Condemned & Admired

by Bree Wolf

  In the next moment, the cold steel of a dagger was pressed against his throat.

  Oliver swallowed, holding himself still, trying not to spook her lest she cut his throat. “It’s me,” he whispered, his gaze searching hers.

  Her blue eyes looked into his for a moment longer. Then her mouth opened in dismay, and she immediately withdrew the dagger from his throat. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her gaze shifting around the interior of the carriage. “I didn’t…I’d forgotten…”

  “Where you were?” Oliver asked, running a hand over his throat, inspecting it for damage. Fortunately, his hand came back blood-free.

  Violet nodded. Then her eyes narrowed. “What were you doing?” she asked, suspicion in her voice as her gaze travelled to his outstretched arm. The arm that had been wrapped around her shoulders not too long ago.

  Lifting his hands in surrender, Oliver grinned. “Hey, I was not the one with his head on your shoulder, now was I?” he teased. “Although I can’t say that I minded.”

  “You sat over there,” she accused half-heartedly, pointing at the seat across from them, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “It would have served you right if I had cut your throat. Let that be a warning to you.”

  “It certainly is,” he chuckled, relieved to see that she was not truly angry with him. “I suppose I should have known that you had a weapon hidden under your skirts.”

  “You should indeed,” Violet agreed. “After all, I’m a privateer’s daughter. What did you expect?”

  Thunderstruck, Oliver gazed at her, his head bobbing up and down rather foolishly. “That you are,” he whispered, realising that he would have been disappointed had she not reacted precisely the way she just had.

  After all, this woman was far from ordinary! And he admired her for it. He admired her greatly!

  ***

  Ignoring Oliver’s teasing grin, Violette directed her gaze out the window and her eyes widened as she took in the sheer size of London town. Tall buildings framed the cobblestone streets. Throngs of people strolled along the pavements. Carriages hastened up and down the street. Voices called, and horses whinnied. It was loud–almost deafening–and yet, oddly fascinating.

  Although Violette had spent her early years in England, she had never ventured far from Silcox Manor. Never had she seen London with her own eyes. She had only ever heard her mother speak of the grand city. Still, whenever Violette had thought of England, her mind had conjured a lonely country estate near the sea.

  This, however, was different, and she was grateful to have Oliver by her side.

  When the carriage drew to a halt in front of one of those monstrous townhouses, Oliver stepped outside, holding out his hand to her. “My lady,” he said with a grin. “Welcome home.”

  All but gaping at the tall building, Violette accepted his hand, enjoying the feeling of warmth and security that enveloped her, and stepped outside into the sun. For a moment, she felt blinded, but then her gaze focused, and she could not help but shake her head. “Who else lives here?” she asked as a part of her slowly came to understand why he felt so lonely.

  Surprised, Oliver held her gaze. “No one.”

  Violette nodded. “I see. Such a big house only for yourself. Do you even feel at home here?”

  For a long moment, Oliver looked at her and she could see that he had never truly thought of this house as his home. He slept there. Ate there. Received visitors. And yet, he did not live there. Not truly.

  He sighed but did not answer. Instead, he drew her hand through the crook of his arm and guided her up the stairs. “Let’s go and shock the servants,” he teased, winking at her. “How much are you willing to bet that at least one of them will faint on the spot?”

  Knowing that he was trying to divert her attention away from something that obviously pained him greatly, Violette smiled. “I don’t gamble, and I thought you didn’t, either.”

  Oliver shrugged. “Only occasionally. Not enough to actually call myself a gambler though.”

  As they approached the front doors, they swung open as though by magic, revealing a dignified, middle-aged man with a serious frown. “Welcome home, my lord,” he said, a hint of true affection in his monotone voice.

  Not once though did he even glance in Violette’s direction.

  “Dunston, old man,” Oliver began, his voice laughing, as they stepped into the entrance hall, “I have wonderful news.” After handing their coats to a footman, he once more drew Violette near. “May I introduce my wife, Lady Violet Cornell, Countess of Cullingwood.”

  “Good day,” Violette managed, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and doubting very much that this whole endeavour had been a good idea. Still, now there was no going back.

  To Dunston’s credit, the old man barely reacted beyond a slight widening of his eyes and a moment of hesitation before he offered his congratulations and welcomed her as the new lady of the house.

  “I need to see all invitations that arrived in my absence,” Oliver continued, his eyes trained on the old butler’s face. “And please send for a modiste right away as my wife needs a new wardrobe. I’m afraid her luggage had a bit of an accident on the way here.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” Dunston assured them, his face disappointingly inexpressive. “I’ll see to it that her ladyship’s chambers are readied right away.” Then the old man bowed and walked off.

  Oliver seemed disappointed, and the look of expectation on his face turned dark. “Let me know if anyone has a rather unusual reaction to this news,” he called after Dunston, annoyance clear in his eyes as he turned back to Violette. “Honestly, I would have expected more.”

  Violette laughed, “Keep in mind, my lord, that it does not matter whether one of the servants faints or not. After all, we did not make a wager.”

  “I don’t care about a wager,” Oliver grumbled. “But could they not simply faint for the fun of it.” Then he escorted her up the stairs and down a long corridor. “Here, this is my bedchamber,” he said, opening a door and pulling her inside. “It should–”

  “Yours?” Violette demanded, eyes narrowed as she watched him. “You don’t seriously expect me to share your bed? Besides, Dunston said that–”

  “I know,” he interrupted, an amused smile dancing on his features. “Although I would not object to you sharing my bed, I merely brought you here because you’ll need room and privacy once the modiste arrives. As soon as your chamber is readied, you are free to use it. There, happy?”

  Violette nodded, looking around the large, elegantly furnished room. An enormous bed rested against the back wall opposite a large fireplace. Dark armoires had been placed here and there, and in the corner by the window front, a small sitting area had been set up.

  It was a nice enough room. Still, it seemed cold and empty…as though no one lived here.

  “Order as many dresses and accessories as you like,” Oliver continued as she turned back to him. “I will head out to White’s and try to find out when your sister’s wedding will take place as well as which balls she might attend in the next week or two.”

  Violette drew in a deep breath, her stomach in knots, as she realised that the moment of truth was almost upon them. What if she failed her sister?

  Watching her intently, Oliver stepped closer. “You’re frightened,” he whispered, awe in his voice as his eyes studied her face. “How can you be frightened now when you don’t bat an eye sailing on a privateer, boarding enemy ships, a weapon in each hand?” He exhaled, and his eyes narrowed as though he only needed to look hard enough to see the answer to his question.

  Violette swallowed, allowing a little smile to curl up the corners of her mouth. “We always fear what we don’t know,” she replied, and then added, “And it is her life at stake here. Not mine.”

  After a moment, Oliver nodded. Then he stepped closer, and his mouth opened as though he was about to say something. Still, no words emerged from his lips. Instead, he lifted his right hand and placed it gently on her shoul
der, allowing it to run down the side of her arm until it reached her hand. Squeezing it lightly, he nodded to her, and she could see a renewal of the promise he had made her on their journey burning in his eyes.

  Inhaling a deep breath, Violette smiled at him. “Thank you.”

  Again, he nodded to her, then turned on his heel and left.

  Sinking into one of the chairs, Violette closed her eyes for a moment, trying to work through the overwhelming emotions coming at her from all sides. Not only was she in enemy territory, in a city quite unlike any she had ever seen, dropped into a life she had never known, a man at her side who continued to…

  What?

  He teased her, and yet, she trusted him. Still, it was more than that, was it not? He also tempted her. Tempted her to step outside of her comfort zone and explore new parts of life she had never thought she wanted.

  Then there was her sister. A woman she had never met. Never known about until a few days ago. And yet, there was an undeniable bond between them. One that went beyond guilt and the need to right a wrong.

  Rising from her chair, Violette stepped up to the window and glanced down at the busy street. Her gaze swept the neighbouring townhouses, and she wondered where her sister lived. If Oliver was right, was Lady Juliet in London at this very moment? Try as she might, Violette could not remember what street Viscount Silcox’s townhouse was on…if she had ever even known. Was it possible that her sister lived on this very street? Possibly right next door?

  Shaking her head, Violette knew that it was not. If Lord Silcox was Oliver’s neighbour, surely Oliver would know about it, and he would have told her, wouldn’t he?

  “Yes, he would have,” Violette said out loud, silencing the little voice of doubt that remained, naggingly urging her to be on her guard.

  After a long while, a knock sounded on the door, and Violette almost flinched. Taking a deep breath, she called for the person on the other side of the door to enter.

  Dunston appeared. “My lady, the modiste is here.”

  “Send her in,” Violette said, doing her best to portray a young lady used to such treatment. “Thank you, Dunston.”

  The old man inclined his head, then stepped back and allowed a brightly dressed woman inside. A brightly dressed woman followed by another three brightly dressed women. While the older woman introduced herself as Madam Bertram and congratulated Violette on her nuptials, the three younger ones busied themselves setting out dresses and fabrics, bonnets and accessories of all kinds.

  Before she knew what was happening, Violette found herself up on a small pedestal. While one of the young women, Mary, took her measurements, another, Joan, kept thrusting different fabrics in her face as Madam Bertram talked on about this season’s fashionable highlights. Occasionally, Madam asked her a question, but quickly realised that Violette had little to contribute when it came to choosing the right colour or fabric and matching them to the many accessories laid out before her. Indeed, for Violette, it was a nightmare come true. Never had she felt so much out of her element than in that moment.

  Hours later, Violette found herself still standing on the pedestal in an azure gown which–as Madam Bertram assured her–brought out her eyes and matched her golden locks perfectly. Mary was taking in the seam when a thunderous voice echoed through the house.

  Everyone in the room froze, and Violette noticed with annoyance how all eyes turned to her for an explanation. How was she to know what this ruckus was about? She wondered momentarily before she reminded herself that, yes, she was the new lady of the house and probably ought to know. At least by normal standards.

  In the next instant, the door flew open, revealing an enraged older man in its frame. “Oliver, I demand to know–!” When his eyes fell on her, he broke off, anger replaced by confusion.

  For a moment, Violette did not know what was happening. But then her eyes travelled over the man’s face and took in the small similarities between him and Oliver. However, despite a certain resemblance, she thought there was very little father and son had in common. This man never seemed to smile or laugh as his face did not hold even the slightest trace of humour. Instead, he glared at her as though her existence alone was an audacity he could not fathom.

  And he did not even know who she was.

  Well, he quite obviously did not care.

  Squaring her shoulders, Violette held the man’s gaze without flinching. She had met his type before. Men who were loud and angry and were used to frightening off most people with their rash and altogether unpleasant manners. Men who thought the world was theirs, and everyone else ought to bow their heads to them.

  Well, if that was what he thought, he was out of luck. “You must be Oliver’s father,” Violette addressed him, doing her best to imitate her father’s authoritative voice. In the back of her head, she could see him smile at her.

  At the tone in her voice, the marquess’s eyes narrowed. Leaning on his walking stick, he stepped into the room, taking in the scene. “Leave us!” he thundered, his glaring gaze returning to Violette as the modiste and her assistants scrambled out of the room. “Who are you?” he demanded, venom dripping from his voice. “What are you doing in my son’s house?”

  Smiling sweetly, Violette stepped down from the pedestal, silently cursing the tight skirt of her dress as it hindered her movement. Why would any woman ever choose to wear something so utterly limiting? She wondered before focusing her thoughts on her opponent once more. “If you must know,” she replied, watching the man’s face carefully, “I am his wife.”

  The moment the words left her lips, the marquess turned white as a sheet, and for a split second, Violette thought he would faint, wondering if Oliver would have been pleased to have at least one person faint at the news of their marriage.

  Then his face slowly turned red, and anger returned to his eyes. Not anger, hatred! Pure, unadulterated hatred! “You lie,” he snarled. “My son would never–” Breaking off, he stared at her, his jaw clenching as he realised that his son would dare after all.

  “If you don’t believe me,” Violette said nonetheless, “then I suggest you wait for your son’s return. I assure you he will confirm my answer.”

  The marquess’s hand tightened on the walking stick, and his lips thinned as he continued to glare at her. Despite his heaving chest, he seemed frozen in place. At least for a moment. Then his anger exploded, and from one second to the next, he came at her like a charging bull, walking stick raised above his head. “You harlot!”

  Spinning out of his path, Violette felt the fabric of her skirts tightened and then rip as she widened her stance to keep her balance. Cursing under her breath, she reached a hand down to her ankle to retrieve her dagger, but remembered that she had stashed it under the right pillow of Oliver’s bed before the modiste had urged her onto the pedestal.

  Once more, Violette ducked out of the way as the marquess turned on his heel and swung his walking stick at her head. For a man his age, he was surprisingly agile. It was no doubt the anger burning in his veins gave him speed and strength.

  Still, Violette needed to end this.

  Quick as lighting, she retrieved her dagger, ducked under his next swing before pivoting out of his path and behind him. Straightening, she gripped him from behind and pressed her dagger to his throat. “Is this how you treat your son’s wife, my lord?” she asked sweetly, a note of condescension in her tone. “Where are your manners?”

  Chapter Eighteen – A Privateer’s Daughter

  Upon returning home, Oliver was surprised to be greeted by a rather pale-looking Dunston, wringing his hands nervously, his eyes wide with concern and indecision. “Dunston, is something wrong? You look a fright.”

  As his butler’s mouth opened and closed, clearly at a loss for words, Oliver caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Stepping forward into the foyer, he found the modiste pacing up and down the area in front of the staircase while her three assistants stood in a small circle, whispering to one another and cast
ing nervous glances upward.

  “What is going on here?” Oliver demanded. Then his heart skipped a beat, and he swallowed. “Where is my wife?”

  In that moment, his father’s booming voice echoed downstairs, freezing the blood in Oliver’s veins. Without a moment’s hesitation, he all but flew up the stairs, cursing his father and praying that Violet was all right.

  By the time he reached the half-open door to his bedchamber, the pulse in his neck beat frantically. He was about to burst into the room when he caught sight of his wife as she skilfully ducked out of the way as his father came charging at her, swinging his walking stick over his head like a club.

  Her dress tore, revealing a long, elegant leg, and she cursed rather unladylike. Oliver could not help but smile, his gaze momentarily fixed on her soft skin.

  Then she darted toward his bed. Oliver frowned until she spun out of his father’s reach once more and he spotted the small gleaming blade of her dagger in her right hand. The same dagger that he had made the acquaintance of earlier that day.

  Shaking his head, Oliver chuckled. Oh, he truly should not be surprised! The fear he had felt for her only a moment earlier evaporated and was immediately replaced by unadulterated awe and pride. She was an amazing woman, and he could not believe his luck that he had found her.

  Half-hidden behind the door, Oliver watched as his wife pressed her dagger to his father’s throat. “Is this how you treat your son’s wife, my lord?” she asked, her eyes sharp and her voice full of authority. “Where are your manners?”

  Smiling, Oliver watched his father huff and gulp down air, his face red with anger as well as exertion. Finally, the old man had met someone he could not intimidate. Someone who did not owe him loyalty. Someone who did not care about station.

  Oliver supposed today would go down in history as one of the worst days of the marquess’s life. Never in his life had Oliver seen his father so humbled, and he felt pride swell in his chest as he looked at his radiant wife.