He was not content to settle for a chaste kiss upon a satin glove. It was not enough; he wanted more. And from the desire which flared in Miss Havisham's eyes, he could see that she did too.
With a low growl, Jack tugged Violet down toward him, so that she had no choice but to fall into his lap. Her arms wrapped themselves around his neck, and this was all the encouragement that Jack needed to draw her into a kiss.
Cannon fire in Borodino. Gunshots across the fields of Leipzig. Neither of these things had startled Jack as much as kissing Violet Havisham. Joy exploded in his chest, desire coursed through his belly, and his very soul sang with pleasure as he claimed her lips as his own.
For a moment, he worried that perhaps he had acted in haste, that Miss Havisham did not wish to be ravished in a parlour room by a boor masquerading as a duke. But then she ran her fingers through his hair and whispered his name longingly, and Jack realised that she was enjoying the experience just as much as he.
Reciprocated desire was perhaps the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world. All of Jack's reason left his body, as he pulled Violet closer, savouring the feel of her warm body against his.
It was heaven. It was bliss. It was...dangerous.
Jack pulled away, breathless, as he realised that his desire was beginning to outweigh his conscience. He wanted Violet—but not like this. Not in a stranger's parlour room. And most certainly not when she was not legally his wife.
You could arrange for a special license, a wicked voice whispered in his ear, but Jack hushed it. Tempting as it was to continue with their passionate embrace, Jack knew that he could not live with himself if he forced Miss Havisham's hand.
He wanted her to come to him freely.
"Wait," he gasped as he pulled away from her, "We must wait."
For a second, the only sound that filled the room was that of their ragged breathing. Violet, still perched on his lap, was watching him with eyes dark with desire, and something else.
Confusion.
It seemed that it was not only Jack who had been taken by surprise by the ferocity of their desire.
Violet's lips were plump and raw, and though they were always lovely, Jack decided that they looked best when they had been thoroughly kissed—by him, of course.
"I think," Jack said, his voice sounding rather pained, "That we had best return to the ballroom, Miss Havisham."
"Oh."
Jack instantly wished that he could take back his words, for Miss Havisham sprang to her feet, hastily rearranging her skirts. Her face was flushed, her countenance nervous, and she was—Jack realised—terribly embarrassed.
"It's not that I would not like to stay," he assured her, quickly standing up and catching her arm, "Believe me, I would like for nothing more than to continue this. But we must wait."
"Wait for what, your Grace?"
"Until we are wed," Jack said firmly, awed at the strength of his determination to make Miss Havisham his wife. Before, it had been but a wish, but now that he had tasted her lips, and had experienced the passion which lurked beneath her sweet facade, Jack knew that he would walk across hot-coals to have her as his bride.
"W-wed?" Violet stuttered, taking a nervous step back from him.
"Yes," Jack, recognising her fear, kept his tone even and calm, but did not detour from his intended destination, "Wed, Violet. I want you for my wife. Given what just happened, I think that you might also be amenable to the idea."
"You cannot wish to marry me," Violet protested, taking another step toward the door, "I am not suited to be a duchess, your Grace. I am not fashionable enough or poised enough for such a role."
Jack, who had been thinking the very same thing about himself since he had assumed his own title, shrugged his shoulders against her opposition.
"I am not looking for a duchess, Violet," he said, quickly crossing the distance she had made between them and taking her hand, "I am looking for a wife."
Jack held Violet's blue-eyed gaze, hoping to convey to her just how deeply he felt. Her lips parted, and Jack longed to kiss them again, but he held steady and allowed her to speak.
"I wish to paint," she protested feebly, "I have never wanted to marry. I want to see Venice and Florence, and learn from the masters..."
"I will gladly accompany you there," Jack rushed to respond, instantly warming to the idea of seeing Europe as a traveller, rather than a soldier. His imagination took flight, as he pictured them dining together on a sunny palazzo, ambling along the Tiber, and watching the sunset over Venice's canals. "I would never prevent you from pursuing your passion, Violet. If that is your only objection to my proposal, then—"
"—Your Grace," Violet interrupted, dashing Jack's growing hope, "Please. I cannot marry you."
Her voice cracked slightly on the word "cannot", and Jack wondered if perhaps Miss Havisham was harbouring a hidden reason for her refusal. Her hand was still in his, and he squeezed it reassuringly before he made one last attempt at persuading her.
"Nothing that you say could ever dissuade me from my belief that you are the woman for me," he said, hopeful that she would understand his sincerity.
"I don't know about that."
It was a whispered aside, but nevertheless, Jack heard it. He frowned, hoping to press her further, but Miss Havisham spoke before he had the chance.
"Thank you for...And apologies again for..." Violet waved a nervous hand in the direction of Jack's wound, as she stammered out her goodbye. "Good evening, your Grace."
On that note, Miss Havisham turned on the heel of her slipper and fled the room.
Jack remained where he was for a moment, staring at the closed door, his heart aching more than he had thought possible.
He had just proposed marriage to the woman he loved, and she had rebuffed him. Had he been misguided in his belief that Miss Havisham harboured similar feelings to him? Jack thought on their kiss and her passionate response and wondered if it had all meant nothing to her.
If so, that left him in something of a quandary, for Jack might now have to relinquish his title as the sturdiest man in England, as Miss Havisham had completely floored him.
Chapter Eleven
It had been more than a week since Violet had received her first—and most likely last—marriage proposal. In that time, Orsino had called twice, but Violet had instructed Henry to inform the handsome duke that she was "not at home".
It tore at her heartstrings to refuse to see Orsino, but it was, she reasoned, for the best. A quick, sharp cut was easier to endure than a slow, malingering wound. It would heal faster, she thought, though as the days passed by and her heart still ached, she morbidly wondered if perhaps her wound had turned gangrenous.
Amputation might solve my woes, Violet thought wryly, as she faced into yet another day of mooning over Orsino. Even her hands were consumed by memories of the duke, and when she sat down to sketch out ideas for her next painting, she instead found herself drawing the duke.
Soon, the drawing-room was littered with half-finished portraits of the man, though many had been crunched into balls in frustration. For, try as she might, Violet could not properly capture the beauty of her duke. She could not find a way to commit to paper the line of his jaw, nor the light in his eyes. It was completely and utterly vexing.
Thankfully, she had a meeting with her fellow wallflowers to look forward to, to distract her from her woes. As the clock struck eleven, Violet hastily cleaned away her sketch-pad and charcoals, as she prepared for her friends' arrival.
"La! Violet," Charlotte cried, with forced gaiety, as she entered, "What a wondrous day."
Outside, a rumble of thunder greeted Charlotte's words, and rain began to lash against the window, but the red-headed girl steadfastly ignored it. Her pretty face wore a determined smile, so resolutely fixed that it looked almost painful.
In the days after Orsino's proposal to Violet, Charlotte had been "greatly disappointed" by her own duke. Penrith had, it was revealed, only courted Charlotte
so that his cousin might then be able to court Charlotte's sister, Bianca. Though at first, Charlotte had been visibly heartbroken by this revelation, in the intervening days she had adopted a very English, stiff-upper-lip, and had refused to discuss the matter any further.
Everything was perfectly, utterly, and completely fine, she had told her friends, umpteen times. Violet personally had doubts that anyone who needed to use so many emphatic adverbs was in any way fine, but Charlotte stubbornly refused to discuss the matter any further.
Julia arrived shortly after Charlotte, apologising—as always—for being late.
"Mama always has something urgent she needs to discuss when I am on my way to visit you both," Julia commented wryly, as she placed herself upon the chaise.
"Do you think, perhaps, she does not approve of us?" Violet wondered, with a wink.
The fussy Marchioness of Pembrook had made it clear from the start that she considered Violet and Charlotte a bad influence on their daughter. In her first season, Julia had been expected to find a husband, but instead, she had found friendship with the ton's two most determined spinsters, leaving her mother distraught. Though she was always the epitome of civility, when they chanced to meet, Violet was certain that Lady Cavendish would like dearly to bash Violet and Charlotte's heads together for ruining her hopes for her daughter.
"She would never openly say she disapproved of you both, though she did rather take a shine to Charlotte, when it looked as though she might become a duchess," Julia replied, rolling her eyes at her mama's capriciousness.
Charlotte's smile became even more fixed, as she sensed the conversation turning toward Penrith. Julia innocently levelled her friend an enquiring glance, before she gently broached the subject of the errant duke.
"Have you heard from him at all, Cat?" Julia queried.
Violet had to admire Julia's determination and bravery. Whilst Violet had quietly accepted Charlotte's wishes not to discuss Penrith—all while inwardly fretting for her friend—Julia refused to truckle to Charlotte's obstinate nature.
"He has written," Charlotte waved an airy hand, "Sent flowers. Et cetera, et cetera. He has apologised, and that's all there is to it."
"So, you forgive him?" Julia raised an eyebrow.
"I have accepted his apology," Charlotte frowned in reply, "It's not quite the same thing, but it's as far as I can bring myself."
"I think you still have feelings for him," Julia countered, her blue eyes knowing, "And that you are being stubborn, Miss Drew. Did you too not deceive Penrith?"
For a moment, Charlotte took on the appearance of a kettle about to boil. Her cheeks flamed red as her hair, and Violet was not certain, but she could have sworn that steam emerged from her friend's ears.
"That is beside the point," Charlotte eventually replied, through gritted teeth, before she re-affixed her face into a smile akin to that upon a mask of Thalia. "Now, tell me, ladies, what did you think of Castle Rackrent?"
If Charlotte had meant her abrupt change of subject to discombobulate her friends, it worked awfully well. Violet cast a worried glance at the unopened book upon the table, and Julia, similarly, wore an abashed look.
"Er," Violet twirled a strand of hair around her finger, "I meant to read it; honestly I did, but I—"
Violet cast a glance around the drawing-room, hoping to sight an excuse. Her eyes landed upon her easel, where her finished portrait of Aunt Phoebe and Fifi rested.
"I was finishing my painting," she said, adopting a pious tone as she continued, "One must work when inspiration strikes. It is the curse of the artist, Charlotte."
Charlotte's response was a sardonic lift of her eyebrow, but Julia leapt to Violet's aid by leaping from the chaise—which wobbled precariously—and rushing to inspect the portrait.
"Inspired," Julia decided, as she appraised the painting.
"Aunt Phoebe wishes it to hang in Havisham Hall," Violet replied, tickled with pride at the memory, "Alongside the portraits of other holders of the title."
Havisham Hall was the seat of the baronetcy, and its long gallery was filled with portraits of all the men who had once borne the title of Baron of Hebrides. As Aunt Phoebe had decided that it was Violet's portrait that she wished to hang there, it meant that somewhere in the wide world, one of her works would hang forevermore.
"Oh, how wonderful," Julia beamed, "And not only have you immortalised Lady Havisham but Fifi too. Where is the little monster?"
Violet frowned, as she glanced around the room. She could have sworn that she had left Fifi, glass-eyed and lying on her side, by her easel, but the taxidermy dog had now disappeared.
"Perhaps one of the maids cleared her away," she mused, for Hannah, the downstairs-maid, had been sneaking in of late to dust the spots which Dorothy missed—which were numerous.
Violet began to scour the room for the dog, poking through the potted ficus, and checking behind the ancient terrestrial globe, so old that it was missing two continents. Fifi, she finally decided, could not be found.
Whilst Charlotte too had joined the search for the missing dog, Julia had become distracted by something near Violet's easel. As she spotted what it was her friend was looking at, Violet gave a yelp, and Julia hastily closed the sketchbook she had been examining.
"I fear poor Fifi is lost," Charlotte called, as she wiggled out from underneath the chaise, her dress smeared with dust. "Perhaps Dorothy is correct, and her trapped spirit inspires her to wander the house."
Something prodded Violet at the mention of Phoebe's wandering spirit, but before she could examine it, Charlotte spoke again, distracting her completely.
"There is to be a boat race, on Wednesday in Hyde Park," she said, very matter-of-factly, "I feel it would behove us to attend."
"You do?" Violet raised an eyebrow at Charlotte's pious tone.
"Yes," she replied, her cheeks flushing pink, "Lord Horace and Lord Lucas have both bet an unseemly amount of money on whose toy-boat will be the first to reach the far side of Miller's Pond. I feel it would behove us to attend and demonstrate our disapproval for such a frivolous waste of money when London is filled with so much poverty and suffering."
Well. Violet was not so certain about staging a moral-protest at an event that was sure to be filled with the braying young-bloods of the ton, but it was nice to see Charlotte return to something of her zealous self.
"And afterwards, we might visit Gunter's," Charlotte added, as she sensed her friends' hesitation, "Bianca says that they have a new Gruyere flavour, which is to die for."
"I think I shall stick to my lavender," Violet replied, wrinkling her nose at the memory of the Parmesan ice she had once tried.
"But you will come?" Charlotte looked hopeful.
"Of course we will," Julia smiled, "I can't remember the last time we made an attempt at being paragons of virtue."
"The ballad singer at Speaker's Corner, last year," Violet remembered, before falling silent as she recalled how that particular endeavour had fared.
Charlotte had wished to object against a travelling folk-singer, who had taken up residence on the corner of Hyde Park, and was making a pretty penny with the performance of a very lusty folk-song. She had corralled Violet and Julia into staging an objection to his lewdness, which involved them standing with their backs turned to the offensive performance. Unfortunately, their protest had failed spectacularly and had actually resulted in a larger audience for the singer, as well as the composition of a new ballad, which while very catchy, also included some rather thinly veiled insults about Charlotte.
"Er, yes," Julia replied, closing her eyes against the memory, as Violet valiantly struggled against the urge to hum a few lines of "The Uppity Shrew of Mayfair". "That went...that went...Well, it went somewhere."
Charlotte, who had skin as thick as Aunt Phoebe, gave both her friends an encouraging smile—natural this time, and not forced.
"That's the spirit, ladies," she beamed, "It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ours
elves. We can change the world if we but try."
On that happier note, Charlotte took her leave, promising that she would have a book selected for next week's meeting by the morrow.
As the door shut behind her, Violet cast Julia a mischievous smile.
"Gosh, she is somewhat back to her old self. I feel almost bad that I am only attending for the ice-cream aspect of the afternoon and not the world-changing part."
"I don't think even Charlotte stands a chance of saving Lords Horace and Lucas from their own stupidity," Julia grinned in response, "Though at least we will get to witness a little fun. Now, tell me, sweet Violet, what on earth is going on with you and the Duke of Orsino?"
Violet began to protest that there was nothing going on between her and the duke, but then she recalled that Julia had seen her sketchbook, and she flushed.
"I am nothing if not tenacious, Violet," Julia said, as she sat back down on the chaise, "And as well as tenacious, I am without any plans for the afternoon. Now, you will tell me what's going on."
"I would like to," Violet replied glumly, as she took a seat upon the Queen Anne, "Really, I would. It is just—"
"Has he compromised you?" Julia looked ready to do battle, "If he has, mark my words, I will run him through with a sword."
It was heartening for Violet to know that her friend would defend her against any egregious aristocrats, though Julia's outrage was more than a little misplaced. Orsino was not the villain in this tale, that role belonged to her.
"No, he hasn't," Violet said firmly, "But thank you for offering to murder him on my behalf. It would be no small task, given the size of him."
"Then what is it?" Julia pressed, not deviating from her purpose one bit, "You can tell me, Violet. I am your friend; nothing you can say will ever make that not so."
Violet hesitated, but the urge to share her burden was too great. In hushed tones, accompanied by numerous glances over her shoulder to the door, to ensure that it had not opened, Violet told her tale.
"...So you see," she completed, once she had adequately described her predicament, "I cannot possibly accept Orsino's marriage proposal."
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