In a way that went well beyond self-preservation.
“My interest in becoming your husband,” he repeated. He still held her fine-boned wrists in both his hands. With his thumbs, he began to rub slow, small circles over her silken skin. Just above her wildly thumping pulse that told him she was as fearful and excited by their proximity and the possibility of their future joining as he was.
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “I know it is most unusual, but only think of it thus, Strathmore: I am Lucien’s sister. He would not be nearly as eager to cast his sister’s husband into prison. Indeed, I think I could well be your only saving grace, until we have sufficient time to conduct proper research and discover who is behind planting the false evidence against you at your home.”
He could not agree more. Not to mention the prospect of having her in his bed was enough to send him into a conflagration. But still, they would face some trying situations together.
If they were able to flee and wed without Arden’s knowledge, there would be hell to pay afterward. And if Arden were to discover their plans and put a halt to them, they would also face a multitude of repercussions. Lady Violet needed to be certain, and likewise, Griffin needed to be equally certain of her. He had to be able to put his faith and trust in her, without question.
“Have you truly thought about this, my lady? You have been cossetted your entire life. Your world consists of precious little opposition. You have your crocheting and your Aunt Horrible and your brother, and Flowerpot, but all that will change. If you wed me, your life will be forever altered. After I can clear my name, you will no longer live beneath your brother’s roof, but beneath mine. You will share my bed. Bear my children. Is that what you want?”
Damnation, what ailed him? Why did the reminders he offered for Lady Violet only stiffen his wayward prick even more with each word he spoke? Why did the thought of her sharing his bed and bearing his children—of him planting his seed deep within her womb—make him so bloody desperate for her? Desperate for a resounding yes from her sweet lips?
“What makes you think I have been cossetted?” she demanded, her stubborn streak making itself known once more.
He liked her when she was fiery. By God, it made him want to kiss her senseless and then fuck her senseless too. When she was his, he could do both. For now, he did not dare do either.
“You are Arden’s sister,” he said pointedly. “I know him. He is an overly protective arsehole. And if anyone would be cossetted and protected, it is you. My guess is, he selected Flowerpot for you, and told you to marry him.”
She rolled her lips together in a telling gesture, before exhaling on a long sigh. “He recommended Charles to me, yes. I do believe he had my best interests in mind. Charles is a kind man. He would not be faithless or abusive as some husbands are.”
Griffin could not—would not—keep the cynicism from his voice. “Is that all you want from a husband, Lady Violet? Your only requirements are a man who will not beat you or stray from your bed?”
Her jaw tensed, her jade eyes deepening to a pure, true emerald. “Of course not. I want a man who is honorable and brave, who is kind and caring, who will make me a good and trustworthy husband.”
Her words struck a chord within him, and he realized for the first time, just how long it had been since anyone had deemed him worthy of anything, other than being a hired assassin, a glorified solider, a man willing to commit any sin to protect the country he loved.
“You think me trustworthy?” he asked, even though he knew he should not. Something within him made him pose the question, made him require her response. “Your brother believes me a treasonous cutthroat, willing to sell my soul and my secrets to the Fenians for the lure of more coin. You love your brother, do you not?”
“Of course I love my brother,” she said without hesitation. “But I also believe you trustworthy and innocent of any charges he would seek to lay against you. I love Lucien, but that does not mean I believe he is right in all things, or in every judgment he makes. I have my own mind and will, you know.”
“Yes you do.” He could not help himself. He brought first one of her hands to his lips for a kiss, and then the other. Just a simple chaste kiss upon the top of her delicate, smooth-as-silk hand. But it was enough. “Tell me, how do you propose to make this work? I am currently your brother’s prisoner, and you are no better. Arden will never grant us his approval. We will need to escape together and marry in secret. Are you prepared for a scandal? For your brother’s condemnation?”
Damnation, he was probably dissuading her with each new word he uttered. He ought to stop. To rein himself in. But the honorable part of him—the part he had believed long dead—seemed to have revived itself.
She stared at him, unflinching. “I have already thought of everything, Strathmore. I am prepared for everything you speak of and more.”
“Everything?” He could not resist probing.
The devil in him urged him onward. For he needed her to know that, if they wed, it was not because it was a lark, or because she found it convenient to marry him and escape Flowerpot, without a hope of ever consummating. When they wed, it would be binding and true. She would be as tied to him as he was to her. When they wed, he expected her in his bed, atop him, beneath him, and any other way he could possibly have her.
The position did not matter, but what did matter, was that she was certain of the fate awaiting her. He did not want there to be any doubt. If he sold his soul to save his neck, it had damn well better be worth the price.
“Everything,” she confirmed.
The same devil within him had him taking her hand in his, guiding it to the rigid protrusion of his cock, hidden from her beneath the barrier of his dressing gown. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilating, but her hand curved, cupping his raging erection. Without his prompting, she gripped him firmly.
Fuck. Her innocent touch, coupled with the forbidden nature of this meeting—of the two of them alone together at all, to say nothing of his dishabille—was enough to make his ballocks tighten. Arden’s sister had her hand on his prick, and he was going to shoot off in her grip as if he had never before been inside a cunny.
He ground his jaw, plucking her touch away, and instead, bringing her palm to rest over his thudding heart. “Why, Lady Violet?”
“You said I should marry anyone else, anyone aside from Charles. But I do not want anyone else. I want you.” A tinge of uncertainty underscored her soft voice.
I want you.
Her confession was almost his undoing, but he soldiered on, determined. “I have more scars, my lady. My body is covered in them. Remnants from my service to the Crown.”
“One or one thousand, the number matters not.” With her other hand, she cupped his jaw with the gentle touch of a butterfly.
He resisted the urge to nuzzle her palm like a cat seeking a caress. More heat arrowed to his cock, and the voice inside his head reached a crashing crescendo. Mine. Mine. Mine.
He kissed her then, just once, quick and swift and closed-mouthed, lest he give in to his base urges. If they were going to marry without Arden’s knowledge, they would have to construct a careful, flawless plan. There would be no room for error.
“Very well, Lady Violet,” he conceded. “I will marry you. But we will need a plan, and for now, you have already tarried in my chamber far longer than is wise. We must tread lightly to escape detection, else this will never work.”
“I already have a plan,” she said with a bright, beautiful smile.
Of course she did.
He could scarcely wait to hear it.
Chapter Eight
“Dearest sister.” Lucien startled Violet with the uncharacteristic warmth of his greeting as he embraced her and bussed both her cheeks.
She hugged him in return with only halfhearted strength, thanks to the wave of guilt crashing over her. She loved Lucien. He was her brother after all, and he had taken her beneath his wing when Mama had drowned herself. When Father had
died not long after, he had become the closest kin she had. For so long, it had been the two of them against the world, and all they had possessed was each other.
But times had changed. Lucien’s role in the Special League had taken over his life, much like a red wine carpet stain that began small, then grew larger, setting in and blotting out the patterns beneath its mark. It had changed him as well. He was still the Lucien she had always known and loved, but parts of him were undeniably different.
“Lucien,” she greeted, feeling as brittle as fine porcelain within the circle of his arms. “How are you?”
“Tired.” He released her and motioned to one of the chairs opposite the massive desk in his study. For the first time in recent weeks, Mr. Swift did not occupy one of them, and she was grateful for it. She did not like the man, and she resented his encroachment upon her time with her brother. “Sit, if you please, Violet. I am curious to learn the nature of your request for this audience.”
It had taken two days of asking everyone within sight—including Mr. Swift, their butler, Aunt Hortense, and her various bodyguards—where her brother was, when he might return, and when she could obtain a private meeting with him. Ever since the attack on the carriage, he had been caught up in one meeting after the next, spending every waking hour away from Lark House, in an effort to learn the identity of the perpetrator and see him imprisoned before he could make any more such attempts.
But now, at last, she had him before her. Alone. No obsequious Mr. Swift within either sight or earshot.
She sat, dropping with a lack of grace into the seat, so preoccupied with her thoughts, she made no effort to make a soft, ladylike landing for her bottom. Instead, she collapsed, landing on the hard seat with a thud that rattled her teeth and sent an acute twinge of pain up her tailbone. The chairs in Lucien’s study were dratted uncomfortable, not a cushion on them, and she could only suppose the reason was, he did not wish those facing him in such circumstances to be comfortable.
Lucien seated himself in his plush-looking seat, his expression drawn. He steepled his fingers on the desk, looking stern, and reminding her ever so much of their father as he raised an expectant brow. “Now then, what did you want of me?”
She had plotted and planned this moment. Had rehearsed what she would say, how she would begin their conversation with some generic remarks concerning her future, before gently leading him into her decision about Charles. But everything she had strategized fled her now as she met her brother’s searching green gaze.
Her palms went damp. Her mouth went dry. Guilt tightened its relentless grip upon her, squeezing, squeezing…
“I do not want to marry Charles,” she blurted.
Lucien sat up straight in his seat, his fingers falling apart, pressing instead to the well-oiled surface of his desk. His knuckles went white with strain. “Pardon?”
His one-word response, an angry, disbelieving bark, made her flinch.
Yes, she had truly mucked this up. She could have done better. Knowing her brother as she did, she understood the manner in which to approach him: slowly and gently, much as one would a feral predator in the wilderness. He did not appreciate change or dissension.
But she was here to deliver both to him. Not to mention betrayal and disloyalty. Unforgivable sins, all of them. He would not know the last just yet.
She raised her chin. “I do not wish to marry the earl. I fear he and I do not suit.”
“Of course you suit. Do not be daft. I chose him for you myself.” Lucien frowned at her.
She frowned back. “You chose him?”
He made it sound as if he had bought Charles for her as if he were a puppy. And in truth, she would have preferred a puppy. Strathmore’s words returned to her then: My guess is, he selected Flowerpot for you, and told you to marry him.
It would seem he had been more accurate in his guess than she had realized.
Lucien flushed, which was a rare feat indeed for him. “I approached him initially about a potential alliance between the two of you. He was interested, of course, and chose to court you. From there, the rest is history.”
This was news to her, and she did not like it. “You approached him? Why did you never tell me this before, Lucien?”
His countenance changed, softening, becoming almost shamefaced. “It was not necessary, Violet. Ordinarily, a father would take on the task of securing a suitable husband for his daughter, but as ours is gone, I am all that is left. I want to see you settled and happy with a man who is even-tempered and kind, who is not a spendthrift or a rakehell, who will treat you with love and respect, as you deserve. Lord Almsley is that man.”
How easily he had figured it out. Anger grew, swelling with the force of a tempest within her, dousing all her guilt.
“You mean to say, he is that man, according to you,” she argued, enraged with him for highhandedly deciding her future for her without bothering to ask her what she wanted.
And rage toward herself for so easily believing what someone else told her was best for her was true. She had always fancied herself an intelligent woman. Why had she never questioned her match with Charles until the appearance of one enigmatic, charming, beautiful-as-the-devil duke in her home?
“He is that man according to you as well,” he pointed out, a muscle in his jaw beginning to tic. “Or at least he was, until whatever nonsense you have gotten into your head appeared. If you are fearful over what happened on the carriage ride home, you need not be. I am stopping at nothing to find the villain responsible for the attack and bring him to justice.”
She shook her head. “It is not the shooting incident, Lucien. It is Lord Almsley. He is more interested in his plants than he is in me. His mother is a loathsome creature I shall be required to abide on a daily basis. And he does not even know how to give a proper kiss.”
But Strathmore does, reminded Wicked Violet. Oh, how he does.
She ought not to have said the last about kissing, and she knew it from the strangled expression on her brother’s face. He looked as if he wanted to beat someone to a pulp.
“You ought not to have had any experience in kissing at all, Lady Violet,” he snapped.
Oh, dear. She was once more Lady Violet, which meant she had vexed him greatly.
She paused, wondering what she should say next, how she could redeem herself. And then she told herself she had no reason to, that Lucien ought to redeem himself to her instead, for selecting such a boring man as her future husband, and never telling her he had approached Charles about a potential match. The revelation didn’t just smart her pride, it made her question everything.
It also made her quite certain her brother was a hypocrite.
“Have you any experience in kissing, Lucien?” she asked him pointedly, turning the tables on him.
His flush deepened, until even the tips of his ears went scarlet. He cleared his throat. “My romantic history is neither here nor there. We are discussing you, my lady. When and where were you kissing Lord Almsley?”
If only he knew there was another man entirely he ought to be more concerned about her kissing. The realization made her feel rather smug. “That is neither here nor there,” she countered, parroting his words with a triumphant smile. “Suffice it to say, the earl is woefully lacking in the finesse such a skill requires.”
“And how would you know such a thing, Lady Violet?” Her brother resembled nothing so much as a thundercloud at the moment.
Served him right, going about attempting to marry her off to the sort of man he thought she should wed. The sort of man, she understood in a moment of blinding clarity, he was certain would never do to her what Mama had done to Father.
“Oh, Lucien,” she said then, softening in spite of herself. “Did you seek to find the most boring man you could for me, so you could be certain he would never kill himself as Mama did?”
He went rigid, and she knew she had hit upon the truth. His overbearingness was borne of good intentions. No one had suffered more i
n the wake of Mama’s death than Lucien. He had taken off into the sea after her when the letter she had penned had been found. He swam until servants swam after him, dragging him, fighting all the way back to shore, before he collapsed from exhaustion himself. And it had been Lucien who had been determined to find Mama and bring her home to rest. He had combed the shores relentlessly, until he had discovered her, wet and pale and lifeless, still wearing her finest morning dress.
He had carried her home that way.
“I want your happiness,” he bit out. “I have had Almsley thoroughly investigated. He does not have a mistress or any great debt. There is no history of infirmity in his lineage. He is calm and mild of manner. He is intelligent and kind. He does not gamble or drink to excess. He would never hurt you.”
Nor would he ever thrill her or make her feel even a speck of what she felt when she was merely alone in a room with the Duke of Strathmore. But she could not say that to Lucien. Nor could she confide in him her true intentions. Her heart ached for him, because she knew his highhandedness had emerged from the painful wound their mother had left upon his heart.
“We cannot live in fear of reliving what happened with Mama,” she told him softly.
“I do not live in fear, but in prevention.” His tone was bitter. Dark.
The scars of the past were not mere scars for her brother, but aching, festering wounds. She wondered if they always would be. Time had continued to pass, but in so many ways, he remained the youthful boy of her childhood, tormented by the thought of their mother floating away into the sea.
She must come home. I will bring her home if it is the last action I take.
And he had done as he vowed, bringing Mama home, cradled in his arms, tears streaking his cheeks. It had been the very last time Violet had ever witnessed her brother weep.
“I have tried to love Charles, Lucien. But I do not.”
“Do not be hasty in the rush to make such a decision,” he countered. “Love is like a seed. It must be planted in good soil and carefully tended for it to grow. It requires light and water. Later, it must be kept free of weeds as the shoot bursts forth. Eventually, it bears fruit, but in order for that to occur, time and patience and attention is required.”
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