The Countess Conspiracy

by Courtney Milan

  Sebastian was standing right next to her, holding out a little pot for her. He’d filled it with soil already.

  All her confusion—that big tangled mass of emotion—returned and took up residence in her gut.

  “Sebastian,” she said stupidly. “When did you arrive?”

  “Fifteen minutes past.”

  She made a face. “Did I greet you by any chance?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not the first time you’ve done this, and it certainly won’t be the last.”

  But there was a warm tone in his voice. It brought her back to the reality of things. He was standing close to her, so close that she could feel the warmth of his body. He held out the little pot once again and she took it.

  Now that she was aware of him, she was very aware. Her fingers brushed the palm of his hand, warmth on warmth.

  Nothing had changed between them. Nothing except a little knowledge: Now he knew that she wanted him. She wished she could bury that knowledge the way she buried the seed she held, piling it in dirt precisely a quarter of an inch deep. She wished that knowledge would only grow roots, hidden from the sunlight, and not leaves, leaves that insisted on stretching up into her conscious mind.

  She glanced up at him nervously.

  He knew that she wasn’t as indifferent as she’d pretended. He knew that she thought about kissing him. God, he probably knew that she was thinking of kissing him now.

  There was a look in his eyes that had never been there before, something warm and unsettling. It made her fingers tangle together in knots. It made her want to turn and run away. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth.

  He knew. He knew what she was thinking. Involuntarily, she felt her tongue dart out and touch her lips in stomach-curdling awareness.

  It was a matter of inches. His hand was free. He’d pull her to him and then…

  Violet knew very little about the ways of rakes, but one thing she was certain of: Sebastian was going to kiss her. And she had no idea what she was going to do in response.

  But he didn’t. He simply turned away and picked up another pot.

  God, she wished she could have that lack of awareness back. She wished she had no idea that he was there, standing so close to her. Every time her back turned to him, she felt the hair on her neck rise in cold anticipation. Every time she took a plant from him, her fingers tingled where they brushed his skin.

  He was going to kiss her.

  She felt like a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce.

  But this cat never pounced. He handed her pots. While she worked at planting them, he went and found her orangewood sticks. He labeled the seeds for her—he already knew her system—and made sure that each little pot was appropriately noted in her records.

  He felt like her own two hands, doing the things she would have done—sweeping up the broken shards of a pot when she dropped it, making little notations where needed, tidying the things that should be tidied, doing every last thing she thought about.

  Everything except that one little thing: He didn’t kiss her.

  He continued not kissing her as she finished with the last seed. There was no kissing at all as he helped her stack her collection of unbroken dirty little clay pots together, and then brought them back to the work area, where they’d be sent to be scrubbed by one of the undergardeners.

  He didn’t kiss her when she washed her hands, and after she’d finished, he handed her the towel to dry them off without so much as a word.

  She might almost have believed that last night had not happened—that she’d never gone to him and thrown herself at him and confessed everything—except every once in a while, he looked at her, and in that look…

  She didn’t want to see that expression in his eyes, didn’t want to know what he was thinking. Surely, he’d kiss her good-bye. He’d been biding his time, setting her at ease—never mind that she’d become less and less easy as their time together went on—making her think that the kiss would never come.

  When they finished the last chore together, he didn’t grab her to him. He simply went to the entry of the greenhouse. He removed his smock, changed it for his hat and his jacket. He shrugged into the latter and tipped the former at Violet. While she watched in amazement, he turned and left.

  He’d left without kissing her.

  She stared at his retreating form in a muddle of confusion and dread and hurt.

  Impossible. He’d left without kissing her.

  Violet raised her chin and marched after him. He was already through his gate when she slipped between those walls. She cursed the path and her skirts, so ungainly in that small space. The lace at her hem caught on weeds and twigs; she felt like a massive creature crashing through a tiny space.

  He was halfway up the brick path to his house when she stepped out from behind his bushes.

  “Sebastian!” she called.

  He turned and saw her. Slowly, he paced back down to her. “What is it?”

  There were a thousand things she could have said.

  Thank you for your help.

  I’m sorry about last night.

  What she said instead was, “What on earth are you doing?”

  He blinked at her for one second in confusion, and then folded his arms in front of his chest. “Are you angry at me?”

  God, he was so perfect. Maybe she’d imagined it—that look in his eyes today. Maybe she was a fool to think that he’d want to kiss her. It was ridiculous to even think of what he’d told her. I am in love with you, Violet.

  He couldn’t be. Maybe he’d stopped.

  The instant she admitted the possibility, she realized that he must have done so. She’d admitted that she wasn’t indifferent to him. She’d been nothing more than a puzzle to him, and now that he’d solved her, he’d lost interest.

  God, she should have been relieved at the thought. His interest was not something she could bear. So why did she want to shake him?

  “Why haven’t you kissed me?” Violet demanded.

  Sebastian rubbed his eyes. “Good God,” he mumbled into his hand. “Never say you want me to.”

  She did. She didn’t. She yearned for it almost as much as she dreaded it. It was stupid to feel rejected simply because he hadn’t done something she didn’t want him to do, and Violet hated feeling stupid.

  “It’s really quite simple,” she said, trying for smooth, unshaken speech. “You’re a rake. You’ve admitted that you’ve held off on attempts to seduce me because you thought me indifferent to your person. I told you that I was not. Far from it.” She held her chin in the air. “So why haven’t you kissed me?”

  “You’ve expected me to leap on you?” he asked dryly.

  It sounded so foolish when he said it that way. No, of course he didn’t want her like that. Maybe he felt some affection for her, but she wasn’t the sort to inspire lasting passion. Enough for… She shook her head.

  That night a few weeks ago—that was all she was good for. A quick frig against a wall, a momentary distraction, soon forgotten.

  It was a good thing, after all. The last thing she wanted—the last thing she needed—was to inspire passion in a man. Passion led to intercourse; intercourse led to miscarriages. Enough of those would kill her. The entire universe had demonstrated in no uncertain terms that she was not the kind of woman who could have passion. Why should it bother her that Sebastian had joined his voice with that overwhelming chorus?

  “Did you hear what you told me?” he said. “You told me that when your husband had sex with you, he made you feel as if you were nothing. As if your death was a risk that he’d be willing to take.”

  She couldn’t look at him. “That doesn’t mean my body is entirely silent on the matter.”

  He came down the path to stand in front of her. “Violet,” he whispered, “in what world do you think I would tell you that you were nothing to me?”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes stung; she could scarcely breathe. “I just—I thought—” She
couldn’t say it. “I thought that perhaps you didn’t want…”

  “You think I don’t want to kiss you?” He raised an eyebrow. “Violet. You know better than that.”

  She swallowed.

  “I don’t want to make you feel worthless. I don’t want you to think that the only thing that matters is my lust.” He reached out and very slowly, laid his hand against her cheek. “When I told you that I loved you, Violet, what on earth did you think that I meant?”

  She couldn’t answer. Her throat was too tight, and besides, she wasn’t even sure that she could make herself believe the truth. She’d been running from it too long to accept it.

  “I meant,” he said softly, “that you are precious to me.”

  She pulled her arms around herself. She wanted him to want her with abandon. She wanted to believe that she could make him lose his head and lose control. If he ever did, she’d hate him for it.

  “I’m not a fair woman,” she choked out. “I want impossible, contradictory things. I’m all hard edges, Sebastian. Hard edges and crumpled pieces and broken bits of glass. There is no way for you to win in this.”

  He didn’t contradict her. He just brushed her jawbone with his thumb, back and forth, a mesmerizing caress that made her want to shut her eyes and fall into his embrace.

  “There is only one thing I know,” she finally said. “One thing that I am sure of.” She looked up into his eyes. “You are precious to me, too.”

  He shut his eyes and exhaled.

  “You should be furious with me,” Violet said. “I’m…impossible. Utterly impossible.”

  But he smiled instead. “No,” he said. “You’re difficult. But then, Violet, if there is anyone who can work out an impossible problem, it is you. I trust you.”

  Stupid, stupid Sebastian. Believing there was a way out of this? Her throat closed. He was an idiot. She wanted to scream at him to run away, to save himself. To fall in love with some other woman, someone who didn’t experience love as a series of sharp splinters embedded in her heart. She wanted to do all of that—and still she didn’t want him to leave.

  “Don’t,” she told him. “I haven’t any trust in me at all.”

  But he didn’t flinch away from her. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m trusting for both of us.”

  She couldn’t say anything. Instead she stretched out her hand. He took it, folding his fingers around hers, and they stood, palm to palm, her heart beating in nervous, befuddled arousal.

  He folded his hand around hers.

  “This was never the way I imagined that this would go,” he finally said. “When we finally talked about this. I thought…”

  “What did you think?”

  “Honestly?” he gave her a little bit of a smile. “A few years ago, I started doing some scientific research of my own. I had an idea that when it was done, when I’d figured everything out and mapped it to precision, I could show you. Somehow, I always believed that when I gave that presentation, you’d finally understand how I felt.”

  She tilted her head up and looked at him quizzically. “What kind of scientific research says…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word love. “…Says that you care for a woman?”

  “Oh. Just a few crosses with some flowers,” he said with a wave of his hand. “It never really went anywhere. It’s…rather embarrassing. Maybe someday, I’ll figure it out. This way… It’s better for us all.”

  She was still holding his hand. “Maybe,” she said softly. “But I’m curious.”

  “What, you want the scientific talk?” He smiled. “Come, Violet. I know better than to woo you with confusing data sets.”

  “Clearly, you don’t know me as well as you think. Confusing data sets are my specialty.” She inhaled. And it would be easier to try and accept what he’d told her if it were a data set: something laid out like a problem to be solved.

  “It’s nothing like your work—not nearly as good—but…” He shook his head. He seemed nervous, of all things. After all they’d done together, all they’d said to one another.

  “Oh, come on, Sebastian,” she said. “You can just give a little interim report at one of the weekly seminars. Everyone would love it. And I know you said you wouldn’t present my work anymore, but this is yours.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “It’s been a week since I took a trip back to Cambridge,” she continued. “The gardeners make sure my plants don’t die, but I’m still responsible for all the crosses. Don’t you think you could…?”

  She wanted him to make this clear. She wanted this to be a puzzle of the intellect, one she could think all the way through, rather than one of the heart.

  “Oh, very well,” he said. “But… Violet, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She looked up at him. “Is it very, very explicit then?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He gave her a sad smile. “The only one who might find it objectionable at all would be you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “DO YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON?”

  Violet shifted in her chair at the front of the room, sliding an inch closer to her friend.

  Jane Marshall was dressed almost demurely—for her—in a dark blue gown, one that had only a mild excess of ruffles. Two seats down from her sat Jane’s sister-in-law, Frederica Marshall. Miss Marshall—known to the family as Free—had begged to come, to see a real Cambridge lecture. It was hardly that, Violet thought, but still, the young woman looked about the room in avid interest. She seemed to drink in every ordinary detail: the wood panels on the walls, the chairs, worn and scratched from years of use, all lined up to face the front.

  “Oliver tells me,” Jane continued in a whisper, “that Sebastian has been rather odd about this lecture. Nervous and secretive. As you and he are friends of such long standing, I thought…” She spread gloved hands. Her gloves, at least, were outrageous—spangled with little glass beads that had been sewn on the soft leather in the shape of peacock feathers.

  “He’s told me very little,” Violet said. “It’s just an interim discussion of research he has not yet finished.”

  Jane looked about expressively. “An interim discussion?” she asked in amusement. “Any other interim discussion would bring an audience of what, nine or ten?”

  There were almost ten times that many onlookers here.

  “Well,” Violet said. “It is Sebastian.”

  Three seats behind them sat that annoying couple that had disturbed his last talk. Violet wrinkled her nose and wished that they, at least, had stayed away.

  “And he’s told you not a thing?” Jane frowned. “How strange. He came to Oliver three days ago and asked him to come. He acted as if it were important. But it’s a little-advertised event, and when Oliver asked, he said he was presenting work that had little scientific value. Neither of us can make any sense of it.”

  “Well,” Violet asked in her most reasonable tone of voice, “why would he talk to me about his lectures?”

  “True,” Jane said after a pause. “True. Still, I can’t help but wonder if he’s planning to spring some horrid surprise.”

  Violet wondered the same thing. He’d been so nervous telling her about it. A secret project, one he’d hidden from her for years? One that would have revealed his feelings? It made no sense. None at all.

  Three seats down from her, the woman with the high-pitched voice squirmed. “This will be awful,” she predicted. “Won’t it, William?”

  Violet refused to let that woman set the mood for the day. She looked straight ahead. Luckily, his response was too low to carry to her.

  “How can I bear it?” the woman was saying. “We must put an end to this all.”

  Violet sniffed and turned to Jane. But there was no time for further conversation. The door to the side of the room opened; Oliver and Robert trooped out and came to sit by them, Oliver to Jane’s right, and Robert on Violet’s left.

  “Did you learn anything?” she heard
Jane whisper.

  “Not a thing, except I’ve never seen him like this,” her husband whispered back.

  That door opened once more and the whispers died down. Sebastian and a white-haired man came forward. Sebastian didn’t look nervous, but then, he never did in company. He seemed perfectly at ease, smiling as if the crowd were a group of dear friends.

  “Welcome, welcome,” the older man who’d accompanied Sebastian said. “Welcome to our weekly little—ha!—botanical seminar.”

  The nine people in the audience who normally attended the less popular version of this talk chuckled.

  “Today, we’re honored to have Mr. Sebastian Malheur presenting an interim version of his latest work. He was quite modest in his description. But I’m sure none of you wish to hear me speak, and so I give you Mr. Malheur.”

  Polite applause sounded, and Sebastian came forward.

  Sebastian never looked at Violet when he lectured; he’d told her once that if he did, he feared she’d make him laugh in the middle of his sentence. But this time was different. Usually she knew every word that would come out of his mouth.

  This time, for the first time in a hundred lectures, she had no idea what he was going to say. He looked up, looked around the room. His eyes came to rest on hers.

  Her breathing stopped. God, he was looking at her like that in front of everyone.

  “This,” Sebastian said, “is a subject matter near and dear to my heart. One that I have studied for years in hopes that I might determine its secrets.” He hadn’t looked away. Her palms grew cold.

  “I wanted to understand everything,” Sebastian said. “But some things are not comprehensible, at least not to me. So this is a talk that touches on failure as well.” Now he did look away from her. “It’s a talk of hubris, too. A talk about how one man thought he could take on something that he knew was larger than him.”

  He paused, as if for effect, and then looked back at her. His eyes bored into hers.