Trailing her fingertips over his scars, Violet walked around to view Arthur’s body from all angles. The history of his life could be charted on the map of his skin.
The scrutiny rattled him. Twisting her around, her back to his stomach, he maneuvered them in front of the mirror. Her first impulse was to cover her heavy breasts. Instead, he grasped hold of her wrist and held her arm up, while his other hand rested on her belly.
“Here I am,” he said to her reflection. “Here we are.”
Outside, the wind hammered at the brittle glass windowpanes in a bid for their attention. A table lamp flickered an impudent reply.
Neither of them paid any attention to the back-and-forth between the elements. Once again, Violet marveled at the intensity of Arthur’s gaze. Focused, as though he could discern the future if he didn’t blink. His hand moved downward with maddening deliberation, leaving fire in his wake, and he pulled up her chemise.
“Don’t,” he whispered when she let her head fall back against him and averted her gaze. “I want you here with me. If I cannot see and hear your pleasure, I can’t find my own.”
It took courage for her to watch him touch her, to silence the critical voice in her head that whispered insecurities about her belly and her hips.
Even more difficult to accept his genuine satisfaction with what he saw and touched.
“You are so soft and warm,” he told her. “And here, in the sweetest part of you . . .” He slipped his fingers into the slit in her drawers and touched her between her thighs. “You are slick and smooth, like satin.”
His erection pressed at the small of her back as he worked his palm against her mound. She held on to him to keep from falling forward.
Pulling away, she turned in his arms, closing the distance created by their reflections. Now, face-to-face, she saw the tenderness in his smile when he guided her to the ground and settled them both onto a mound of gold and blue satin. His weight was on his elbows, and his hips pinned her beneath him.
“When I decided to clean out my wardrobe, I didn’t imagine it would serve this function,” she said.
Their goodbye stood outside the doorway and muffled any laughter. Still, a wicked gleam lit Arthur’s eyes. Within seconds he’d divested her of her drawers, keeping only her chemise.
Pulling the material tight against her breasts, he sucked her nipples through the translucent material. The warmth of his mouth and the friction of the cloth against her flesh combined to heighten her sensitivity.
Craving the heat of his skin, she searched his secrets with her hands. She memorized how his stomach muscles jumped when she brushed her fingertips against them, cupped his heavy sac with eager fingers, and stroked the broad expanse of his shoulders.
A golden haze lit the room, muting the brilliant colors to either side of Violet. Free from the constraints of his clothing, Arthur appeared larger, more elemental. A wash of blue-black shadows painted his jaw, and a few grey hairs glinted in his thick curls. He was radiating power, even though he’d made himself vulnerable at her command.
“Before we go any further,” he said, “do you have another sea sponge?”
“I am not in the fertile part of my cycle. We should be safe if you withdraw,” she replied. “But nothing is certain, Arthur. If we do not want any risk, we can finish now. You are the one man—”
He took the rest of her words in his own mouth and kissed her without finesse. Kissed away what they could never say aloud. Kissed her so that he impressed himself upon her, and no other kiss would ever taste the same.
Within him lay the sun; the burning star covered her body and sent its heat deep within her. The lick of flames—against her lips, her breasts, the very center of her—woke the woman buried deep within.
Never using a single word, he told a story of springtime.
With a soothing languor, his hands and mouth readied her. She heard the unspoken relish in his touch, saw the way his jaw clenched with anticipation, tasted the beads of sweat at his temple. Violet let go of the last of her inhibitions and trusted him as she’d never trusted another.
“I have never been so firmly within my skin as when you touch me,” she said. “For the first time, the weight of my body does not drag me down. It holds me steady beneath you. Not until I met you had I truly felt beautiful.”
She’d lost years of happiness buried beneath the blanket of Daniel’s words. Being with Arthur had burned away the suffocating weight.
Hovering above her, Arthur set his lips upon her forehead as though pulling the scent of her skin into his lungs.
“You have an extraordinary gift.” He brushed her eyelashes with his lips in a butterfly of a kiss. “Whether you take someone’s world and upend it like a globe or shift their position so they can see farther, you have the power to remake everything and everyone around you better. Especially me.”
He whispered the last few words, and Violet hoped, more than anything, that what they did today would sustain him in the years to come. She prayed it would bring Arthur the comfort and peace he deserved wherever he found his home.
They were two pieces of a puzzle coming together when he fit himself to her and she hooked one leg around his hip, her heel pressing into the base of his spine.
“Please,” she told him. An invitation and an appeal.
“Yes,” he said. An answer and a surrender.
So sweet were the first careful but deliberate strokes. She opened to him, tight but wet with anticipation. Gentle at first, they lost their sense of time in the smooth, slow glide of him finding his way. In their silken cocoon, the only sounds were the slick slide of flesh and Violet’s low gasps in time with Arthur’s thrusts.
Climax beckoned when he increased the pace, pulling more clothing beneath her and tilting her hips upward. When he raised himself above her, mouth drawn, a wild look in his eyes, she dug her fingers into his hips, urging him on. Unable to hold back, she cried out when he thrust deep within her, reaching to her womb. He dropped his gaze and watched himself parting her flesh, and he groaned in satisfaction.
Every part of her body trembled with need as she met his thrusts with her own. Outside, the wind shook the city upside down. The room spun away, untethered to any world other than that of their own creation. Faster and faster, they came together and parted again, relentlessly seeking friction, trying to find a way into each other’s skin.
Blossoms opened, and colors exploded behind Violet’s eyelids. In the instant before she flew away, she called out Arthur’s name. Underneath her noisy cries of release, she might have heard him say, “Always.”
* * *
SOON AFTER, ARTHUR left her.
In body, he remained at her side, but in the aftermath of their lovemaking his warm manner disappeared in that way he had of receding into silence, still aware yet removed. Did he pace the boundaries of his future farm? Was he seeing himself eating solitary meals and reading a book by the fireside as the nights wept down from the Highlands and blanketed his fields?
“When . . . when I am gone,” he said in a careful monotone, “do not let Greycliff burden you with another such assignment unless he remains here to protect you.”
The demand pinched, and Violet arched away from him. “You are not my protector any longer,” she said. “After tonight, you will find yourself limited to directing the security procedure for your cows and goats. Or perhaps your advert will yield success, and you will find domestic bliss and a wife to protect.”
Taking one of her curls between his forefinger and thumb, he pulled it straight, then let it spring back a time or two before he answered.
“I was never going to do that—place an advert for a wife. I can’t imagine I would make a good husband.”
Violet sat and examined his face. “Are you truly going to spend the rest of your life alone? What will you do without company? What if you get sick?”
If she had more courage, she would ask him the question that had been haunting her for days:
Why are you choosing a lifetime of isolation rather than staying here with me?
Instead, she asked, “Who will bake you tarts and wait up for you if you are out late?”
A clear drop of liquid ran down her cheek and fell to the floor. How odd. The ceiling of the dressing room must be leaking. She would investigate the source of the leaks if her vision weren’t blurred.
“Oh, my dear. Do not cry.” Arthur spoke gently, as though his words could cushion her.
But Violet had fallen already. Fallen hard. And it broke her open so wide that everything spilled out.
Violet pulled a wrinkled petticoat over herself, lurched to her feet, then stumbled.
With his customary grace, Arthur sprang to his feet and caught her, keeping her from knocking over the bowl of dried flowers.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I must . . .” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Alice will return soon to help me dress for tonight’s event.”
“Of course,” he replied. “Tonight will be a success, I am certain. I wish—”
What good would it do to hear his wishes? They’d made their choices. Unless the world outside had changed, they were bound by them.
Putting off the inevitable farewell, Violet fled into the bathing room. She closed the door and curled into a tiny ball on the floor. For a while she stared at the ceiling and found pictures in the plaster cracks. The faint odor of attar of roses filled her nose.
Why didn’t it hurt more?
Instead of pain, her overwhelming feeling was . . . nothing. With a detached interest, she pressed her fingertips into the cold tiles beneath her, watching her skin turn from pink to white. Nothing.
Freezing rain iced the windowpanes loud enough to draw her attention. Not loud enough to cover the sound of Arthur leaving the dressing room.
At last, Violet pulled herself to sitting with excruciating slowness, then to her feet. Hadn’t she told Arthur, told everyone, that the club took precedence over everything?
Everything must now include her broken heart, she supposed.
She filled a basin with water and washed off the scent of him, scrubbing away her tears, until the remaining evidence of their desire was the ache within her chest. Outside the bathing room lay heaps of gowns and undergarments on the dressing room floor. Strange to think it would take mere minutes to clear away the witness to what she and Arthur had shared. How long would the effect of his words last inside her head and inside her heart? Could she continue to believe in herself after he left?
Shivering, Violet went into the bedroom to fetch her warmest robe. There, on her faded counterpane, muslin of the palest blue covered a lumpy package, tied with a length of red ribbon, the faint scent of dried orange peels rising from the cloth.
She reached out gingerly, as though the package might leap up and bite her. For a moment, her hand rested in the air, above the knotted ribbon.
With trembling fingers, Violet opened the package.
The dress from Madame Mensonge’s lay before her. The one she hadn’t allowed herself to buy.
Unshed tears muted the colors of gold and green as she ran her hands over the cool silk. An emotion that could be either joy or pain clenched at her heart. She lifted the gown to shake out the wrinkles and spied another bundle beneath it. Setting aside the gown, Violet tugged at another ribbon, blue this time.
Fairy wings. The words popped into her head upon spying the transparent material. It might have been fashioned of something lighter than gossamer. Lace, the lightest of pinks, trimmed a blush-colored chemise with tiny rosebuds embroidered at the neckline.
Violet pulled the chemise over her head and walked to the mirror, hair down and still wet, trickles of water pasting the chemise to the swell of her breasts. Without the armor of corset, petticoats, dress, and shawl, she barely recognized herself.
Who stood here before the looking glass?
A widow.
A chemist.
A lover.
A friend.
Violet inhabited more roles than she had dresses. Which would she choose?
Or would she give them all up?
23
AT SIX TWENTY on Thursday evening, forty minutes before the doors of Athena’s Retreat were to be thrown open to the public, Milly Thornton claimed she’d lost her gloves and made for the back door.
“I must have left them in the carriage. Or at home. Or in Herefordshire,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried to the exit.
“You are going nowhere,” declared Lady Potts, blocking her way. Over multiple stiff petticoats, the older woman’s aubergine skirts flared in a cascade of loose gathers, taking up more space than two other women standing side by side.
Milly didn’t stand a chance.
“We stand together, or we fall together. Now, buck up and help me put out the folding chairs.”
“All well and good for you,” said Willy. “You’ve a title. We have only each other if tonight goes poorly. There are so many people coming, what if someone finds out about our work?”
Lady Potts lowered her chin slowly—her coiffure would not survive sudden moves—and regarded Milly and Willy with surprise. “Don’t be foolish. You have us. Athena’s Retreat is your home, and we are your family.”
They stood in the small lecture hall, preparing for the talk by the renowned Sir Thaddeus Limpenpot, as uncontroversial and uninteresting a lecturer as they could find. Huge sprays of lilies and roses from Violet’s family stood artfully displayed throughout the room, alongside cards and notes of encouragement. The scent in the room was evocative of spring storms.
While her friends spoke, Violet fussed with a pretty arrangement of violets from Grey. In the accompanying letter, he expressed his sincere regrets that a delay in travel meant he would miss the event itself, but he said that he hoped to return to Beacon House the next morning.
Violet was feeling melancholy, but she attributed it to Grey’s absence rather than Arthur’s impending departure.
“Do you promise not to blow anything up?” said Phoebe to Milly. “If you stay away from your lab and content yourself with small talk, all will be well.”
“What if I slip and begin a discussion of acid catalysis?” Milly asked.
“Let us make a rule,” Violet suggested, squelching her blue devils and returning her attention to her friends. “We promise not to discuss any topic we wouldn’t broach at the Queen’s drawing room.”
“Oh, that’s an excellent idea,” said Milly. “I don’t see as how we’ll get in trouble discussing the weather.”
“Unless one is a student of the work of Joseph Priestley with an interest in the phenomenon of lightning . . .” Willy trailed off when the other ladies glowered at her. “Never mind that. Sticking to rain.”
At six forty, Violet had finished speaking with the musicians and had the footmen light the candles. She was discussing the timing of refreshments with Mrs. Sweet when Letty grabbed her arm and dragged her into an alcove.
“Reginald Pettigrew is here, and he isn’t well pleased.” Letty wrung her hands, and a terrible falling sensation filled Violet’s belly.
The specter of Maisy White’s terrified face while her husband dragged her away loomed between them.
“Fetch Winthram at once,” Violet told her.
Letty hurried off while Violet made her way back toward the connecting door, pulling her grey shawl taut and wrapping the comforting material in her fists while she considered whether to end the evening before it even began.
“Brilliant. Just brilliant, don’t you think, Mr. Kneland?” came a
man’s voice. “It’s simply brilliant, my dear.”
The oak door stood open, and Caroline Pettigrew, dressed in a pretty gown of robin’s-egg blue, walked through on the man’s arm. Bringing up the rear, Arthur closed the door and, when he was certain of Violet’s attention, mimed fitting a key to a lock.
She nodded. Point taken.
“Lady Greycliff, may I present my husband, Mr. Reginald Pettigrew,” Caroline said, her face bright with happiness.
Reginald Pettigrew, a whip-thin man with high, angular cheekbones, stood almost the same height as Arthur but took up half the space. Clad in a brown cutaway coat and buff-colored trousers, he sported a buttercup yellow stock at his throat, which matched the trim of Caroline’s gown. His hair sparkled, and the smell of acacia gum hung in the air.
Violet professed herself pleased to meet him, while trying not to gape at his head.
“I’m ashamed to admit it, Lady Greycliff, but I began to suspect that Caroline had grown tired of my company,” Reginald said after the introductions were over. “I work long hours as a clerk, and I’m afraid I neglected her.”
“Not at all, Reginald,” Caroline protested.
He shook his head. “It’s true. I grew more and more suspicious of her ‘charity work’ until finally I followed her here tonight. I had no idea, Lady Greycliff, that my Caro is a genius.”
Caroline bit her lower lip and blushed while Reginald beamed with pride.
“I met Mr. Pettigrew wandering the halls looking for his wife,” Arthur said. “We had a conversation about the necessity of keeping the work here a secret.”
Reginald cleared his throat, and some of his color faded at the mention of the conversation, but he nodded in agreement. “Yes, enlightening little chat. Mr. Kneland explained how the club works. I agree wholeheartedly with his philosophy about my duty as a husband.”
“What duty is that, Mr. Pettigrew?” Violet asked.
“My duty to protect the members of Athena’s Retreat,” he answered. Reginald glanced at his wife’s hand resting on his arm and covered it with his own. “Husbands don’t just protect their wife’s bodies; we protect their hearts.”
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