Potts, who gaped at her from two doors down.
Now she had two plans. One of them would work.
Chapter 16
Peter stopped, his hand on the knocker. Was he really going to do this? Violet would call him a fool, insist that he acted like the impulsive boy she named him.
She would be wrong. He understood exactly what he did, understood the price he and others would pay for it. To others it would seem the impulsive act of a youth. It was not.
He lifted the knocker. Let it fall.
He heard the sound of response behind the heavy door, the patter of feet moving and a sudden metallic clatter. He should want to run.
He did not. He stood resolved.
The door opened. The porter peered out into the bright sun.
“I’ve come to see Mr. Masters. Tell him that Lord Peter St. Johns has called.” He sounded like his brother the marquess, every bit of manner and aristocracy projected into two simple sentences.