When he spotted her, he stopped. “I see you heard.” Grimacing, he closed his eyes. “I would have spared you that, but I suppose it’s best you learn what type of man he is.”
Your cunt was made for my cock, Violet. I’ve never had better.
Even if he’d been telling the truth, their intimate moments had meant nothing to him. She had meant nothing to him.
Swallowing, she faced her father. “I’d like to go home.”
“Come.” He took her arm and towed her along in the rain. “God, Violet. I would have wished any other man in the entire world for you. He is the very last one—”
“Not now, Papa.”
There must have been something in her voice, something desperate and broken, because he clamped his lips shut. They ended up in front of the house, and the Mayhew carriage was soon brought around. With the evening still in full swing, the streets remained quiet at this hour. Violet was grateful for the rain, as it washed away the tears leaking from her eyes.
When they were settled inside, her father handed her a dry cloth. Violet wiped her face slowly. “I am sorry, Papa.”
“Sorry it happened—or sorry you were caught?”
She couldn’t answer. The wound was too raw, her body still sore from Max’s attentions yesterday.
Papa exhaled and pushed the wet hair off his forehead. “I am trying to remain calm, but it is a struggle. How on earth did this happen?”
She forced the admission past the lump holding court in her throat. “You mustn’t blame Ravensthorpe. I threw myself at him—more than once, I might add—and he tried to warn me off many times. Also, he told me that he would never marry me.”
“Then, why?”
“Because I’ve loved him ever since I was a girl.”
And I thought I could make him love me, too.
“Your mother was right. I allowed you far too much independence with your camera and your classes. We should have kept you limited to traditional pursuits at home with a governess.”
On the dark street were the familiar houses that lined their perfect little world, a society where young girls had no control over their future. Where parents used their daughters like bargaining chips. There was a great fascinating city out there, one she’d never experience or explore because it had been deemed unsafe for girls like her.
“We’ll marry you off to Sundridge and no one ever need know,” her father was saying.
“Papa, he could barely bother to learn my name and all he talks of is cricket.”
“You act as if you have options at the moment, Violet. Allow me to dissuade you of that notion. Sundridge is your only hope.”
A sob worked its way out of her chest, but she pushed it down. There would be time enough for that later. “I do not want to marry him.”
“You could be increasing,” Papa hissed, his eyes full of disappointment and anger. “Have you thought of that?”
Max hadn’t spent inside her, so she doubted a child would result. Those details were not something she wished to discuss with her father, however. “Nevertheless, that is no reason to rush into a miserable marriage.”
Papa leaned in. “I will not have my daughter bear a child out of wedlock.”
The absolute nerve . . . Her lips curved into a knowing sneer as she leaned in as well. “You mean like the child you fathered with a mistress two years ago?”
One could have heard a pin drop in the carriage. He stared at her as if she’d smacked him. “How . . . how do you know of that? Did he tell you?”
“Ravensthorpe and I never once discussed the particulars of your reprehensible behavior. I heard the maids talking about it. The woman came to the house when Mama and I were away, apparently.”
He dragged a hand down his jaw. “You mustn’t tell your mother. She’d . . . well, she has a weak heart and I’m afraid the news might kill her.”
More like he feared Mama might kill him if she found out.
“Then you’ll not marry me off to Sundridge.”
“Are you—are you blackmailing me, Violet?”
She hadn’t planned on it, but she wouldn’t take the words back. Resolve hardened inside her, a small sense of satisfaction that eased her misery. “It appears I am.”
“What happens if you find yourself with child?”
“Then I’ll go away. No one will know.”
“Absolutely not. It’s too great a risk. You must marry quickly, Violet. For this . . . and other reasons.”
Because her mother wanted her gone.
She turned toward the window. “I will choose my husband.”
After a long silence, her father said, “He won’t marry you, even if you’re carrying his child.”
As if she didn’t know that already. Tonight, Max’s position regarding her had been made abundantly clear. She fought to hold back the tears burning behind her lids. “I am aware. I want nothing more to do with the Duke of Ravensthorpe.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear it. He has promised discretion and I believe he means it. We’ll find another suitor soon. Dowry’s too large to ignore for most of these gents.”
Violet didn’t speak. She had no intention of entertaining another suitor, ever.
“Most importantly,” Papa said, “I will ensure he keeps far away from you.”
Max wouldn’t chase her. Why would he? There were other larks, women who wouldn’t hope for more. Women who wouldn’t develop feelings for him. Sophisticated and smart women like Louisa, satisfied with stolen moments and the occasional tryst.
But that was not Violet, not any longer.
A letter. He’d sent her a letter.
A week had gone by—the most miserable seven days of Violet’s life—and now Max had sent her a letter. She stared at the paper warily, as if it might burst into flames at any moment.
Why had he bothered?
“Lady Violet? Are you all right?”
Shaking herself, Violet looked at the housemaid who had presented Max’s secret communiqué. “Forgive me, Katie. You said a boy delivered this?”
Katie nodded. “Yes, milady. He appeared while I was picking herbs in the back. Told me to give it directly to you and no one else.”
“Thank you. I trust I can rely on your discretion.”
“Of course, milady. I promise not to tell a soul.” Katie curtsied and departed, leaving Violet alone in her bedchamber.
She placed the missive on her bed and studied it. The letter was thin, just a single sheet of paper, with no writing on the outside. Max’s familiar ducal signet ring had been pressed into the sealing wax.
Part of her wished to tear it open and devour every word.
The more rational side, however, feared additional heartbreak. Hadn’t she suffered enough? Unless his letter contained words of undying devotion and a marriage proposal . . .
A bitter sound escaped her throat. Max? A marriage proposal? Ludicrous. He would never marry her and she would forever be his secret.
Her door flew open and Charlotte appeared. “Violet, you missed our appointment.”
Violet lunged for the letter and tried to shove it under the pillow. Unfortunately, her friend wasn’t fooled.
“Is that a letter you’re trying to hide?”
“No,” Violet lied. “We had an appointment today?”
“Shopping and tea, remember? I cannot believe you forgot.” She pointed at the pillow. “Was that a letter from one of your suitors?”
“No, definitely not.” The idea of Max courting her was laughable.
Charlotte folded her arms, a determined set to her chin. “Out with it. You forgot our outing, there are dark circles under your eyes, and now you have this letter. What is going on?”
Violet waivered. The strain of keeping all this heartbreak to herself for so many days weighed on her chest. Ever since the night of the ball, she’d swallowed her grief, pushed her misery down to where no one would notice, and it made her brittle. A fragile creature who might break at any moment.
Perhaps sharing a slice of her anguish might help.
“It is from a man, but not a suitor.”
“The plot thickens.” When Violet remained silent, Charlotte removed her hat and tossed it on the bed. “Are you planning to tell me who?”
Before she could reconsider the wisdom of a confession, Violet let the words out. “The Duke of Ravensthorpe.”
Charlotte gasped and clutched a bedpost. “Ravensthorpe? Have you lost your mind?”
“Yes, apparently.”
“But he’s . . . old. Handsome, but old. And Violet,” she dropped her voice, “they say he killed his first wife.”
Though he’d broken her heart, Violet still felt the need to defend him. “He didn’t. She died in childbirth.”
Charlotte studied Violet’s face carefully. “I cannot believe this. You care for him.”
Unshed tears scalded the backs of Violet’s eyelids, and she struggled to retain the tenuous hold she had on her composure. “I love him. I have loved him for a long time.”
“And you never told me?”
Charlotte’s mouth flattened, hurt lingering in her gaze, and Violet added guilt to the mountain of emotion dragging her down. “Forgive me. Things with Ravensthorpe progressed quickly, and he made it perfectly clear that it was temporary. That I was temporary—”
“That bastard.” Charlotte stiffened, her fingers turning white on the walnut bedpost. “He seduced you and then refused to marry you.”
“More like I seduced him, but yes.”
“Even if you threw yourself at him, he should have told you no. I cannot believe he ruined you and then tossed you away!”
“That’s not exactly what happened. Sit down and I’ll tell you everything.”
Stiffly, Charlotte moved to the bed and sat. Violet took a deep breath and launched into the entire tale, starting with watching Max with Lady Underhill and ending with the letter.
“Wait, he called you a lark?” Charlotte’s brows went up, outrage clear in her tone. “We should storm into his house and put a bullet in his black heart.”
That sounded a tad extreme. “He never lied to me. He never led me to believe it was more.”
“You should hate him for how he treated you.”
“I don’t hate him.” She swallowed and tried to keep her voice from shaking. “But while I still love him, I cannot be a secret. I deserve better.”
“Indeed, you do.” Charlotte reached forward and grasped Violet’s hand. “So what will you do about his letter?”
“I haven’t decided.” She lifted the note with her free hand and tapped it against her thigh. “At best, it’s an apology for telling my father. At worst, it’s a formal ending to our . . . friendship.”
“Do you think there is a chance he’s come around on marriage?”
I won’t marry you.
“No. Absolutely not.” Time and time again Max had made this clear.
“There’s always Sundridge. He’s not so terrible.”
Violet gave her friend a disbelieving look. “He’s awful, Charlotte. I won’t marry him.”
“Then what will you do? You must marry, especially now.”
Because Max had ruined her.
Violet didn’t feel ruined, however. She felt tired and deeply sad. Fed up with both her parents and society. Ready to make her own decisions and escape any reminders of Max.
This was not the future she wanted, years of circling ballrooms and watching as Max ignored her. How long before he followed another woman out to the gardens? Perhaps he already had.
She pressed a fist into her stomach. Everything hurt and staying here wouldn’t solve any of her problems. Her parents would only marry her off to some fop and Max would carry on with his paramours.
She didn’t want that life—one that would tear her down, bit by bit, day after day until she was absolutely nothing at all. No, she wanted love and a large family, a place where she fit in, but on her terms, with a man who cared only about her dowry.
It appeared she must find happiness all on her own.
“Violet, you’re scaring me,” Charlotte said when the silence stretched. “What can I do to help you?”
Plans began forming in Violet’s mind, wisps of ideas that grew clearer, slowly revealing a path forward like an exposed image darkening in a developer bath. She could see it, a fate of her own choosing, even if the prospect seemed daunting at the moment.
Her heart pounded with renewed purpose and resolve. “Actually, there is something you may do. I need you to deliver a package for me.”
Max stumbled toward the carriage, his legs shaking like jelly. The dockside buildings dipped and swirled, the midmorning sun causing the world to look like a kaleidoscope. Somehow, he put one foot in front of the other and managed to reach his conveyance.
A groom rushed to assist him, but he held up a hand. He deserved the punishment. “No need,” he mumbled. “Just allow me to get inside.”
Once on the seat, he collapsed like a newborn foal and closed his eyes. He’d been rowing on the Thames for three hours, as he’d been doing every morning for the last fortnight. He hadn’t rowed this much since Eton, and his body did not appreciate the punishment. There were blisters on his fingers and palms, his back screamed in pain, and he thought he might have cracked a rib.
But he would not stop. The torture was necessary.
Many times, he’d considered departing London. After all, he had three estates and several townhouses to choose from, including a beautiful apartment in Paris. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her behind.
You’re a fool. She is better off without you.
He gasped when they bounced over a particularly nasty hole in the road, the agony in his side like being stabbed with a dull knife. Moaning, he clutched the leather seat and tried not to vomit on the carriage floor.
“Apologies, Your Grace!” the coachman called.
Several calming breaths later, the spots receded from his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispered.
You cannot do this much longer.
There was no choice. He couldn’t sleep at night and this was the only way to exhaust himself enough to rest. When he returned home, he’d fall into bed and finally find a few hours’ sleep. It was a neat little system he’d worked out, one that was keeping him sane.
Last week, he’d broken down and written to her, stupidly confessing how much he missed her and apologizing for telling her father. He’d also asked to see her, certain that they could smooth over their troubles if given a chance.
She sent the unopened letter back.
And that wasn’t all she returned. She also returned the photographs of him, the ones without his clothes. As if she couldn’t stand to look at him. That had hurt worse than the unopened letter.
She must hate him—and he couldn’t blame her.
So he rowed. When he wasn’t on the river, he was brooding by the fire, draining every bottle of brandy in the cellar. He was pathetic, a miserable husk of a man, yet he couldn’t seem to bring himself out of this funk. Nothing mattered. Work piled on his desk; food went uneaten.
He missed her desperately, like a piece of his soul had been removed. This was nothing like when he’d lost his first wife. Losing Violet was a howling despair haunting his every waking moment. He’d found happiness, had tasted salvation, and then let it slip away through his foolishness and vanity.
I hope you rot in hell, Ravensthorpe.
Indeed, he was already there.
Another carriage sat outside his home, but Max couldn’t bother with callers at the moment. Or ever. “Send them away,” he told his butler as he stumbled over the threshold.
“Your Grace,” his butler said, following. “Lady Mayhew is here to see you and insisted on waiting.”
Max froze. “Did you say . . . Lady Mayhew?”
“Indeed. She is in the front drawing room.”
Why was Charles’s wife here? They’d never liked one another. In the early days o
f her marriage, she had blamed Max for corrupting Charles. Out of loyalty to Charles, Max hadn’t denied it, though Charles required no help whatsoever when it came to corruption.
Still, this visit might have something to do with Violet. “I’ll see her now.”
A horrified look crossed his butler’s face—likely because Max wasn’t bothering to change before receiving a caller—but Max didn’t care. This might concern Violet, and that was far more important than the sorry state of his person offending Lady Mayhew.
He slowly made his way to the drawing room, doing his best not to crumple onto the Italian marble floor.
“Lady Mayhew. This is a surprise.”
“Ravensthorpe. I have to say, you’ve looked better.” She was perched on the edge of the sofa, appearing ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. She and her daughter had the same hair, a similar chin and bone structure. It sent a fresh wave of agony through him just to look at her.
He cleared his throat. “What may I do for you this morning?”
“I’ve come to seek a favor.”
“A favor from me?” This was unexpected.
She nodded once. “You see, when a wife is saddled with a lying, philandering husband, she must develop a trusted and reliable source of informants. These are often servants, which is certainly the case in my household. And I’ve recently been given an interesting piece of news.”
“Oh?”
“According to Violet’s maid, you wrote a letter to my daughter, which she returned along with some other papers. More letters, perhaps?”
Max braced himself, saying nothing and allowing her to come to the point.
“Regardless, my husband confirmed that you and Violet had been involved for some time.”
“Our involvement has ended.”
“I assumed as much, based on the returning of your note. Not to mention that she’s disappeared.”
He blinked. “What do you mean, disappeared?”
“She is missing. She left the morning after sending back your letter.”
Max strangled the armrests in a death grip, his fingertips digging into the wood. That had been a week ago. Why hadn’t he been—?
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 53