“Your cousins are still friends with you,” she said. “And I haven’t talked to my mother yet, so we’ll have a fresh catastrophe come tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes. Them. Perhaps we could aim your mother at Robert and Oliver. If anyone can frighten them off, it’s her. Heaven forbid we have any friends at all.”
“Only you could make a joke at a time like this,” she told him.
“What, two days until the world discovers the truth?” He grinned, as if there were nothing in the world but her. As if her talk and her worries were all that mattered, and his were nonexistent.
“I was talking about your brother.”
He poured a tumbler of brandy and brought it over to her. “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow—well, the day after tomorrow—we will be shunned.”
She cast him another sidelong glance, but let the matter slide away. If he wanted to make light of it, who was she to stop him? “Speak for yourself,” she said, but her tone was light. “Tomorrow I’m talking to my mother. I dread that more than anything. After her, the rest of the world will seem like a walk in the park.”
“All the more reason to drink.”
He pushed the tumbler at her again, and this time she took it from him. The liquid was amber; it sloshed about a little, leaving trails on the glass. Its aroma, thick and heady, volatilized in the air. Even the vapors coming off it were potent.
“You’re trying to make me tipsy,” she commented.
“So I can have my wicked way with you.”
It seemed a joke, but still her heart thumped at that. That was the thing about Sebastian; he made everything seem a joke, especially those moments when he cared the most. She contemplated him over her glass of spirits.
Even her fear was beginning to fade. He’d spent the last days holding her, making no demands at all, letting her become accustomed to the feeling of being wanted, of wanting again. As if he knew that once want became familiar, that shot of panic would began to dissipate, turning to mind-fogging vapor.
“I once drank half a bottle of thistle spirits,” she informed him. “If you think an inch of brandy will do me in, you are sadly mistaken.”
She tilted back the glass. The liquor burned her tongue—a pleasant burn.
He wasn’t drinking.
It took the smallest cues to understand Sebastian. He wore his smiles and his jokes as assiduously as another man might wear a cravat—an item of apparel that was not to be taken off except among his most intimate acquaintances, and even then, only under great duress.
He’d related the story about his brother offhand, glossing over the argument and what had been said with a simple, “He was angry and had every right to be,” and then mentioning that he’d ended the visit by fetching the doctor. He’d made no comment about his feelings, as if he didn’t want to share his worry.
“You don’t have a glass,” she informed him.
“No. It’s a wicked trick on my part.”
“Oh?” She looked at him. He was smiling as if nothing were wrong, as if he had not a care in the world. As if he expected to lift her burdens and his own, too. She curled her finger at him. “Come and join me.”
He came to sit beside her.
Violet took another sip of the liquor—a longer draft this time—and set down her glass. Before she could lose her nerve, she kissed him. Their lips met. His mouth opened to hers, and she traded him that sip of brandy. Their tongues met in a heady mix of warmth and spirits. His hands pulled her close. She could have lost herself in the taste of him, the warmth of his hands sliding around her waist, but not this time.
This time, she wanted him to lose himself. She let it start as a soft, sweet, comforting kiss, and then let it grow, her hands running down his chest, until what arced between them was headier than the brandy they shared. The kiss went back and forth between them until she felt almost tipsy.
When the taste of brandy dissipated, she pulled away.
“You see?” He was breathing heavily. “It’s a wicked trick. That’s what happens when you kiss a rake of my stature; I scarcely have to do anything, and you seduce yourself.”
Violet leaned forward. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “I was already seduced.”
She was close enough to see his pupils expand, to hear his breath hissing in. That first involuntary reaction, though, was soon covered by a wide smile. “And all it took was two sips of brandy? I should have tried that years ago.”
It should have put her in a panic, the thought of what she was about to do. But the fact that she was doing it—that he was not demanding it of her—made all the difference. She put her hands on his shoulders and then slid them down, down his chest. He let out another exhalation.
“And yet here I am,” she said. “I let you hold me. I shiver when you kiss me. When I tremble at the thought of talking to my mother, you are the one who makes me laugh.” She sat on his lap and leaned down to brush his nose with hers. “When I smile, I look to you first, because I know you’ll understand the joke. So, yes, Sebastian. I’ve been seduced.”
He drew in another deep breath.
“All these years,” Violet said, “I never understood how much it meant to me when you made me smile. But now it’s my turn.” Her words were turning fierce. “You deserve to be seduced.”
“It…won’t take much effort, I can promise you that.” He gulped. “But Violet, are you sure…”
“I’m sure of this.” She slid off his lap onto her knees on the floor in front of him. Her hands sought the buttons of his fly. She knew as she undid it that she wasn’t as practiced as he. But judging by his indrawn breath, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she fumbled with his trousers, or if her hands were inexpert as they drew the fabric away. It didn’t matter if it took her a minute to find the right position, if he had to guide her into place or shift on the sofa.
What mattered was this: that Sebastian had been giving to her all these years, supporting her when she needed it, loving her—and if she were deserving of such depth of emotion, surely, so was he.
When she finally had his trousers pooled at his feet, she could concentrate on the prize: rakus erectus. His penis was hard and thick, jutting out at an angle. His breath came in ragged gasps as she ran her hands down him, lightly exploring the surface—deceptively soft at first brush, hard when she probed a little deeper. That dark head, even softer.
“Violet.” The words seemed drawn from him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Of course I don’t,” she answered with some asperity. “I want to.”
He let out a gasp. And then—before she could lose her nerve—she took him in her mouth.
God. She had never understood the idea of this before. It had seemed a pale imitation of sex when she’d first heard the whispers among married ladies. But in its own way, it was even more intimate than intercourse. Her tongue could explore the vein down the underside of his penis, the softness of the head. She could squeeze him and hear his breath go ragged.
He touched her head, his hand tangling in her hair.
“Tell me,” she said, murmuring around him in her mouth. “Tell me what you’d think about, if you were using your good left hand.”
“You.” His voice was hoarse. “You, always you. You have no idea how many times over the years I’ve thought of you. Wanting you.” A pause. “God, that—that right there. Do that.”
She sucked the head of his penis again, letting her tongue swirl over the tip. Feeling his whole body tense in response, his hands squeezing her shoulders.
“Sometimes I’d imagine sweeping away all the plants off of one of your worktables in your greenhouse. Setting you on the edge and then lifting your skirts and having you.”
She paused and lifted her head. “Wait, you thought of doing what with my plants?”
“It’s a fantasy!” he protested. “If we’re really going to pick it apart, I don’t think that a table made of wood planks and sawhorses could withstand the torque exerted b
y pounding at that particular angle, either.”
She sniffed. “Well. I suppose. But pick another one. I’ll get distracted thinking about the details.”
He laughed softly. “Do you remember our train ride out to New Shaling for Robert’s wedding?”
She nodded.
“You were ignoring me. Talking to Minnie the entire time. The only time you weren’t talking to her was for about ten minutes, when you stood up and went to the hall. I think you said you wanted to stretch your legs. I could see you every minute or so, as you paced in that corridor. I thought about getting up. Going to you.”
His words sounded dark and dangerous.
“I thought of simply putting my hand over your mouth. You would have known what I wanted.”
She felt herself growing wet at the very idea. She leaned down and took him again in her mouth. He was harder still, hard and huge against her tongue.
“I’d have turned you against the wall, right in that one spot where you’d not be visible to any of the other passengers.” His hands came down on her shoulders; his hips flexed almost involuntarily.
“I wanted to take you just like that,” he whispered. “Like that, Violet. Where I could slide one hand around you to cup your breast, the other farther down.”
His breath was growing erratic; he had begun to thrust into her mouth.
“And God, you would feel so good around me.” His voice was lower than she’d ever heard it. “You feel so good around me. Oh, God.”
He was like steel in her mouth, steel heated almost to burning. His cock slid in and out, harder, more insistent. And Violet had never felt quite so powerful as in that moment. He was shaking, shaking so hard, and yet so insistent.
“I’d make you come three times,” he said, “until by the end, you would have to bite my hand to keep from screaming.” And then he pulled away from her. His hand wrapped around his cock; he gave it one, two short little jerks. And then he produced a handkerchief and wrapped it around the tip, a bare moment before he groaned and came hard, his face contracting into a grimace.
“God, Violet.” He took a deep breath. “Holy hells, Violet.” Another breath. He pulled her up from her knees to sit next to him, his arm wrapping around her. His kiss was deep and intense; she felt it through her entire body.
And in that moment, she realized how much he’d been holding back—how much raw want he’d stored up. Because even now, even after he’d spent himself so thoroughly, she could feel it. She could feel it in the hand that crept down her bodice, cupping her breast. When his thumb made a slow, expert circle of that peak, her own insistent desire flared up to a burning point.
“Trust me,” he murmured in her ear. “Trust me not to hurt you.”
Easy to nod yes. Easy, when all she felt was pure want.
He slid to the floor, on his knees in front of her. His hand pressed against her stomach, a hard, powerful pressure. She looked at him, suddenly unsure of herself. Her heart slammed. But that want hadn’t slipped away. It filled her, too. She simply looked up at him, unable to speak, unable to do anything but balance on that edge between fear and desire.
But he wasn’t holding her in place. He wasn’t hurting her. He slowly lifted her skirts, letting the cool air touch her limbs. She was quivering in place, desperate for that first touch, and yet still nervous for it.
He sat back on his heels, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he spread her legs. She felt open and exposed, vulnerable. She could hear the echo of her husband’s voice.
You’re selfish.
She wasn’t selfish. She deserved this.
“Clever Violet,” Sebastian said. “Lovely Violet. Sweet Violet. The best Violet in the entire world.” He slid his hands up her thighs and she gasped. “Beloved Violet,” he said softly. “What are you thinking about?”
“You,” she said. “And me.”
“Do you have any particular fantasies you want to confess?”
She’d tried for years not to have any at all. The moment one intruded, she’d quashed it ruthlessly, refusing to give way to it. She breathed out.
He knelt between her legs. “Or shall we give you one to remember?”
“Just the one,” she whispered. “The one I never could eradicate.”
As she talked, he spread her legs farther and leaned forward. She could feel his breath on her thighs, moist heated air that made her clench her hands in urgency.
“Keep talking,” he murmured. “Tell me more.”
“But you’re…you’re…”
“Ah, ah. Keep talking.”
“It seems so foolish, so juvenile, in comparison to yours.”
He set his mouth against her sex, and she stopped. “Sebastian. Oh, God. I’m not sure…”
“Tell me if you want me to stop. And don’t worry. There’s no such thing as juvenile. Tell me.” His tongue did something she couldn’t quite comprehend—something fabulous, something that radiated from her clitoris outward in waves.
She let out a gasp. “Sebastian.”
“Go on,” he said, “and I’ll keep going.”
“It’s not about…sex. Every time I started to think of intercourse, I’d make myself stop.” He kept going. God, he kept going. She didn’t know what he was doing, how he was doing it. His thumb pressed against her; his lips spread her wide, and his tongue—oh, God, it felt like his tongue was everywhere, coaxing her desire from her.
“It wasn’t even about kissing,” she confessed. “Or about being touched.”
He was using two hands now, spreading her wide, his mouth hungry against her sex.
“And it was actually something that happened. So. A memory, more than a fantasy.”
He was going to think her so weak and insipid. But, oh, God. He slid a finger inside her. It had been so, so long since she’d let herself think about this. She could feel herself freezing, could feel every fear, every worry flooding back to her.
His mouth was still on her, hot and warm, but he murmured. “Don’t stop. Tell me.”
“It was a few years after my husband passed away. Before that…I don’t think I could have mustered up desire, not if an entire herd of rakes had descended upon me, intent on seduction. You and I had been talking. And…I forget what we were talking about.”
He was relentless. His tongue was on her again, seeking out that nub of pleasure. Every stroke was sending shivers radiating out and yet concentrating on that one point.
“But I said I was a freak. And you said—”
“‘No, Violet,’” he quoted, “‘You’re brilliant. And I wish everyone could know.’”
And then he was doing something more—his mouth came down hard on her. Pleasure swept up her, hard to push aside.
“There,” she said. “That’s it. That’s the thing that makes me shiver with desire, the one I could never push away. It’s the thought that maybe, maybe I will tell one person and they won’t shrink away from me.”
He didn’t let up.
“It took me years to figure out that it was true.” Her breath was coming in gasps; each phrase slid out between jolts of pleasure. “That I’d told that one person. And that all those years, he’d been telling me over and over and over—”
Every cell in her body seemed to explode and shiver. It swept through her, hard and powerful. He didn’t relent; his fingers inside her stretched her, expanding the moment; his mouth wrested waves of pleasure from her. She screwed her eyes shut and let the orgasm wash through her, scouring everything from her. When it passed, she lay on her back, shivering. Waiting for him to take advantage of the moment. Waiting for him to come on top of her and have his way with her while she was too weak-willed to say no.
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
It was Sebastian. He would never hurt her. She’d known it all these years; she understood it now, understood it with a clarity that she’d never until now.
“Thank you,” he said gravely, extending his hand to her. She took it, and he pulled himself up t
o curl beside her. His arm slid around her with an easy affection. He nuzzled her neck.
“I needed that,” he breathed.
He didn’t say a word about his brother. She didn’t say one about her mother.
“That’s the thing,” Sebastian said. “Tomorrow—we can always make it better. Whatever happens, we can make it better. I don’t know what anyone will think or what they will say, but so long as we’re together, it can’t be so awful.” His hands tangled around her. “I love you.”
I love you. It felt wrong to accept that, wrong to let him love her when everything could still go so wrong.
She shivered, but he pulled her close.
Chapter Twenty-one
EVEN THE MEMORY OF THAT PREVIOUS NIGHT could not keep Violet warm the next morning. Her mother’s house had always seemed dark. Today, it seemed positively gloomy. The curtains had been drawn halfway to keep out the worst of the summer sun. The dark furniture absorbed whatever light had been left. It made the whole house seem dank and humid, a forest shrouded in clouds.
Violet had a good idea of the sort of storm that she was about to set in motion. There were some things that her mother would never forgive.
Her mother—her ever-so-practical mother—the woman who had taken Violet under her wing when her father had sent her away and taught her the steps of knitting—was going to hate what Violet had to say.
Despite her worries, Violet squared her shoulders at the threshold of her mother’s parlor. She nodded to the footman, as if nothing were amiss, and swept into the room.
“Mother,” she said respectfully.
Her mother was seated before a table reading the paper. She had spectacles on—thick spectacles—and still she held the paper a mere twelve inches from her face, concentrating on it with utmost care. Some part of Violet’s brain realized what this must mean—how poor her mother’s vision had become—but she wasn’t going to get caught up in such details. She was here to deliver a message.
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