“If someone were to hurt a person I love,” she answered, once more without pause. “Or if I needed to protect someone I love. Also, if someone were to hurt children or animals. I cannot abide by cruelty to the helpless.”
Damn it.
He was not meant to like this woman so bloody much, but like her he did. In spite of her being the sister of his nemesis. Perhaps more so, because she was. A wicked, altogether wrong thought occurred to him just then.
What if he ruined her to spite Arden?
No, he could not.
Yes, whispered the devil’s own voice inside himself. You can.
More than that, he ought to.
When had anyone ever been presented with a more perfect opportunity? How rich would it be to serve the mighty Arden his comeuppance?
Lady Violet could indeed aid him in his quest, he decided. Just not in the capacity she proposed.
“Very well,” he capitulated before he could think better of it. “You may assist me. But for the love of all that is holy, remove yourself from my chamber at once. I have no wish to be forced into a marriage with the sister of the Duke of Arden, and I am equally certain you have no wish to marry me instead of your Lord Flowerpot.”
There.
He needed time to consider his plan of attack, if indeed he found himself in such dearth of conscience that he could ruin her without guilt or shame. Since he had existed on rage and lust alone for the last decade, he was certain he would.
“Lord Almsley,” she corrected with a small smile before dipping into a hasty, unnecessary curtsy and turning to flee. “And of course I wish to marry Charles. He is everything a gentleman should be.”
Her glowing praises still hovering in the air, she swept from his chamber. He watched the last flash of purple silk disappearing over the threshold before crumpling the bloody seed pouch in his fist.
Of course the Earl of Cocklessness was everything a gentleman should be.
But Griffin would take great pleasure in showing Lady Violet a scoundrel was infinitely more pleasurable than a gentleman. And in so doing, maybe, just maybe, he could bring the Duke of Arden to his arrogant knees.
Chapter Three
After dinner the next evening, Aunt Hortense settled herself in her favorite chair in the drawing room and promptly began to snore. Violet frowned into her lap at her latest crocheting venture, a scarf for her brother Lucien, which seemed to mock her. The chain was all wrong, and she had miscounted, leaving the end larger than the middle.
“Drat,” she muttered as Aunt Hortense emitted a particularly dreadful sound.
She would have to take the wretched thing apart and begin again. Aunt Hortense whistled through her teeth, then snorted and jerked, and snored some more. How irksome to be relegated to the tedium of this empty chamber with nothing but her aunt’s company and her hook and string and her abysmal lack of proficiency.
Lucien was always far too busy with the Home Office for her these days, and Aunt Hortense alternately slept and groused her way through the day. Their ignominious guest was not invited to join them at dinner, or afterward, leaving Violet alone as ever.
And curious.
What was Strathmore doing now, at this very moment?
She had been in his bedchamber, a room that smelled of the spice of his cologne and the crisp earthiness of his soap, and something else that was indefinably male. And he had kissed her with that wicked mouth of his, kissed her as no one had ever done before him and as she instinctively knew no one would again.
Charles certainly did not kiss with such passion. His lips were not full and sensuous. He did not possess a devil-may-care aura that suggested he did not give a fig for what anyone else thought of him. Nor did he steal her breath nor make her heart thump wildly. He did not make her want to commit sins with him.
Her stitch slipped, and she lost her place altogether.
How hopeless it all was, her betrothal to a man who did not move her, her very presence at Lark House, being presided over by the doddering Aunt Hortense, her brother she scarcely saw, the man she should not want to kiss again…
“Damnation,” she cursed, flicking her wrist and sending the scarf flying from her lap to land on the carpet with a soft thud.
The door to the drawing room opened, and her brother entered. Lucien was tall, his medium-brown hair longer than fashionable, his neatly kept beard hiding the angles and planes of his commanding face. He looked very much like their father, or what she remembered of him: menacing and forbidding all at once.
“Violet,” he said, his tone brusque. Rife with disapproval.
What had she done to warrant his displeasure this time?
“Brother,” she greeted, hoping he had not seen her tossing his scarf to the floor.
“Would you care to explain why you are flinging notions about?” He stopped and glowered down at her misshapen handiwork. “Is that the scarf you promised me?”
She flushed. “No.”
“Good,” he grunted. “It looks like something Aunt Hortense would wear.”
Violet cast a glance in the direction of the woman in question. Aunt Hortense merely issued another long, teeth-rattling snore, her slumber blissfully uninterrupted.
She frowned at her brother. “You need not be unkind. Besides, Aunt Hortense would never wear such a thing. It is not black, and it does not bear a vexing amount of lace trim.”
He flashed a rare grin her way, bending to pick up the crocheting she had flung, before examining it himself. “The old girl does love her lace, does she not?”
Violet pursed her lips. “You are beastly, Lucien.”
He ignored her admonishment, returning the discarded scarf to her, dropping it into her lap. “You are the one who mentioned lace, sister. This is my scarf, isn’t it?”
She stared dejectedly at the sad misshapen object she had created. Crocheting was the devil’s own work. “Perhaps it is. But you are a good brother, and you would wear it with pride.”
“I would wear it when I was assured no one else would see it,” he drawled. “Long walks in the park before dawn. Perchance tucked beneath a coat.”
Violet scowled up at him. “Why must you hover over me? Haven’t you any manners? Sit.”
“I cannot stay.” A weariness she had come to recognize settled over his countenance. “I have matters that require my attention.”
She sighed. “Matters at the Home Office again?”
He was grim. “Indeed. Do not ask me to elaborate, for I cannot. Suffice it to say, my presence is necessary.”
His presence was always necessary. Ever since he had taken command of the Special League—a formerly secret branch of the government devoted to protecting England’s interests at home and abroad—she had scarcely seen him. He had always been the sort of man who took duty seriously, and he made no exceptions now. But she had to admit, his onerous burdens left him little time for her, and as they had neither mother nor father, and only each other for solace, she rather resented his perpetual absences.
“Why have you come here if you are going to immediately flee?” she asked, nettled. “Did you wish to hear Aunt Hortense’s snores?”
“You too are beastly,” he accused her, without sting. “I do need to speak with you, however, Violet. Aunt has brought a concerning matter to my attention.”
Her stomach knotted.
Just how much had the old dragon witnessed of her interaction with Strathmore?
Violet raised a brow, careful to keep her expression relaxed and unconcerned. “Oh?”
His expression darkened, his jaw clenching. “Indeed. Aunt Hortense tells me she came upon you yesterday in a most distressing state. It seems you were alone. With Strathmore.”
The word kiss was noticeably absent from his chastisement.
Relief swirled within her.
“She added that you were in close proximity,” he pressed, ruining her relief.
Hellfire.
Aunt Hortense and her disappointingly excellent vis
ion. What stuff and nonsense.
“She was mistaken,” Violet said smoothly, training her gaze upon the scarf in her lap once more.
Sad scarf. Oblong and pathetically fashioned. Lucien was wrong. Not even Aunt Hortense would wear such blasphemy.
“Mistaken?” her brother repeated, his tone growing ominous.
His temper was legendary, and she had no wish to be the recipient of its brutal lash. Violet bit her lip, struggling to find a reasonable explanation for what Aunt Hortense had witnessed.
“Yes,” she said with a bravado she little felt. “Mistaken. His Grace was assisting me in the construction of my seed pouch for Charles.”
“Charles?” Lucien gritted.
Never mind her betrothed was as dangerous to her virtue as a butterfly to a bear. Her brother was horribly protective. She realized her error at once.
“Lord Almsley,” she corrected herself. “His Grace was helping me to see if the model of the seed pouch for the earl would be functional.”
“How generous of him,” her brother commented with a feral bite that could not be ignored. “You must not allow yourself to be tainted by his presence, Violet.”
His castigation was not much different from Aunt Hortense’s.
Violet lost her patience. “You need not act as if he is a contagion.”
“He is a contagion. The Duke of Strathmore is an amoral cur, and possibly also a traitor.” Lucien frowned. “You are to stay away from him.”
“No harm was done.”
For some reason, though she ordinarily avoided conflict, she could not seem to stop herself from defending Strathmore, even though she knew she would only incite her brother’s ire. Lucien in high dudgeon was a sight—and sound—she generally attempted to avoid.
At all costs.
“I forbid you from being alone with him,” Lucien snapped with such ferocity Aunt Hortense delivered another snort, half a mumble, and then another long snore. “You are on the cusp of an excellent match with Lord Almsley. The earl is a good man; considerate, kind, and virtuous, and everything I would wish for you in a husband. Do not risk your future as his countess, Violet.”
For a moment, she wondered who wanted her to marry Charles more—Charles or her brother—and then she pinned Lucien with a frown of her own. “If he is such a vile criminal, why have you imprisoned him in your own home?”
It occurred to her she had used much the same phrasing as Strathmore had when he had spoken bitterly of his stay at Lark House. One touch of his lips to hers, and he had cast a spell upon her. It was that wicked mouth of his, that beautiful face, his beard…
She tamped down a sigh. The man made her want to swoon, and it was foolish and dangerous, and she knew it.
“I have not imprisoned him.” Lucien had inherited their father’s dark-green eyes, the same as she had, and his passionate temperament. They sparkled now with indignant fire. “He is my guest.”
“A forced guest is hardly a guest.” This time, she repeated Strathmore verbatim.
Drat.
Her cheeks went hot, and she averted her gaze. Lucien would never know. Would he? Her brother had a disturbing tendency of uncovering all her secrets. She was fairly certain her expression screamed I kissed the Duke of Strathmore just now.
Because it was all she could think about.
If she were to earn a pound for each time she had recalled the delicious, sinful movement of the duke’s lips upon hers, his tongue in her mouth, she would have already been a wealthy woman indeed.
Her brother’s expression became hardened and grim. “Do I need to send you to Albemarle, Lady Violet?”
She suppressed a shudder at the threat. Albemarle was a cold, barren fifteenth century castle in Northumberland. For reasons that would forever elude Violet, it had been a favorite of their mother’s. She had visited many times as a child, before Mama had waded into the North Sea, allowing the water to drench her skirts and carry her away, never to be seen alive again.
For all those reasons and more, Lucien’s warning filled her with dread.
Violet met his gaze just the same, unflinchingly, which was not her ordinary way. “I daresay we both know what happens when a woman from our family is at Albemarle. Is that what you wish, Lucien?”
A shadow of contrition passed over his features, softening him, making him appear less harsh. Less a complex symmetry of hard angles and unforgiving perfection.
“Of course I do not wish it.” He passed a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. “Nor do I have any desire to send you away from me. I would only do so for the sake of your reputation and future.”
Much as their father had done to their mother.
She did not say it aloud, but her silence did not change her thoughts. Their father had grown to fear their mother’s wildly vacillating moods. Mama would be happy and gay and laughing one moment, and despondent in her bed hours later. Sometimes, she relegated herself to her chamber for days at a time. Their father, uncertain of how to treat a wife who was not calm and staid as he was, had sent her away often to the place she loved best.
The place she had eventually made her grave.
“I am not like her, Lucien,” Violet said lowly, emotion making her stomach twist and clench, old pains surging forth to sting her eyes with tears she refused to shed.
She had lived her entire life thus far in fear she was fashioned in Mama’s mold, doing everything in her power to make certain she did not meet the same end. Though he had never voiced his concerns aloud, she knew Lucien possessed the same concern for the both of them. His stern stoicism was borne of their insurmountable loss.
His expression hardened once more. “I would never suggest so. You are calm, pragmatic, and reasonable, Violet. She was…wild and unhinged.”
“She was melancholy,” Violet argued, though she did not know why she bothered. This quarrel between them was an old and tired one: she defending Mama, Lucien villainizing her.
“She was weak and selfish.” Lucien paused, seeming to collect himself. “You are nothing like her. But nevertheless, it is my responsibility to look after you, Violet. Lord Almsley will be a good husband to you, and it will put my mind at ease to see you settled with a kind man who loves you. I merely wish to protect you and your future.”
Of course he wished to protect her. It was what he had always done. Perhaps too much. For the first time, the prospect of rebellion loomed. She thought of Strathmore’s kiss, and she ached with the temptations of the unknown and the forbidden.
“Mama was not weak or selfish,” she felt compelled to defend, “and furthermore, I cannot help but think you wish me to wed Lord Almsley to assuage your own worries, rather than to see me well-settled.”
His nostrils flared, his posture going rigid. “I will not argue with you on this matter, Violet. Conduct yourself with proper care for your future. That is all I ask. The Duke of Strathmore, even if he is not guilty of the charges being laid against him, is not for you. Keep your distance. Maintain propriety. Think of yourself and the life you will lead with Almsley, one of happiness and contentment.”
Happiness and contentment? With Charles? It somehow seemed more of an impossibility in this moment than it ever had before. True, she had experienced misgivings where he was concerned. She had always known his feelings for her ran deeper than the emotions she possessed toward him.
But Lucien had convinced her the earl was the best husband for her, and she had accepted Charles’s proposal based on her brother’s recommendation. She wondered, not for the first time, whether Lucien could truly know what was best for her better than she did.
Aunt Hortense chose that moment to awake, snorting and shuddering herself to a lucid state at last. Her eyes blinked open, settling upon Violet with their characteristic assessing glint.
“What is the hour?” their aunt asked, stifling a yawn. “I fear the clock has gotten away from me and it is far beyond the time I must retire.”
Violet bit her lip to refrain from informing Aun
t Hortense she had already been retired, snoring her head off upon the gilded Louis Quinze settee. Instead, she smiled. “The hour is indeed late, Aunt Hortense. Perhaps you ought to seek your chamber.”
Her brother skewered her with yet another frown. “I wonder if you might remind Violet of the wisdom of making a good match.”
“I thought you said you needed to run off to the Home Office imminently,” Violet grumbled at him.
“I do. Thank you for the aide-mémoire.” He offered an elegant bow. “Aunt. Sister.”
And then he turned and fled the chamber, leaving her alone with a now-roused Aunt Hortense. An Aunt Hortense who was about to tell the story of her sister, Felicity, who had made a horrid match, following her heart rather than her head, and had forever paid the price of her folly with a miserable existence thereafter.
“I have a horrid headache,” Violet lied, shooting to her feet. In truth, she could not bear to hear the story one more time. “If you will excuse me, Aunt Hortense, I do believe it is time for me to retire as well.”
“I shall accompany you to your chamber,” Aunt Hortense volunteered. “On our way, I can tell you all about my poor sister Felicity.”
Violet suppressed a groan.
There was no escape for her.
No escape save one, that was, and he had sinful lips, beautiful eyes, and the devil’s own wickedness. She walked alongside Aunt Hortense to her chamber, all the while thinking of Strathmore, even though she knew she ought to be thinking of Charles instead.
Griffin stared at the list of names he had penned. Two dozen or so in all. Some were friends. Others distant acquaintances. A few were men he did not even know. As the Special League had grown in recent months to combat the ever-growing menace of Fenians, who became bolder and more dangerous by the moment, they had taken in a bevy of fresh recruits.
The days of the League being peopled by England’s oldest and most elite families were at an end. Change had come, bringing with it a restructuring of the organization. Carlisle was gone, replaced by the officious Arden. Others had gone before, and new men stood in their positions, some of whom Griffin did not trust.
Dangerous Duke Page 3