by Anna Bradley
But none of it would happen tonight.
Nick rolled onto his side, away from her, and threw an arm over his eyes.
He would take her innocence, and he’d get his heir, because he didn’t have any other choice, but not tonight—not when he could still feel the soft drag of her fingers in his hair, still taste the sweetness of her release on his lips.
Tonight, no matter how much he might wish to, he couldn’t fool himself into thinking she was his. It didn’t matter that she was his wife, that her innocence was his to take. It didn’t matter that she was obligated to bear him an heir, or that he was the earl and she was his countess, or that they were both responsible for the Dare legacy.
Even now, while she was still breathless from the pleasure he’d given her, she wasn’t his.
She would never be his, because the specter of Lord Derrick would always be between them, and Nick, who’d spent his entire life being second in his father’s eyes, couldn’t bear to be anything but first in hers.
He drew her nightdress down to cover her and rose from the bed, but before he could turn away he caught her eyes, so wide and hopeful in her flushed face, and he paused to cup her cheek in his hand.
“I wish I could be…I’m sorry I’m not a better man, Violet.”
She made a small, pained sound in her throat, and Nick thought he saw her reach out to grab his hand, but the fire had died to embers, and the darkness pressed upon his eyes, and before he could be sure, he made himself turn away.
Chapter Nineteen
When Nick touched her, it felt like a dream. When her body was arching under his hands, when he was wringing sighs from her lips, Violet could almost convince herself it was one.
But her mind knew better.
His warm breath in her ear, his soft murmuring, his fingers stroking her damp flesh—underneath the sweetness, the bliss—her mind recognized the truth.
This was no dream. It was a nightmare.
They’d been married for two days, and he hadn’t made love to her. Their marriage remained unconsummated, and her virginity, if not her innocence, very much intact.
He’d given her pleasure tonight, the kind of sweet, aching pleasure Violet had thought only existed in dreams, and then he’d slipped out again without taking his own release, and without making her his.
She lay still, her limbs melting into the soft bed, her body still humming with ecstasy from his touch. Sleep tried to pull her into its arms, to wrap her in soft, gray oblivion, but she’d never been one to ignore the whisperings of her mind, and her eyes remained open, her unblinking gaze fixed on the heavy silk draperies hanging from the canopy above her.
Nick’s face, when he’d seen those sketches…oh, she couldn’t bear to think of the hurt, the betrayal in his eyes when he’d raised his gaze to hers. Tears leaked from the corners of Violet’s eyes and kept falling until they dampened the hair at her temples.
I’m sorry I’m not a better man.
Violet gasped at the pain of it, the irreparable tear it left in her heart. She rolled over onto her side and clutched a pillow to her chest, her furious tears scalding her cheeks, falling so fast now she thought she might drown in them.
It would be easier that way—easier to curl up and weep while her husband lay alone in his bed believing his bride preferred another man to him, that she didn’t care for him—but Violet had discovered long ago she wasn’t destined to tread the easiest path.
She’d had to struggle to get anything that had ever mattered to her, and nothing had ever mattered to her as much as Nick. She wanted all of him, his body and his heart, and not just this ghost who crept into her room and then disappeared again before she could see his face, as soon as the darkness gave way to dawn.
Violet slid her feet to the cold floor, dressed herself, and sat on the edge of her bed with her fingers wrapped around her sketchbook. She waited until the patch of sky in her window lightened to a pale gray, then she rose, slipped out her door, and padded silently down the hallway to Lady Westcott’s room.
It was early still—far too early to disturb her ladyship in her bedchamber—but Lady Westcott opened on the first knock, and she didn’t look surprised to see Violet standing there.
“Good morning, Lady Dare.” She stood aside and gestured for Violet to enter. “You’re awake early this morning.”
Violet didn’t mince words. “I never went to sleep. I’ve done something dreadful, Lady Westcott, and I—I don’t know how to fix it. I need your help.”
It was an ominous enough declaration, but Lady Westcott didn’t blink at it. “Something dreadful? How unfortunate. Perhaps you’d better sit down and explain it to me.”
Violet took a seat on a settee, pulled the sketches of Nick and Lord Derrick from her sketchbook, and handed them over to Lady Westcott. “I did the one of Lord Derrick months ago, and haven’t thought of it since. The other…” Violet hesitated, her face flushing with misery. “I’d known Lord Dare for less than a day when I drew it. I don’t see him that way at all now, and haven’t for some time, but—”
“But Nicholas saw these sketches, and now he believes you’re in love with Lord Derrick.” Lady Westcott gave her a sharp look. “Are you in love with Lord Derrick, Lady Dare?”
“No. I never was. I mistook friendship for love, but what I felt for Lord Derrick was nothing more than a childish infatuation. I know that now. I tried to explain it to Lord Dare, tried to tell him—”
“But he didn’t believe you. No, he wouldn’t, I’m afraid.” Lady Westcott met Violet’s gaze, and her gray eyes were shadowed with pain. “Nicholas’s elder brother, Graham—has he ever told you anything about how Graham died?”
“No, never. That is, I know his death was sudden and tragic. Nick’s never spoken of it to me, but if he cared for his brother as I care for my sisters, he must have been devastated by the loss.”
“He was. We all were, particularly my brother, the previous earl. He doted on Graham—we all did. Graham was…well, it’s difficult to do justice to him in words, but he was the best of men. He was killed by a highwayman on his way back here, to Ashdown Park to assist his father with repairs to the estate. Both my brother and Nicholas blamed themselves for his death—the previous Lord Dare for calling Graham here, and Nicholas, well…because he lived, I suppose. Graham was meant to be the heir, of course—Nicholas never expected to become Lord Dare, and he’s never felt worthy of the title.”
Violet’s body went cold.
That ugly scene in the carriage between Nick and Lady Westcott yesterday—the throb of despair in Nick’s voice when he spoke of his brother, that dark laugh when he’d said he was nothing more than a poor substitute for the true heir.
“Nicholas tried to become everything to his father after Graham’s death. He came back to Ashdown Park and did all he could to be the son my brother demanded, but nothing he did was ever good enough. It breaks my heart even now to think of how hard he tried.” Lady Westcott’s voice roughened, and she trailed off.
Violet took Lady Westcott’s hand in hers. “He gave up, and went off to Italy?”
“No. I could see what his father was doing to him, and I sent Nicholas away to the Continent before it could destroy him. My brother wasn’t a wicked man, Lady Dare, but the death of his wife when Graham and Nicholas were young, and then Graham’s sudden death…life ruined him, and he took his misery out on Nicholas.”
Violet squeezed Lady Westcott’s hand, her eyes burning with tears for her husband.
Two years of struggling with his grief, two years of living in the long shadow cast by his brother. Two years in Italy, hiding from the pain of his father’s disappointment, and two years of believing he wasn’t worthy of his father’s love. The title, the estate, the expectations—all of it thrust upon him by the sudden, tragic death of a beloved brother.
It must have tasted like ashes in his mouth.<
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“You must understand, Lady Dare. I love Nicholas with all my heart. I never wanted or expected him to try to take Graham’s place. I’ve only ever wanted him to find his own happiness, but Nicholas’s father tainted everything for him, even the way he sees himself. These drawings…” Lady Westcott picked one up, and her hand was shaking. “They confirm his deepest fears. I know you never meant to hurt him, my dear, but when he saw these he would have felt, once again, that he was to be forced into another man’s place—that you judged another man as more worthy of your love than him.”
I’m sorry I’m not a better man…
For Nick to come back to England at last only to find himself wed to a lady he believed loved another, and to be trapped with her in a crumbling estate that should have been his brother’s…
Dear God, what had she done?
“I love him, Lady Westcott, more than I ever thought I could love anyone. Please.” Violet clutched at the hand in hers, her heart fluttering with panic. “I have to fix this. Tell me how…tell me what to do.”
Lady Westcott’s eyes were glistening with tears. “Oh, my dear. If you were any other lady I’d say there’s nothing you can do, but you’re special, Violet, and Nicholas feels that in you just as surely as I do. He’s different with you, you see. If there’s a lady in England who can help Nicholas find his way, it’s you.”
“Me? But I don’t…how, my lady?”
She wasn’t special, and she never had been. She wasn’t a seductress or a belle, or some irresistible beauty like Lady Uplands. She wasn’t charming, and she hadn’t the first idea how to tease or flirt or coax a man with soft words and beckoning smiles. She was awkward, impatient, and abrupt. As far as London society was concerned, she’d never been anything more than an oddity, tedious at best and mad at worst. She was a bluestocking, with ink stains on her hands and dust in her hair, and—
She was a bluestocking.
Violet went still, her gaze finding Lady Westcott’s.
Of course. She was a bluestocking, and bluestockings had something better than charm, or beauty, or a perfect flirtatious smile.
Knowledge.
She didn’t ask herself whether it would be enough.
It would, because it had to be.
Violet gathered the sketches together and shoved them back into her sketchbook. “I have an idea.”
Lady Westcott’s lips curved in a hopeful smile. “What will you do?”
Violet squeezed Lady Westcott’s hand, then rose and walked to the door. “The only thing I know how to do, my lady.”
No one saw her as she made her way down the grand staircase and slipped into the library. She closed the door behind her, and immediately erupted into a sneezing fit that left her nose red and her eyes streaming with tears.
When she could see again, the first thing Violet noticed was the dust. It covered every surface, and no doubt lingered between every page of the thousands of books on the tall mahogany shelves. It looked as if the servants had simply closed the room after the family left, and hadn’t set foot in it since.
Well, that wouldn’t do, but at the moment the dust wasn’t her first concern. Nick was, and as every bluestocking worth that title knew, a good plan always began with a visit to a library.
She might not be a belle, and she might not know how to charm, seduce, or court her husband, but she could use the talents she did possess to help him set Ashdown Park to rights again. She’d read about modern farming practices, and she’d accumulated other bits of knowledge in her studies that might prove useful. If Nick could make this place his home again—if he could see it as his and not as a legacy he’d stolen from his dead brother, then perhaps he could begin to see himself as more than just a lesser version of Graham.
As more than just The Selfish Rake.
Violet took a determined step toward the first set of shelves. A book on estate management might give her some ideas, and something about how to organize servants, and how to care for a grand manor house, as well.
Violet sneezed again, and drew her sleeve across her eyes to clear them. It was a great pity no one had ever thought to write a book on how to court one’s husband. Perhaps one day she’d write one herself, but until then…
She’d never let a little dust stop her before.
* * * *
By the time Violet finished in the library, peeked into every neglected corner on the ground floor of Ashdown Park, and filled five pages with scribbled notes, the sun had risen and was doing its best to emerge from a sky full of dark December clouds.
She was ready for Nick.
She soon found out, however, Nick wasn’t ready for her.
For her, or anyone else.
Violet spent over an hour pacing from one end of her bedchamber to the other, tensed for any sound on the other side of the connecting door, but there was nothing but tomb-like silence.
She managed to hold off for a second hour, then a third, and then, overcome with impatience, she finally rang the bell for Bridget.
Her lady’s maid appeared a short while later, and the moment she crossed the threshold and got a good look at Violet, she set the tea tray in her hands down, jabbed her fists onto her hips, and announced, “Ye look a perfect fright. What have ye been doing, crawling about the attics on yer hands and knees?”
Violet made a feeble attempt to tidy her hair, felt at once it was useless, and shrugged. “No, the library.”
“Well, I might a’ known.” Bridget pointed an accusing finger at Violet. “Ye’re covered in dust an’ grime. I daresay ye’ve ruined that gown, and—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, will you hush? I have other gowns, and I need you to help me into one of them at once.”
“I’ll do no such thing until ye have a wash and let me brush yer hair, and ye have yer breakfast like a proper countess does.”
Violet recognized the stubborn look on Bridget’s face and let out a groan. “But I’ve so much to do this morning, Bridget. I haven’t time—”
“Ye’ll find the time, and no arguing, miss. This isn’t yer grandmother’s house, and I won’t have ye running about like a savage. Yer a married lady now, and a countess. Besides, do ye really want that handsome husband of yer’s seeing you looking like ye’ve been drug through a knothole?”
That gave Violet pause. She’d never lingered much over her toilette, preferring to keep it brief and practical, but she was a married lady now, and she was wed to a devastatingly handsome man who’d shown far more appreciation for her appearance than she’d ever dared hope he would. If he should have a mind to stroke her hair again as he had last night, she didn’t want him coming away with a handful of cobwebs for his efforts, did she?
A blush crept into her cheeks, and Bridget noticed and let out a loud cackle. “That’s what I thought.”
As it happened, Violet needn’t have worried about the time, because even after she’d washed, dined, changed into a fresh gown, and let Bridget brush her hair until it shone, Nick still hadn’t stirred from his bedchamber.
“For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter with him? Why doesn’t he rise? Bridget, go down and see if you can coax Gibbs into waking him.”
Bridget sniffed. “Never known a man more full of himself than that Gibbs. He’s stiffer than a corpse, my lady. He won’t stir a step to help me, or you either, you may depend upon that.”
“Why, Bridget, there was a time when you could harass a corpse out of its coffin, but if you mean to say you’ve met your match at last, then—”
“Met me match, indeed.” Bridget snorted at the very idea. “Certainly not, leastwise not in that dry old stick. All right, then, I’ll get him up here quick enough, but don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing, my lady.”
Violet had no idea what Bridget did to persuade Gibbs to do her bidding, but when the maid returned she was flushed with trium
ph, and not five minutes later Violet heard Nick’s bedchamber door creak open, and muted male voices on the other side of the wall.
“Bridget, you’re brilliant! However did you get him to—”
Crash!
The loud noise made them both jump, and Bridget slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, mercy. It sounds like he knocked the tray—”
“Out! And don’t bloody come back until you’re called!”
Violet blanched at Nick’s furious roar, but she couldn’t quite prevent a grin at such a shameful display of unapologetic bad temper. “Well, it, ah—it sounds as if his lordship is awake at last.”
Bridget’s eyes were wide. “We were better off when he weren’t.”
“Yes, please do go down and offer my apologies to Gibbs, won’t you, Bridget? You may assure him I’ll never ask for that favor again.”
No, if Nick was going to fall into tempers and shout until the windows rattled, then he could shout at her. From now on, she’d handle her husband herself. How fortunate she had such quick reflexes. One wouldn’t think she’d need them for a courtship, but here they were.
Once Bridget had scurried out the door, the tray rattling in her hands, Violet crossed her bedchamber, and, throwing her shoulders back with determination, she opened the connecting door and slipped into Nick’s room, closing it with a soft click behind her.
Nick’s hearing was evidently as acute as her reflexes, because he bolted upright in the bed, a frightening scowl on his face. “Damn you, Gibbs, I told you to get out—”
His mouth dropped open when he saw Violet standing there. “What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber?”
Violet hadn’t expected him to be overjoyed to see her, but the short speech she’d planned to deliver froze in her throat as she stared at him, unable to say a word.
His chest was bare.
Oh, dear God, where was she meant to look?
Violet’s brain might not have known the answer to that question, but her eyes certainly did. His shoulders were so…and the hard muscles in his arms were like…and his chest, the solidity of it…she’d felt it before, slid her palms over it, but even so she never would have guessed it was so, so…