Arthur pushed on with his confession, wanting to purge the last of it. “Maria blamed herself and divulged everything to the prime minister’s assistant when he questioned her. I managed to keep my employment, but the assistant was indiscreet. There were stories. I don’t know if they printed my name, but enough people knew that I had to leave for the continent.”
“It was a long time ago,” Violet said.
“Not long enough. Earl Grantham heard. Miss Fenley knew even before Grantham.”
“Oh. She never said.”
Arthur frowned. “If we caused a minor scandal with one dance, imagine what folks will say once they know what happened with Maria and me.”
“But you never consummated the affair,” Violet argued.
There were stacks of papers piled high atop every surface in the office. A newly purchased brass-and-teakwood hygrometer sat on the ledge behind her desk, and Arthur studied its polished base.
“I never denied it. I let the story take on the veneer of truth, and nothing will change it now. People think I murdered Bellingham. You cannot have a murderer walking the halls of Athena’s Retreat. It will undo everything you’ve set out to achieve with your Evening of Elevation. Soon I’ll be a pariah in London. That’s why I am retiring to the anonymity of the country.”
“Yes, that’s right. You are going home.”
“Home,” he repeated.
The finality of that word blanketed them.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“A place where I wouldn’t be responsible for anyone’s life.” Where he would sleep through the night without worry or fear. No longer living in someone else’s house and following someone else’s direction.
Her skirts brushed the back of his legs as he placed his fists on the polished sheen of the rosewood desk. A perfume of the chemicals she’d been experimenting with mixed with scented soap wafted from her, the smell of comfort and compassion.
He pictured, once again, the never-ending expanse of sky above his parents’ farm, all the colors between black and blue dipping to kiss the gentle hills and exposed rocks of the silent landscape. When finally he found a home, there would be no place for men of politics or passions or greed.
Home meant a life of peace and simplicity. Home meant an absence of pain and blessed solitude. Arthur ached for such a place. Still, in his heart of hearts, had he wanted more? A tiny girl with wild curls. A boy who loved jam tarts. Ribbons of laughter floating outside in the summer gloaming.
Had hope lived deep within him this whole time, pushing toward the sky despite his best intentions? A foot away from him stood hope personified. Light made flesh.
How terrifying when dreams walk the earth. Perfect in their imperfections: messy and flawed and more beautiful for it. When you let a person in, they mattered, and when you lost them, worlds ended.
“You must be so tired.” Violet leaned against him, wrapping him in rain and flowers. “Twenty years, and never a place to call your own.” When he turned, she reached beneath his jacket to pull him into her soft warmth.
“I am,” he said. “Twenty years without a full night’s sleep, and each day spent in the service of strangers.” So tired of endless nights alone, his only solace now was to dream of an empty house and an empty life.
“Don’t leave, Arthur.” Violet lay her head against his chest. “Not yet.”
“It can’t last,” he warned her.
He ached for tenderness, but when they came together all he allowed himself to sate was his hunger. Tasting tea and oranges, he sucked her lower lip, falling into the cushion of her body, spinning her around and leaning them both against the desk. These inelegant, frantic kisses only fed his need.
“Can I touch you here?” he panted, fingers searching for the tapes of her drawers, coveting her skin, as smooth as the polished wood beneath them, as hot as the flames flickering in the candelabra.
“Anywhere. Everywhere,” she whispered. Her wicked tongue traced a path from his chin to his cheek while he slipped the drawers over her hips.
Thus freed, he pulled her bodice with one hand while the other searched beneath her skirts for the sweet syrup at her center.
“I want to feel you,” she said, pulling at the buttons of his trousers, yanking his shirttails free, and reaching beneath his linen smalls to stroke him from root to tip.
“Let me inside,” he begged her. “I won’t come in you.” He ate at her mouth while he slid his fingers through the soft hair protecting her cleft, then pressed lightly on the delicate pearl beneath his thumb. When she moaned, he slid one finger into the slick heat, holding her firm as she bucked against him.
Breaking the kiss, Violet gasped her consent and pulled Arthur even closer, hooking her leg around his waist. Despite the yards of material around her, Arthur managed to fit himself to her, though he nearly came at the need in her face alone.
Tight, so tight. It took forever to push the whole length of him inside her. They locked stares as he nudged himself, inch by inch, into her sweet embrace.
“Tell me how it feels, Violet,” he begged. “Give me your words.”
Caught in the traps of her petticoats, there was barely room for Violet to widen her thighs and accommodate him. He kept one hand between them, circling her clit, while he bore down on her in tiny thrusts. She drummed her heels against the back of his thighs, whispering words of encouragement.
Sweet, tight, harder, and yes. Thick, hot, wicked, and more.
She gave him what he asked for, pouring exclamations and exhortations over and around him. They filled his ears and drowned out any questions of guilt or innocence. There were no more thoughts of what might come next once they left this space. Nothing but sizzling pleasure and a tension too much to bear.
“Let go,” she crooned, lifting her hips to meet his strokes.
The rest of the world fell away at her urging. Arthur’s entire existence narrowed to the sound of flesh against flesh, the taste of salt on her skin, and the sight of Violet’s lips moving as she granted him absolution.
21
THE CORRIDORS OF Beacon House sounded empty in the dregs of the dark March morning. The pewter sky smothered the building, and tiny fists of hard snow hammered at the windows. An anemic fire in the grate failed to ward off the gloom, but Violet had a fondness for this parlor. The walls were a simple whitewash, the furniture coverings were a soothing mixture of pastel shades and whimsical embroidery, and the ancient silk drapes pulled back from the windows by brass curtain hooks were a pleasing emerald green.
A bowl of hothouse gardenias sat on the end table next to Violet’s chair.
Grantham had brought them, along with an apology. “Not just for my language,” he said, “though I apologize for that, too. Shouldn’t have shouted the word for what Kneland did.”
“What he didn’t do, rather,” Violet said while picking at a tassel on her armchair. She told Grantham the story, but he remained unimpressed.
“I can’t go around town explaining he almost cuckolded Bellingham. The man is still dead on Kneland’s watch.” Grantham peered over at the bookshelf. “Did you see that? Looked like a spider, but huge, a—”
“Dust ball,” she blurted. “Appears larger because of the shadows. I shall scold Alice tonight for certain. Come sit by the fire.”
Grantham wouldn’t care about Lady Potts’s feelings for one second. If he caught sight of a tarantula, it would be stuck to the bottom of his shoe within seconds.
“Hmm.” He crossed to a small drinks table and poured himself a brandy. Sniffing it, he set it down, squinted into the decanter, then picked it back up again. “The story is out there. Ran into Victor Armitage.”
“Hiding from Fanny, no doubt,” Violet said with a sniff.
“He is not to be underestimated. Very highly placed in government, and not pleased with the idea of a club for ladies.
He asked me what I knew about Kneland,” Grantham told her. “Fanny must have said something. If Fanny Armitage knows something nasty about someone, you can be certain all of London will know by the end of the week.”
Violet examined her hands and picked stray threads from her skirts, shifting in her seat. Her bottom was a tad bit sore from what had happened with Arthur on the desk yesterday. It was worth every ache and twinge, the sensation of being filled with the whole of him. The sole regret she had was that once again he’d remained clothed, holding on to the last bit of distance between them even as he’d bared everything else to her in his confession.
She had meant to speak with him about that, but when she’d returned to her workroom, another way to formulate the antidote occurred to her and she forgot about . . . well, everything, until her work resolved itself.
She’d finished the formula.
There had been no one to tell at two in the morning, and rather than crow about her success right now, she carried the knowledge in a space beneath her heart, where difficult truths usually sat. Lodged in her chest like a burr was a complex tangle of fierce pride, relief for the safety of others, and the bleak reality that Arthur had no reason to stay.
“Armitage asked about Dickerson, too. Kneland didn’t take the Queen’s honors when he saved the man, and Armitage wondered was there some reason, some hidden shame. I hope Kneland has the sense not to make another appearance in public with you.” Grantham pushed aside the decanter and searched on the lower shelf for something else to drink while he spoke. “Vi, this won’t just be a disaster for you. The rumors will attach themselves to the club as well.”
“I told you he’s done nothing wrong,” she insisted, irritated with how petty folks could be to spend time disparaging others instead of lifting up kindness.
Grantham quit his search, rubbing his eyes as though the conversation pained him. “Listen here, Vi. I’ve seen you bring home any number of wounded birds over the years. And snakes. And bugs.”
“That boar one time,” she added.
“Wounded boars, ladies who science—it’s a far cry from protecting a man knee-deep in scandal,” he said. “You’re too softhearted. Let me fix this for you.”
“I don’t want to be fixed. I’m not broken.” Beating wings of frustration propelled her from the chair. Why did everyone persist in seeing her as deficient? “I don’t want to be taken care of. I want to be loved.”
Grantham’s mouth opened and closed. He seemed disappointed in her.
“How’m I supposed to . . . ? I brought you flowers. Do you mean poetry and such?”
Violet’s heart broke a little for her friend. “That isn’t even close, Georgie. I want real love. The kind that lifts you up and splits you open. The kind that changes everything.”
She might as well have asked for the moon from Grantham’s expression.
“Don’t you want that, too?” she asked.
“No,” he said, hands out in front of him as though warding off the notion. “I don’t want someone to fall in love with me. How could I live up to that?”
Violet crossed to where Grantham stood and set the stopper back in the bottle. “I married Daniel hoping to feel secure and found myself trapped instead. I can’t go back.”
“I don’t care about your work,” Grantham said. He took her hand, then tutted over a scorch mark on her glove. “I can protect you and the club.”
“I don’t want to be safe,” she cried, pulling her hand from his grasp.
“Then you will lose everything,” Grantham argued.
“I’ll have myself back,” she countered. “The Violet I could have been—before Daniel, before losing my confidence.”
Grantham scratched his head. For all he played the sweet-tempered oaf, he’d a fine mind and a well-honed ability to read others.
“You have been different lately,” he said finally. “Can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
“Happy,” she whispered. “He makes me happy.”
* * *
ARTHUR STOOD IN the hall outside of Violet’s parlor.
I want real love.
He couldn’t help but overhear. Violet’s words had carried out into the hall and he’d run headfirst into the declaration.
I want real love.
Thomas found him there, pacing with indecision over whether to interrupt or run in the opposite direction. “Got a note from Ham Millerton,” Thomas said, “Grey’s man up north.”
Arthur stared at the door. “And?” he asked when Thomas’s pause grew overlong.
“Miss Fenley got herself in a bit of trouble a few years back. Her father spent a fortune trying to get her launched in society. Seems she put the cart before the horse with the son of Earl Melton. The boy told her he’d marry her until his father caught wind of it and sent her packing.”
“Huh.”
Violet assumed Letty to be innocent in the fire and attempted theft. Arthur hadn’t disabused her of the notion, but he’d asked Thomas to do some investigating.
Someone close to her could not be trusted, and he wanted to find that person before they hurt her even more.
“Didn’t say it outright, but the earl made clear Miss Fenley wasn’t welcome in his circles anymore.”
“Explains her antagonism toward anyone with a title,” Arthur said, “but how is it connected to the trouble here?”
Thomas considered the question, shaking his head. “Melton owns a few mills that went on strike, but that is the only connection I could find to explain a link between her and the Omnis.”
“Pretty thin link,” Arthur acknowledged. “Doesn’t strike me as a compelling motive, but we should inform Grey anyway.”
“No worries about that.”
Arthur tilted his head in question.
“Melton is Lord Greycliff’s cousin,” Thomas explained. “Grey already knows about Miss Fenley’s adventures.”
This shed new light on the tension between the two of them. Had Melton’s son and Grey been rivals for Letty’s affections? Arthur suspected something more complex than simple jealousy, but Grey had seen no reason to mention it.
“Anyone else you want me to investigate?” Thomas asked.
“You still have a man following Adam Winters?”
“Aye. He talks to whoever will listen about bringing down the government, but none of his crew have come anywhere near her ladyship since she ran into carriage trouble last week.”
Behind them, voices were raised. The door to the parlor flew open, and Violet stormed down the hallway in the opposite direction without seeing them.
Arthur debated whether to follow her, but decided instead to confront the man who caused her upset in the first place. He let Thomas go with a quick nod, then checked that his knives were in place.
“I ought to thrash you.” Grantham had uttered the threat matter-of-factly when Arthur entered the room. “Have a drink first.”
Arthur shook his head. “I’m working.”
“Right. And there’s the rub, eh?” The earl set the bottle down and cocked his head. “You plan on staying, do you?”
Did he?
Arthur could defy society and stay, taking Violet to bed each night and waking her in the morning with scorching kisses and words of devotion. In between, her days would be empty, as her friends, her acquaintances, and the club members would all distance themselves from her.
“No. I’m damaged goods, and she’s . . .” Arthur tried to find the words to describe Violet, but that vocabulary was beyond him.
“Better than you,” Grantham said.
“Better than you, too.”
Grantham didn’t argue.
“I want you to do something for me,” Arthur said.
The earl snorted but nodded for Arthur to continue.
By God, he wanted to wipe that smug grin f
rom Grantham’s face. Instead, he ripped out his heart and held it out for the other man to see.
“Don’t let her marry anyone unless they would take a bullet for her.”
Grantham’s head jerked back for a moment, but he recovered quickly and quirked an eyebrow. “Right. Take a bullet. Anything else?”
Arthur growled. “This isn’t a joke, Grantham. You do this, or I will come back and shoot you.”
The earl held up his hands in surrender, and Arthur continued. “Take a bullet, but there’s more. Make sure he can’t eat if she’s hungry. Don’t let anyone touch her unless they can listen to her explain Avogadro’s law all the way through without falling asleep. He can’t be afraid of spiders, and . . .”
In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed.
“He has to love her with all that he is and all that he will ever be.”
Grantham pursed his lips, then blew out a long, slow exhalation. “Is that it?”
“I heard what she said,” Arthur confessed. “She wants to be loved.”
“You heard what she said, eh? Are you sure everything is working up here?” Grantham knocked on Arthur’s head as though it were a block of wood.
With incredible strength of will, Arthur did not pull a knife on the big oaf.
Heedless of how close to death he was skirting, the earl continued to speak. “She said she wants to be loved by you, you blockhead.”
“No, she said she wanted to be split open and lifted up,” Arthur argued. “She didn’t say by whom.”
“Split open and lifted up by a fool who won’t eat if she’s hungry and wants to get gored by a bullet. Jesu wept, the two of you make love sound like one of the Four Horsemen,” Grantham marveled.
“I . . .” Arthur ran his fingers through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. This club is more important to her than ever. It’s the core of who she is. It is her home, and I won’t let her lose it.”
He’d been hollowed out when he lost his family and the farm, scraped clean of sentiment by his misfortunes. How could he visit that upon Violet?
A Lady's Formula for Love Page 21