Right into Violet’s bones. She tried to stop herself shivering and, for a moment, even the comforting pressure of Charity’s hand on her shoulder wasn’t enough to propel her forward.
“It’s all right, Violet. He’s waiting for you inside. It’s only a bat,” Charity whispered as Violet cried out.
A single lantern hung by the entrance to the church door. The whole place looked very dark and forbidding.
“Now, take a deep breath. That’s right. And one more.”
With Charity’s steady, soothing influence, Violet managed to ward off her last-minute reluctance. She didn’t want to be part of what now seemed a hoax more cruel to herself than anything else.
Yet, even as she took two more steps towards the Greystone church, something didn’t feel right. Why was everything in such darkness? Where was Max? There was no carriage; no welcoming light from within.
The clopping hooves and creaking harness of another equipage sounded unnaturally loud in the eerie silence as a hansom cab rounded the corner, coming to a halt beside them.
Max?
Violet ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips and prayed that he would step outside. Just to see his dear face would be a comfort, even with the knowledge their contact tonight would be fleeting.
And final.
“Miss Lilywhite.”
Charity gripped Violet’s hand, the two girls drawing back against the hackney as the unfamiliar voice issued from the lowered window. It was a woman’s voice but its owner, heavily veiled, remained shadowed in the interior. “I came to warn you.”
There was a definite waver towards the end of her words. Without waiting for Violet to reply, the woman went on breathlessly, “Max isn’t coming. He can’t. I’m so sorry, but his grandfather learnt of his plans.”
Now her head emerged from the half-open window and she raised her veil. “Do you recognise me now? We met at Max’s. Miss Dulwich.” Her green eyes looked luminous in the damp light and her demeanour more agitated as she fingered her gloves.
Violet waited for her to go on.
So Max wasn’t going to make it to his wedding after all. She looked down at her white silk slippers peeking from her froth of skirts and felt sad that he’d not see her looking like this after all.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “You see, it was my fault. Lord Granville tricked me into telling him about your secret wedding, but now I’m here to atone. I had to take a detour on my way home after dinner so I have but seconds; only, you must know how much Max must love you if he’s prepared to risk his grandfather’s ire to marry you.”
Violet blinked. What was the girl about? She surely couldn’t believe the elopement was real?
“You must hurry, Miss Lilywhite, so Lord Granville doesn’t discover you when he gets here. I sent him to St Patrick’s, but the diversion won’t keep him from discovering the truth before long.” She leaned further out of the window and her large green eyes flashed with excitement in the carriage lamps. “Max is waiting for you at St Mary’s.” She pointed while her other hand clasped her breast. “Oh, but it is just too thrilling that Max is finally doing something so worthwhile and to please himself, for once. He’s been so dutiful his whole life—right up to the point of marrying me. I knew I’d be the ruin of him, even though I would have been content enough—and, indeed, the envy of so many. But, at last, he’s following his heart.” She brushed aside a feather from her headdress that was stirred by the breeze and added as she began to withdraw her head, “I wish you great happiness, Miss Lilywhite, and I’m confident you will find it with Max. He’s loyal to a fault and he adores you. I was quite satisfied on that score when I quizzed him.” Hesitating, she smiled and put out her hand, grasping Violet’s quickly when, bemused, Violet held hers out. “Hurry now…and I look forward to meeting you under less fraught conditions when you return from your wedding tour. You are very blessed to have found a man like Max. Good night.”
Miss Dulwich tucked her head back into her carriage which gave a lurch before setting off down the road.
Charity had already given the jarvey directions, so Violet simply lay back against the squabs and awaited her fate while she tried not to cry.
For Miss Dulwich’s words of hope and happiness were like cruel barbs.
By the time Violet entered St Mary’s with Charity in her wake, Miss Dulwich’s hopeful sentiments were screaming at her. Falling in love with Max was the most ill-advised thing she’d ever done, now that she had so much to lose. When she’d agreed to his well-intentioned plan to please his aunt, Violet had had nothing to lose.
Now her heart beat painfully as she raised her head at an emotional gasp from Miss Thistlethwaite, seated in a front pew, and glimpsed Max over her shoulder, waiting for her at the end of the aisle, the priest behind him.
“My dear girl, you are a vision,” the old lady whispered as Violet made her way down the worn runner, and the dewy look in Miss Thistlethwaite’s pale-blue eyes made it clear that she was seeing in Violet the symbol of her own thwarted hopes and dreams. She put out her hand to grip Violet’s wrist tightly, whispering, “You will make each other so happy. I feel it in my very soul.”
Violet’s throat swelled and her heart grew even heavier, for in deceiving Miss Thistlethwaite, she feared she was losing her last shreds of integrity. She was being paid for this, and wasn’t it true that Violet only ever got paid when she lied?
“You look beautiful.” Max looked as starstruck as his aunt as he gazed down at Violet when she arrived at his side, Charity just behind her. “A vision, like my aunt says.” He stroked her cheek, and the genuine fondness in his gaze meant Violet had to blink away the tears.
“Thank you.” What else was there to say? Perhaps Max was doing his best, and for his aunt’s benefit, to appear every bit as smitten as Miss Thistlethwaite would have wanted him to look but Violet fancied his words came from the heart.
And for a few moments, she fancied that the actor before them really was a priest as he performed the ceremony that would have bound Violet and Max together, forever, under the law and in the eyes of the church.
“I do,” she vowed, echoing Max’s own promise when prompted, her hand clasped in his large, safe, warm hand.
She gazed up at him, recognised the genuine regret in his eyes and turned her head away to smile at Miss Thistlethwaite, who was sobbing happily in the front pew.
“My dearest Max, you could not have made me happier,” the old lady declared between hiccupping intakes of breath. “Why, never have I seen two young people more in love and suited to one another than you.”
Chapter 13
Max was caught off guard. In the lamplight, Violet’s pale skin had the lustre of alabaster, and her hair the sheen of a raven’s wing. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman so beautiful. There was a glow about her. She was the fulfillment of every husband-to-be’s fantasy.
But that was not what he’d signed up for.
As he returned her limpid gaze, he imbued his look with all the longing and loving he felt in that moment. He could give free rein to his natural impulses for there was no need to act—yet, act he must, for Aunt Euphemia’s sake.
It was regrettable that Mabel had become embroiled in his deception. His aunt was declining. It pained him to hear her wracking cough get the better of her with increasing frequency these days. Sometimes he found her in her chair, almost unresponsive to his welcome; she was so fatigued by a bout of coughing.
His aunt, he feared, would not live to discover his lie but Mabel would know, of course.
He didn’t know if she’d be more shocked at the kind of woman Violet really was or at his elaborate deception.
Yet, gazing at Violet now, she could have passed muster as a princess, she looked so noble and angelic.
The priest’s words sounded muted and unreal as Max obeyed his directive to kiss the bride.
His bride.
Gently he raised her veil and lowered his face to her soft, inviting lips.
>
Violet melted at his touch. The brush of his lips against hers was like a butterfly’s wing, tantalising and fleeting. He could risk no more.
But he did. And the sensation of desire it evoked was like warm honey flowing through her veins.
By the time Max and Violet drew apart, Miss Thistlethwaite was weeping delicately in the front pew, and Violet felt she would follow any minute.
In fact, her own eyes were wet as Max bent to kiss his aunt who was twisting her lace handkerchief in excitement.
It was late in the evening, and light snow covered the ground as they headed out towards the carriage.
“I hope I shall see you when you return from your wedding tour but if not, you know my heart has been gladdened more by this than anything else in my long and wasted life.” She blinked rapidly. “For I have seen my dearest nephew allied with a woman he deserves.”
Violet swallowed as she felt the pressure of Max’s hand over hers and then a sudden panic.
What now? They’d not discussed what happened immediately after the ceremony. Throughout it all, Violet had hardened her heart using every ounce of physical willpower she had to be immune to feeling.
She’d blocked her ears to the words the priest was intoning, forcing the right expression only. Strangely, that part hadn’t been too difficult to navigate when she’d feared it would be the most painful. However, she was so used to cauterising her feelings in the day to day—or evening to evening—rituals of her job that it came naturally.
Now, the expectation in Miss Thistlethwaite’s expression as she saw them to their carriage made her suddenly ill with nerves while the greatest sense of loss swept through her like an icy blast. Max would gaze lovingly at her for the seconds it took to exit out of his aunt’s line of vision, and then he’d direct the coachman to take her right back to Madame Chambon’s.
It was all part of the arrangement, in theory.
“So, Max, I know discretion is of the utmost importance, but I hope you’ve found a lovely place to take Violet to tonight,” his aunt murmured, causing Violet to blush. “She should get used to her new status as a wife before you embark on the excitement of travels.”
“Indeed, it is all taken care of, Aunt.”
Violet couldn’t believe he responded so smoothly. None of the awkwardness of being caught on the back foot that she’d have exhibited.
“And where might this place be?” Violet asked as the carriage lurched forward. “You with your fine morals and fear of discovery will surely want to end this while you’re ahead.” Her voice sounded unaccountably bitter to her own ears.
She couldn’t see him when he answered, but there was compassion in his voice.
“Friends as we’ve become cannot take each other’s leave so coldly, Violet.”
“I thought you couldn’t wait to put a line under our little association. I’m hardly something to be proud of. You’re an honourable man, Max. You don’t consort with whores.”
“I don’t and I’m proud of it.”
She found her hand encased in his in the dark. “And I don’t consider you one.” His voice was like a caress, but it did not change the fact that theirs was a transaction which supposedly took no account of hearts. “Regardless of how you make a living.” His tone changed. Brightened.
Was he afraid Violet might get the wrong idea?
He patted her hand and leaned back against the squabs. “So now we’re going to say a proper goodbye. I’m going to Africa in a few days, and you’re going to surrender yourself to Lord Bainbridge. I’m jealous; I admit it, but I need to make my own way in the world, and you’ve known that from the start. I’ve not deceived you, have I?”
She shook her head. How could he speak so lightly?
“But you are not yet his, and I, like you, owe my allegiance to no one at this very moment. So, let us take our leave as we would want to. Like the friends we are.”
Like the friends we are?
Despite the lump in Violet’s throat, she wasn’t sure she could manage saying goodbye at all if he insisted on this. But she could hardly admit her susceptibility. And there was no question about it being a goodbye forever. It was, and she might as well take what pleasure she could from it. She’d had precious little of that over the past few years.
So, with a smile for him as they passed into the light, turning into a better-lit part of town, she took the arm he offered when they alighted and tried to adopt a carefree tone as he led her up the path to the small guesthouse in Hampstead to which his carriage conveyed them.
Shaking out her skirts, she arranged the flounces of her bustle with care as they paused on the top step. “With rose petals in my hair and wearing such a dress as this, I don’t think they’ll look at us askance.”
To her surprise, he put his hands on her shoulders. His tone was warm. “You look every bit the bride I would consider the most beautiful in the world.”
Except my corrupted soul prevents this becoming reality. But there was no point in spoiling the happy moment, Violet thought as she bit her lip, smiling back at him.
“The wife you choose will be a very lucky woman. You’ll not throw yourself away lightly. Not as I have done,” she added with a laugh and a quick squeeze of Max’s arm to ameliorate the seriousness of her words. “I mean, in every instance but this one.”
It was enough to defuse the tension so that both were smiling with real pleasure as they made themselves known to the landlady and signed the register.
Smiling. Like the happy, carefree newlyweds she assumed them to be.
The room was large and elegantly furnished. Violet threw out her arms and twirled in the centre of the soft cream carpet, staring at the small chandelier above.
“What a palace,” she declared, filled suddenly with pleasure and anticipation for what lay before her. A night of love and rapture. A final goodbye. She wouldn’t be sad. She’d had more consideration shown her by this man than had ever come her way in a lifetime.
And she had the comfort of knowing Miss Thistlethwaite was content.
“And you are its queen.” Max arrested her twirling as he caught her in his arms. “By God, I think I’m going to miss you, Miss Violet Lilywhite.”
“For the duration of the journey to Cape Town, I daresay,” she said, lightly. “I hope you suffer terribly on the voyage, and that Cape Horn is as rough as can be. I hope you think only of me as you retch miserably, knowing I shall be even more miserable at the knowledge that you found the prospect of shooting lions and tigers more diverting than me.”
“Only lions, my dear, and I shall have to agree with you otherwise there’d be no point in this.” He escorted her to the small, elegant sofa in front of the fireplace. “Let us make the most of our last night together. Of course, I shall miss you terribly. But the diversions of Africa beckon and the enticements are strong and…” he broke off “…the champagne has arrived.”
A young maid entered following a tentative knock, bearing a tray with a bottle and two glasses.
“Now, let us drink to the future.”
Violet was quiet as he carefully filled both their glasses. It seemed a cruel choice of words. What future did he think she had to look forward to?
But what was the point in spoiling it? If she’d learnt nothing else, it was to take the best that was on offer. “To the future,” she said, tipping back her head and drinking deeply before brandishing her glass ready to be refilled. Perhaps another would help stop her from feeling.
Feeling too much pain at their impending separation.
Feeling too much pleasure at what would be their last time.
“And to you achieving splendid things, Max darling. Now, for goodness sake, enough of all this skirting about what we’re really here for. Kiss me. Properly.”
She was more than ready for the press of his soft, eager lips upon hers as he swept her into a tight embrace. With one hand clasping her waist, the other cupped her cheek as he savoured her response. She sighed with pleasure as he br
eached the seam of her lips, his tongue sweeping across her teeth, gaining access to the cavern of her mouth.
Her breasts tingled, and her belly roiled with need. No man had ever had this effect on her.
“Take me to bed, Max.” Her whisper was hoarse with desire, but although the passion of his kiss gave her no reason to doubt he was as eager as she was to feel her skin against his, his response was tempered.
“Not too fast, my darling. I want to savour you.”
She drew back slightly, surprised at the intensity of his look.
He dropped his hands. “Can I see you undress for me, Violet?” he whispered. “We’ve shared so much, but I want this to remember. I want to see what you look like.”
How extraordinary that a whore could feel embarrassment at such a request. But whores were required to do as they were asked by the men who paid them.
He must have seen the reflection of such a sentiment flash across her face, for the moment she started unbuttoning her cuirass, he put a hand on her wrist to stay her.
“Only if you would do it willingly, though.” He pressed his lips together as if he were anxious he’d offended her. “Only if you’d do it for a man you…”
He seemed to struggle for the words, and, with amusement, she supplied, “For a man you love?” She drew in a breath that forced up her breasts and slowly began to work on the row of tiny buttons at her front, as she smiled at him.
“Say if you want me to hasten the process. I’d hate you to get bored, my love,” she said breathily, causing him to close his eyes and put his hand to his head in a gesture of supposed agony.
“By God, you torment me, woman…and I love it!” His eyes shone with amusement. “Go slow, I beg you, so that I can savour every second.” He took a step back, crossed his arms and, with a small inclination of his head and a wicked smile, signalled for her to begin.
The slow burn within Violet’s breast was already making itself felt in her lower regions. She tried to tell herself this was merely business. She tried to act as if it was, but it was hopeless.
Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances Page 59