She walked to the door.
“I’m sure you meant well,” she said over her shoulder, then left the room.
Meant well? He hadn’t meant to do anything. Last night was the result of pure instinct. Discipline honed over the years had deserted him in the face of Violet’s distress.
Arthur wrestled with the question of whether he would do it differently if given a chance.
When the answer presented itself, he leaned his head back and studied the ceiling as if there might be an alternative written in the sagging plaster. As it stood, a chasm yawned on either side of him, and before him lay a narrow path.
If he fell, he’d pull down more than just himself.
12
CHRIST JAYSUS!”
Insofar as explosions went, the one that had Grantham racing into Violet’s workroom and shouting profanities was too small to account for such a reaction. Folks nowadays were too easily ruffled.
“What the devil was that?” he cried as he waved away an infinitesimal amount of smoke.
“Oh, that noise? Part of a simple experiment posing no danger to anyone. Tea?” Violet smothered a cough as thick flakes of ash came drifting down from the ceiling.
“Tea? Vi, we were supposed to be at Dunby’s dinner party twenty minutes ago,” Grantham grumbled. “If you’d take a moment away from your blasted . . . Damn, I’m not supposed to say ‘blast’ anymore.” He stopped. “Or ‘damn.’ Blast!”
When they were children, he’d been a gangly boy with long, skinny legs, enormous feet and hands splayed everywhere. He’d filled out over the years, grown into a beautiful man. As he apologized for his language, Violet acknowledged how hard he’d worked to acquire polish upon receiving an unexpected title.
It hadn’t come easy.
“Do you remember Cook said she would wash your mouth out with soap when you taught me to curse?” she asked.
Grantham sauntered over to her worktable and surveyed the mess. “Was that the first time we ran away together?”
Growing up the oldest of what seemed to her an excessive number of sisters, Violet had searched out a more restful companion. Grantham, the stepson of a well-liked tenant, was the closest in age of the neighborhood children. He suited her perfectly, as it never occurred to him to cry if he fell and scraped a knee, and he was tall enough to boost her up where she shouldn’t have been. Together, they had been the scourge of cooks, nurses, and various servants, who washed their hands of trying to tame them and focused instead on keeping them alive. Grantham was the brother she always wanted, with the added benefit of being sent home whenever he smelled bad.
“The second time,” Violet said. “We made it as far as Asher’s Grove in the wolds and got lost. I cried, and you told me not to worry, that you would hunt for us—except you twisted your ankle, and a bug got stuck in my nose.”
Grantham chuckled. “That was a grand adventure, wasn’t it? Remember how we both contracted influenza and weren’t allowed outside for weeks afterward?”
Violet did not remember that part as being so grand. “Remember the time we stole Squire Pelletier’s prize orchid, because it looked like the magic flower in the book of stories your mother read to you? That was great fun as well. Except when they came searching for it and we ate the flowers to turn us invisible, but they didn’t, and we were sick on the upholstery in Mama’s parlor.”
Wrinkling his nose, he tossed her pen back and crossed the room to throw open a window. With a suspicious air, he rattled the gate that Arthur had fixed to the outside.
“What am I supposed to say to Dunby?” he complained.
“You abandoned me at the last ball,” Violet reminded him. “I stuffed myself into a ridiculous gown and nearly drowned in watery ratafia waiting for you to appear. This is your punishment. Say whatever you like, I have work to do.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get word to you. The prince summoned me, and it took ages to get away—you know how he talks. He’s worried about the Omnis as well, especially after what happened with Edward Oxford two years ago.”
“You’re an earl now, not a soldier.” She scratched out a number and started over. The ratios were wrong. “You don’t have to be at the prince’s beck and call. Didn’t you want to spend more time at the estate?”
“I did,” Grantham said. “Then I got your letter asking for help with the season, remember?”
Violet measured the amount of liquid left in a canister and did a few calculations. “I panicked, didn’t I?”
“Georgie, it’s like sailing through a lavender-scented hurricane of pettiness with one oar and half a sail. Can’t you come back and use your curst good looks in the service of science rather than self-indulgence?” he recited, in a perfect imitation of her.
“You’ll note I complimented your looks,” she pointed out.
“Yes, and here I am. You, on the other hand, are nose-deep in formulas and setting off explosions left and right.” He wandered over to a small flame, where she’d been distilling a solution.
“I am helping Grey—”
“You are putting yourself in danger,” Grantham said. “It doesn’t have to be you figuring out the antidote. There are plenty of other scientists who can do this work.”
“I like it, Georgie.”
Not true. She loved it. Nothing else left her so centered and confident. When Violet was working in her lab, the humming noise in her head quieted and the world showed her its mysteries.
Having grown up watching her create enough potions to poison an army, Grantham stopped arguing. He’d never understood her fascination with chemistry, but he never shamed her for it.
“Vi, I didn’t come back to bring you to balls. I meant what I said before. About coming to the point.”
Numbers squirmed on the page, and she raced to pin them down. “I’m trying to work, if we could—don’t touch that jar.”
Moving over to a set of drawers, Grantham busied himself opening them and rummaging through the contents, juggling a handful of pumice stones. “We could do it. We rub along well.”
He stopped playing and put the rocks back. “Mama is getting worse. With her memory fading, I’m lost as to how to go on.”
Violet gave Grantham her full attention. Was he proposing? No, it couldn’t be. “I’m sorry about your mama.”
“I need help managing the estate.” He ran his hand over the back of his head, mussing his hair. “I have to get this right, even if my mother is too far gone to know it. Then there’s Lizzie. She’ll need to be brought out. You can help her since Mama cannot.”
No. Not this.
The walls of the room closed in, and Violet pulled air into her lungs with effort. “Your sister is a dear, and I want to help your mama. I can do this without marrying you.”
She pushed aside her pen and went over to the bank of windows, struggling to open another one.
Grantham lounged against her worktable and studied her notes. “You aren’t getting any younger. What about children?”
Her clammy fingers slipped on the window lock. “I was married for five years. No children came then.”
She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I cannot think about this now. The evening event is next week. My first concern must be the club.”
“Is it marriage in general you wish to avoid?” he persisted. “I am not Daniel. I would be nothing like him.”
Violet willed away the worst of the memories. Day by day, Daniel had whittled away at her confidence until she became the woman he told her she was and not the woman she longed to be. Loath to endure the sympathy of her friends and family, unwilling to admit to her youthful mistakes, she’d closeted herself in Beacon House, first tending to Daniel as his health failed, then throwing herself into running Athena’s Retreat.
“Is it marriage to me you don’t want?” he asked carefully.
&
nbsp; What could she say? If she married Grantham, she would be moving backward.
Oh, he would let her bring her instruments and chemicals, clear out a room next to the nursery he’d like her to fill. At first, there would be a handful of requests. Taking care of his mama as she grew more confused. Bringing out his sister. Organizing a church fete. Seeing to his tenants.
Little by little, dust would gather on her papers. Time with her work would be put off, just this once. Then once more. Years would pass, and who would she be? Someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone who would gaze longingly up the stairs toward what could have been.
Pulling back the curtains, she tried to summon a blank expression.
“You will make someone a wonderful husband,” she told him.
“But not you?” he asked.
“I don’t—”
“I’m wondering if there is any other reason you wouldn’t want to be married.” Grantham studied her. “People have been talking. I breakfasted at my club this morning, and someone mentioned a waltz.”
The scolding tone irritated Violet. She spun around. “Would you lecture me? One waltz, and everyone acts as though I’m a common baggage.”
“The first waltz since you married Daniel. I know what that means, even if you don’t.” He sighed. “In many ways, you are an innocent. Let me take care of you. I don’t want to see you unhappy.”
Was this what Violet had to choose from? Either the ruin of her club or another loveless marriage?
“What if I wish to . . . waltz with someone? If it makes me happy?” she asked.
“Are you talking about an affair?” He punctuated his question with a condescending chuckle.
Violet’s hands fisted at Grantham’s amusement. Why wouldn’t he laugh, though? Who would want an affair with her? What had Arthur said in the carriage? She was like a mad hummingbird. A man couldn’t want a love affair with a woman who had to be told what to do. Arthur hadn’t even looked at her since that night.
What if Arthur’s beautiful words were just that—words?
The proposal made sense. No doubt if her family were here, they would echo the warnings of her closest friends. The club would stay safe, Grantham would treat her well, and there would be an end to her lonely nights.
Why couldn’t she say yes?
What was holding her back?
* * *
WHAT WAS HOLDING him back? For the love of God, all Arthur had to do was knock on the door and ask his question, but on his way to Violet’s workroom, he’d spied Grantham’s carriage out front, and now indistinct voices murmured behind the door.
What were they doing? Why might they want the door closed?
Arthur shook the questions from his head. Even if they were doing something—which they weren’t—what business was it of his? Letty was correct. His past would come to light sooner or later. He should stay well away from Violet.
He had no claim on her. He was the employee of her stepson. No reason to act like a nodcock. Putting his ear to the door, he pressed against the wood.
If she and Grantham were doing anything, there would be sounds. Wait—was that the rustle of clothing being removed?
He scoffed aloud and took a step back from the door, then turned to make sure no one had observed his ridiculous behavior and leaned forward again.
That noise might have been a tiny moan escaping when someone had discovered a particularly sensitive spot.
He pressed his ear even closer. Was that the soft exhalation after a—
Arthur slammed open the door, unannounced. The sight of Grantham at one end of the room (fully clothed) and Violet clear across on the other side (also fully clothed) made up for the shock on their faces.
“Sorry. Forgot to knock,” he blurted.
They stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. Which he might have done, truth be told. He’d once saved a man from three knife-wielding Corsicans in the middle of the crowded dining room of Le Grand Véfour without a single patron noticing anything. A few weeks in Violet’s company, and he couldn’t even walk into a room without making a fool of himself.
He needed a cold bath.
In another country.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” he asked.
“You are, as a matter of fact,” Grantham answered, puffing like a popinjay.
Violet scowled at Grantham as she tucked a clump of curls behind her ear. Her topknot was loose, and her creamy skin appeared pale in the wan grey light. He hadn’t seen her since the carriage ride, nor had she sought him out. Instead, she’d closeted herself in the workroom.
He missed her.
“You are not interrupting,” said Violet. “We were discussing—”
“Marriage,” Grantham announced.
Violet took a small step backward and shrunk as if he’d shifted an unwanted burden over to her.
“While it was delightful visiting with you, Grantham, I have to get back to work. You’ll both be pleased to hear I have come a long way in the past two days.” She straightened suddenly and clapped her hands in excitement. “As a matter of fact, do you remember when I spoke of Avogadro’s law?”
“Have you discovered something new?” Arthur asked.
“I told you of the difficulties I’ve had proving this particular theory. However . . .”
Like a skipping stone across a lake kicking up beads of brilliance in the sunlight, Violet’s mind raced ahead of everyone’s around her. Within seconds of her explanation, Arthur was at sea.
Fearless, that intellect of hers, jumping forward without the worry of where it might land. The woman who stood before him glowing with happiness was a far cry from the woman he’d rescued at the edge of the dance floor.
Ever since the night in the carriage, Arthur had struggled to put his finger on why Violet turned him inside out.
Was it this simple? Was it so easy to care for Violet because all she needed was someone to tell her to go ahead and be who she already was?
“Fascinating,” Arthur said, once he figured she had finished.
“Indeed,” Grantham said, blinking hard. His eyes had glazed over midway through Violet’s recitation. “That Avogadro. He’s a tricky one.”
Recognizing she’d lost them both, Violet settled back behind her worktable. “So, you must understand that I need to get back to work as soon as possible.”
“I need to speak with you regarding security,” Arthur said. “There was another committee meeting. There is disagreement over whether to limit the attendees to one guest per member.”
“Another meeting?” she said in dismay. “Why wasn’t I told?”
He frowned. “You’ve been on assignment. That takes precedence over the club.”
Violet objected. “Nothing takes precedence over the club.”
“Is that so?” Grantham said with a strange intensity. From the way Violet jumped, one might have thought the earl had shouted the question. “Sounds to me as though you are confused about what comes first. Your club or your commitments. The sooner you decide on what you value the most and how to safeguard it, the better for all of us.”
Violet stood with a protective hand clenched over her abdomen, desolation plain on her face. “All I know is that I have work to do. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can be left in peace. If I can’t have peace and quiet in my own home, I’m going to the laboratory at the club. Why don’t you”—Violet pointed at the earl—“and you”—she pointed at Arthur—“bother each other, while I”—she pointed at her chest—“go away. Good night.”
With that, she brushed past Arthur and left the room.
The urge to follow and apologize took him aback. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Had he?
“Oh, well done,” said Grantham. He’d draped his oversized body over Violet’s armchair, his dinner jacket littered with tiny piec
es of ash.
“What?” Arthur asked. “What did I do?”
“Telling her about the meeting. You’ve upset her.”
“I’ve upset her? She was already upset when I arrived. What did you say to her?”
Grantham blew out a derisive snort. “Nothing that concerns you. Everything was fine before you barged in like a bloody elephant. Speaking of which, why did you barge in here? Door was closed. Whatever question you had could have waited.”
“Barge in?” Arthur echoed in disbelief. “I did my job. If you don’t care enough to want me protecting her, then—”
“I do care, Kneland,” the earl said. “That cur Daniel stomped all over her when he was alive. For years, she buried herself in her club, and now that she’s finally venturing out of her laboratory, someone is trying to blow up her work. Not to mention she’s on the verge of embarrassing herself again in front of the ton.”
Grantham stood and attempted to leverage the minuscule amount of height difference between the two of them by looming. Pointing a finger, he stabbed it into Arthur’s chest. “I see the way you gawp after her.”
“I have never gawped,” Arthur said.
Had he gawped?
“You make your living pushing petty tyrants out of the way of bullets and blades and whatnot. You’re hired muscle, not a savior—and certainly not a gentleman.”
Arthur’s social stature had nothing to do with his unsuitability as anything other than Violet’s bodyguard, but he didn’t bother to argue.
Grantham took the silence for agreement. “Lady Greycliff is the granddaughter of an earl and the daughter and the widow of a viscount, and the most gracious and generous woman I know. Soon, you will be a jobless no one. You are not good enough for her. Keep your distance. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far, far away from her bed.”
Arthur could detect no real malice in the observation. The earl was correct. Violet was gracious and generous, and so much more.
And yet . . . he could imagine more for himself.
Not a title—he’d seen men far more exalted than he up close and never come away impressed. No.
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