Tempted by His Touch: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Dukes, Rogues, & Alpha Heroes Historical Romance Novels

by Darcy Burke

  But she didn’t come.

  He hadn’t missed her; the servants hadn’t seen her. So he waited and he waited until it was obvious even to him that she’d rather spend the next week fasting than meet eyes with him over the breakfast table.

  He pulled out his fob. Still an hour yet before Violet was due to start lessons. Lillian was likely only now considering getting out of bed. Violet would still be in her bedchamber. Not eating. And not speaking to him.

  But perhaps he could convince her to listen.

  Less than five minutes later, he was knocking upon her chamber door. No answer. No surprise. He knocked again anyway. Not because he thought she might answer, but because he deserved the rejection. He was the one who had wished to go unnoticed. He ought to take more care what he wished for.

  Right now, all he wanted was to apologize. To explain. To be forgiven.

  He stood there in silence for a long time, his forehead resting against door. Wishing he had done a thousand things differently. The road to hell truly was paved with the best of intentions.

  Eventually, he forced himself to abandon his post outside her door. She would not come out if she thought a lion lay in wait. Perhaps she wasn’t even inside. It would not be the first time she’d sequestered herself in with Lillian.

  He made his way through the catacombs. Carefully, he eased open the door to the sanctuary. A pair of high-set sconces provided just enough gently flickering candlelight to guide his way to the heavily draped four-poster bed in the center of the room. Approaching as quietly as he could, he edged the heavy velvet tester to one side and gazed upon his daughter’s sweet face.

  Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep. The slight flinch at the soft rustle of the curtain had given lie to the pretense. He smiled at the familiar ritual. Lillian was never eager to get out of bed.

  “Good morning, sweetling.” He bent forward and pressed a kiss to her smooth forehead. “I know it’s early. I just wanted to see your face.”

  At first, she did not respond. Just as he reached upward to open the bedcurtains, his daughter’s small voice slid forth from the shadows.

  “Don’t bother coming back. If I can’t have Violet, I certainly don’t want you. It’s your fault she left us. If you loved her half as much as I do, she wouldn’t have gone.”

  “I do love her too,” he bit out in vexation before the rest of Lillian’s meaning chilled his soul like a winter frost. Heart racing, he swept the bed curtains back open. “What do you mean, left us?”

  “She told me goodbye.” Eyes red and puffy, Lillian propped herself up on thin elbows to glare at her father. “She loves me. It’s your fault she left. It’s always your fault. I hate you. You make everyone who loves me leave forever.”

  He froze on unsteady limbs and wordlessly returned his daughter’s stare.

  “You’re a terrible papa,” she said, her voice cracking on the final word. Purposefully, she turned her back to him and hiked up her bed linen to hide beneath. “I hope you’re sorry. I hope it hurts you even more than it hurts me.”

  It was the sturdiness of the canopy posts, and not the strength of his own limbs, that kept him on his feet.

  “Go away,” his daughter whispered brokenly. “It’s not you I want.”

  Of course not. Who would? He nodded mutely and allowed the thick curtain to fall back down between them. Blindly, disjointedly, he managed to fumble his way out of the sanctuary and through the catacombs. Once he gained the other side, however, he stood unmoving in the empty corridor, as if he were a splinter of wood set adrift in the empty ocean without even a breeze to guide his way.

  He was still bobbing rudderlessly in the current when a strong hand latched onto his arm.

  “Master?” Roper’s concerned face swam into focus. “Are you all right?”

  “Marvelous. Violet left me and Lillian hates me. I’m back where I started.” Alistair ran a hand through his hair. “Nowhere.”

  “She left?” The lines in Roper’s horrified face deepened. “I thought ... I am so sorry, master.”

  “I lied to her,” Alistair mumbled, berating himself for not having taken her into his confidence sooner. So she preferred to cast her lot anywhere but with the likes of him. He couldn’t blame her.

  “To be fair,” Roper said hesitantly, “you lied to everyone.”

  Alistair slumped against the wall. “I am an unmitigated pillock.”

  “Perhaps she could overlook that, and you could win her back.” Roper’s voice softened. “She would not be so angry if she did not care.”

  Alistair shook his head. How could he win her back if he didn’t even know where she went? She had quite a head start. Plenty of time to catch a ride with the morning post, if that was even the direction she’d gone. Then again, maybe if he—

  No. What was he thinking? Even if she had left breadcrumbs, he could not go after her. He couldn’t leave Lillian unprotected. Not without knowing where he was headed or how long he might be gone. The quick trip to town had been nerve-wracking enough, and the only reason he’d gone had been to ensure Lillian’s safety. He could hardly saddle up a horse and chase after a mail coach that might or might not contain Violet Whitechapel.

  No matter how much he wished to.

  Alistair pushed past Roper. How would they manage without Violet? How would he mend his heart? How could he ever mend Lillian’s?

  “Master, where are you going?” Roper called out from behind.

  “To my office.” There was still one thing he could do. He’d write a thousand more letters to his solicitor until the trumped-up charges had been cleared from Violet’s name. And then fall to his knees and pray she would return. “Send in some tea ... and a bottle of Cook’s whiskey.”

  Roper jogged up to his side, frowning. “But, master ... you don’t imbibe spirits.”

  Alistair’s voice was flat. “I do now.”

  ***

  The curtainless frame and lumpy mattress Violet reclined upon was a far cry from the rich comfort she’d grown accustomed to over the past several months, but she was grateful the innkeeper had offered a room at all.

  It was impossible to know whether the harried proprietress had done so because the young woman asking was a healthy two stone heavier than the skin-and-bones creature in the wanted bill, or whether she had forborn uncomfortable questions because Violet had confessed to having fled from Waldegrave Abbey. Violet could swear the proprietress’s expression had creased into horrified pity at first mention of her former home.

  Violet double-checked the address of the London barrister for the third time in ten minutes. Stopping at the Shrewsbury Inn had been risky, given the wanted bills posted throughout town, but continuing on foot would have been far riskier. The sun was rising higher by the second and the streets were filling with people. A coach was the quickest and safest way to get to London. Unfortunately, there were none to be had.

  The proprietress had explained that although the post carriages did in fact pass by this very inn, she had just missed it. The next coach wouldn’t be by until first light tomorrow morning. Violet would have to spend the day shuttered up at the inn.

  She’d accepted the proprietress’s kind offer to send up some broth and a crust of bread, but hadn’t been able to eat. All she’d managed to do was cry herself to sleep, over and over again. Now that night had fallen once again, her stomach was queasy with more than just hunger. She couldn’t get Lily’s face out of her mind.

  Or Alistair’s.

  Violet had wanted time to think, and she’d had plenty of time to do so. Unfortunately, every last one of her thoughts conflicted. And for the first time in her life, she regretted leaving.

  She stared up at the bare bedframe and rubbed her face. She might be wrong about Alistair, but she was right about London. She had to clear her name—or die trying—before she would ever be truly free to live the rest of her life. But no matter how often she repeated this truism to herself ... she didn’t want to go. She already missed t
he Waldegraves more than words could say. There had to be a better way than this.

  She groaned and rolled face down onto a worn pillow. Fine. After they’d both had a chance to sleep on it, she would go back.

  She hoped deep in her heart that there truly would be sound logic behind Alistair’s lies, for she desperately wanted a reason to forgive him. She was angry and hurt and confused ... but she was still a woman in love. With him. With his daughter.

  And her home was in Waldegrave Abbey.

  She had just drifted back asleep with a dusty pillow clutched to her bosom when a loud knock startled her ramrod straight.

  Constables.

  The proprietress had not been sympathetic after all. The woman had gotten word—How? To whom?—and the constabulary was right here, right now, right outside Violet’s door. With rope and chains and locks that would never reopen.

  She tumbled from the mattress and scrambled from the bed to the window. Quickly, she pushed open the curtains and peered out at the dark night.

  Three stories down, nary even a specter gave life to the empty street. No horses, no carriages ... not even a stray dog provided movement to break up the ghostly stillness. If there were constables afoot, the Shrewsbury set was far wilier than the Whitechapel variety.

  “Miss?” came the proprietress’s worried voice from the opposite side of the closed door. “I’m afraid we have a situation.”

  Violet left the curtains open wide to ensure an unobstructed view of the streets below and hesitated. She hadn’t so much as smelled the constabulary, but ... what if this was a trap? Either way, she supposed she was trapped. Nothing for it. She shrugged on a cloaking pelisse and eased open the door the tiniest sliver.

  “Yes?”

  The proprietress stood not a foot away, her expression grave. Incongruously, the sweet scent of raisin biscuits and hot chocolate wafted through the crack in the door. If this was a trap, it was bloody brilliant.

  “I didn’t order—” Violet’s heart stopped when the door swung fully open.

  To the right of the proprietress stood a maid bearing the biscuits and chocolate. To the left, one pale hand swallowed by the proprietress’s larger one, stood Lily Waldegrave.

  The proprietress raised her brows. “She says she belongs to you. Is that true?”

  “Oh, dear Lord.”

  Violet sucked in a wheezing breath as her heart kicked back into motion. How in Hades had—? She fumbled in her pocket for her spare key. Missing. Wonderful.

  Distract ’em, and you can nick anything. Isn’t that what she’d thoughtlessly told the girl? Her star pupil had been paying closer attention than Violet had ever dreamed. And she’d been plenty distracted when she’d given Lily a final kiss goodbye. She’d been terrified of never seeing her again. And now here she was. Here, of all places!

  “What in the bloody hell were you thinking?” Violet exploded. “Are you mad? Nicking a key and—”

  The proprietress hissed and drew back. “Is that how you talk to your daughter?”

  Violet choked off the rest of her tirade. “My—?”

  “Mama,” Lily cried in a little baby voice. She broke free from the proprietress’s hold to throw her skinny arms around Violet’s waist. “Please don’t leave me again.”

  Speechless with mortification, Violet slid a pained glance up at the proprietress.

  “Is she from Waldegrave Abbey, too?” whispered the suitably nonplussed maid.

  Lily lifted her face from Violet’s skirts and nodded. “We were locked up for ages. But now we ran away.”

  “Shhh.” Uneasy, Violet swung her up and into the room before any further inappropriate confessions could be made. “Thank you for bringing the refreshments. Once Lily has rested a moment, we’ll be heading back to—”

  “I can’t go anywhere.” Lily thumped down onto the floor. “My feet hurt.”

  Violet spun around to discover her already tugging off her boots. Swollen blisters dotted both pale heels. Violet closed her eyes. Of course. Lily had been in one room her entire life. If her limbs weren’t accustomed to walking long distances, her feet would certainly not be accustomed to the prolonged chafing of tight shoes.

  She turned back to the proprietress. “Is there a carriage we can rent?”

  The proprietress looked startled at the question. “Fraid not, mum. You’ve seen Shrewsbury. There ain’t enough of it to bother taking a carriage from one side to the other. Only carriage that passes through regular is the post, and that one heads the opposite direction.”

  Violet glanced toward the window. Now that night had fallen, the streets were silent and empty. Of course there was no carriage. “Is there a message boy we could dispatch to the abbey, to ask Mr. Waldegrave to come posthaste in his?”

  The proprietress shook her head. “Don’t believe he’s got a carriage.”

  “That’s right,” the biscuit-maid put in as she placed her tray upon a small table. “When ’e was ’ere buying buttons the other day, ’e did come on foot.”

  Violet exhaled slowly, and did her best to put aside for the moment the reminder that sun-shy Alistair occasionally escaped the abbey for a little town shopping. “Can you at least send him the message that his daughter is here at the inn?”

  The maid’s eyes widened. “This is his daughter?”

  “He has a wife?” echoed the proprietress, thunderstruck.

  “Oh, they’re not married,” Lily put in as she climbed atop the ancient bed. “She’s my governess. And my mama.”

  Lovely. Violet tried to keep smiling through clenched teeth, but her fingers clenched the sides of her gown. The proprietress and her maid now stared at Violet in a wholly new light. This might not be the pinnacle of the miseries she’d suffered in her twenty-some-odd years, but it was rapidly becoming one of the most humiliating.

  “Can someone please, please, dispatch the message?” she said with what little composure she had left. “Immediately?”

  The maid nodded so enthusiastically that Violet had no doubt everyone in a fifty-mile radius would have the news before sunup.

  “As you say, ma’am.” The proprietress held out her palm. “That’ll be sixpence for the missive, another for the refreshments, and one and six for the extra guest.”

  Fully aware that she was being swindled blind precisely because she was in no position to haggle, Violet jerked her coin purse from her skirt pocket and placed the required half-crown onto the proprietress’s palm.

  “Thank you,” she forced herself to say politely. She firmly closed the door in their unabashedly craning faces and turned toward Lily. “What the devil were you thinking, to do such a foolish—”

  Violet’s words faded into nothing at the sight of the child fast asleep atop the bedclothes, both boots off and her pelisse still on.

  Shaking her head with a sigh, Violet shrugged off her own pelisse before easing Lily out of hers and crawling onto the bed beside her. There would be plenty of time to read Lily the Riot Act in the morning. And if there wasn’t—if Alistair ripped into the inn like the Great Storm of 1703 an hour or two hence—then they both could use a little sleep beforehand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Violet awoke to earsplitting screams. Lily.

  Light poured through the still-open curtains, cascading over the bare-framed bed and bathing them in the sun’s warmth. Wherever the dawn’s light touched Lily’s bare flesh, the skin pinkened and inflamed before Violet’s very eyes.

  She seized the thin bed linen out from beneath Lily and threw the material atop her. Then she raced to the open window, frantically tugging the curtains closed. They were a little too short and didn’t quite meet in the center, allowing an inverted T of deadly sunlight to sear the uncurtained bed. Moth holes in the worn linen bedclothes displayed peekaboo patches of angry, blistered flesh.

  Panicked, Violet upended her bundle of clothes and draped gown after gown upon the curtain rod until it began to bow under pressure. She yanked the bell pull until the cord threat
ened to fray, and then raced back to Lily’s side.

  Slowly, nervously, she peeled the linen off the trembling child.

  Fortunately, Lily still wore the dress she’d arrived in. Unfortunately, the gown lacked undersleeves and the hem hit mid-calf. The result was horrific.

  The heel blisters of the night before were no longer discernible amid the bright red flesh and raw blisters covering her from shin to toe. Her arms and hands were likewise ruined, her neck and face nearly unrecognizable. Silent tears streamed down the once-white cheeks. It took Violet a long moment before she realized her own cheeks were just as wet.

  She scanned the room for a pitcher of water. Unsure whether she was doing exactly the right or exactly the wrong thing but unwilling to let Lillian suffer, Violet slowly poured the cool, clean water over the child’s raw skin.

  When a serving girl finally answered the call, Violet shoved the empty pitcher into the astonished maid’s empty hands.

  “More water,” Violet said in a tone that brooked neither arguments nor questions. “As cold as you can make it, and ice if you’ve got it. I need a doctor or a surgeon or anybody that knows anything at all about children or burns or healing ointments. And I need Mr. Waldegrave here right bloody now.”

  The maid’s eyes widened as they took in the burnt child upon the bed. “We sent the message last night. Jimmy’s young and didn’t think to wait for a response. Since the abbey ain’t sent a return message, p’raps Mr. Waldegrave is simply waiting to come at a decent hour.”

  “Mr. Waldegrave will simply have to come immediately,” Violet said through clenched teeth. “Send Jimmy back this very second. Tell him to box the man’s ears if he has to. And hurry back with that water!”

  “Yes’m. I will, ma’am.” The maid clutched the empty pitcher and scurried for the stairs.

  Violet hurried back to the side of the bed and eased one hip carefully down onto the mattress. She hated to do anything that might disturb Lily, but she hated even more being right beside her and unable to help. Violet glanced up at the pile of gowns hanging haphazardly across the window and then gazed back down at the shivering, blistering child beside her.