by Bree Wolf
Lady Weston all but blushed.
Violette nodded knowingly. “I have an older cousin who acted fairly the same way when we were growing up.” She chuckled, “He actually had the nerve to pretend that he didn’t like me around.”
“Unfathomable!” Oliver grinned teasingly.
Lord Elmridge leaned toward him conspiratorially and whispered for all to hear, “A bit of marital advice: I suggest you do not antagonise your wife. It never ends well.”
Violette laughed, and Oliver looked at his friend with disbelief. “Honestly? And are you speaking from experience?”
Lord Elmridge held up his hands in innocence, exchanging a meaningful look with his wife. “Not from my own, I assure you.”
“And were you able to change your cousin’s mind?” Lord Weston asked, his gentle brown eyes moving from his wife to Violette. “The way you speak of him would suggest you were successful.”
Violette nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat as a sudden longing to see Henri’s face rose in her chest. “I was,” she said sombrely, inhaling a deep breath. “Today, he is like the older brother I never had. He’s my best friend, and no matter how far we may be apart, I know we’ll never lose that.”
The table quieted at her words, and Violette felt a sting of guilt for ruining the mood. Lord Weston, however, nodded knowingly, a soft smile on his face. “I, too, have an old friend who was–and still is–like a brother to me.” He glanced at his wife, and Violette could see something pass between them. “Lord Ashwood,” he said by way of explaining, and everyone around the table nodded in understanding.
All but Violette.
“We are like day and night,” Lord Weston continued, looking mainly at Violette as the rest of their group seemed to know Lord Ashwood. “We’re opposites in every way. However, growing up, we had one thing in common: a little sister who could not be dissuaded from following us around.” Lord Weston grinned at his wife.
Everyone laughed at Lady Weston’s portrayed affront. However, her charade did not last long. “I do remember how he always looked at his sister as though he could not for the life of him understand what went on in her head.”
Lord Weston laughed, “I suppose that’s because he truly couldn’t.” Again, he turned to Violette. “You see he’s rather stern, traditional and rarely smiles. Sometimes he acts as though life merely consists of duty. His sister, Miss Davenport, on the other hand, is a rather passionate creature. Impulsive. Uninhibited in her speech.”
Violette smiled. “That sounds as though they might drive each other insane.”
Lord Weston chuckled, “It would not surprise me. I can only hope they’ll manage to resolve their difference without bloodshed.”
“He remains unmarried, does he not?” Lady Elmridge asked, her brows raised as she looked from one to the next. “Perhaps a wife could aid him in this regard. It would seem a mediator might be beneficial.”
“He does not seem inclined to marry,” Lord Weston replied, “until he sees his sister suitably settled. She, on the other hand, refuses to choose a husband before she has seen the world as she states it. I’m afraid they’re at an impasse.”
The evening continued amicably, and Violette enjoyed hearing stories about Oliver and his friends as well as sharing some of her own. Although she had been apprehensive at first about sharing her secret with people she had never even met, Violette had to admit that she could not imagine any one of them betraying their secret. They all seemed quite devoted to one another…the way a family was.
Despite their differences in character or circumstance, they all had people in their lives they loved beyond reason or sense, and Violette could not help but wonder about the gentle warmth that came to her heart whenever she would catch Oliver’s gaze.
Once the last course had been cleared off the table, the circle of friends moved into the ballroom where–to Violette’s surprise–they found a young man seating himself at the pianoforte.
“Shall we begin with a waltz?” Oliver asked, winking at Violette as he reached for her hand.
Chuckles rose from the others as they all turned toward their spouses, eyes filled with deep emotions as they looked at one another.
The man at the pianoforte began to play, and Violette took note of the impeccable way the other two couples began to move across the empty dance floor. A lump settled in her stomach, and a hint of panic raced through her veins.
“Look at me,” Oliver said, his voice strong, as he pulled her into his arms. “Don’t look at them,” he whispered when their eyes met. “You can do this. We can do this.”
Doing her best to remember the steps, Violette allowed Oliver to guide her to the soft notes of the music, her gaze dropping down to her feet again and again.
“Look at me,” Oliver repeated, pulling her against his chest so that she was no longer able to see her feet.
Violette glared at him. “I should think this is rather inappropriate,” she commented, trying her best to keep her voice from losing its seriousness. “What will the lords and ladies of the ton think?”
Oliver grinned. “That I’m very fond of my wife.”
Violette suppressed a laugh. “Be serious.”
“I am.” His gaze held hers, and suddenly there was no mockery in the way he looked at her.
Inhaling a deep breath, Violette could feel his fingers tracing intricate patterns across her back where his hand rested gently, and yet, insistently while his other closed more tightly around her own. There was something in his eyes. Something that spoke of deep longing, and yet, he seemed peaceful, satisfied with the place he had found in life.
At least for the moment.
Violette felt her heart skip a beat as she tried to interpret the emotions that were dancing over Oliver’s face, and a touch of panic crept up her spine. Although she was far from disinclined–in fact, rather curious–from exploring a physical relationship with her fake husband, Violette knew that anything more would only lead to complications.
After all, his place was here in London as the future marquess while her own was out at sea. No amount of wishful thinking could change that.
No matter what they felt, what might come of the time they spent together pretending to be husband and wife, in the end, they would have to go their separate ways.
Averting her gaze, Violette looked over Oliver’s shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze as he tried to re-establish the connection they had had. The connection that had made her realise that the greatest danger on this endeavour was not to have her secret revealed, but to lose her heart to a man who could never share her life.
When the music stopped, there was a moment when Violette looked up and saw not only confusion but also a touch of fear in Oliver’s eyes. Had he felt it, too? She wondered. Had he just now realised the same thing? That they lived on borrowed time?
“How about a simple country dance first?” Lady Elmridge suggested as the other couples approached them.
Oliver lifted his head, breaking the bittersweet moment they had shared. “That sounds like a good idea,” he replied, his voice strained as he forced himself to remain jovial.
As the evening progressed further, Violette forced her thoughts to remain with the many steps she needed to learn and not linger on the man who held her hand and guided her feet. Relief flooded her whenever the dance drew them apart, and Lord Weston or Lord Elmridge met her gaze with a gentle one of their own, praising her efforts and encouraging her to continue.
Long past midnight, they finally bid their guests a good night before Oliver offered her his hand to escort her upstairs. Hesitating for only a moment, Violette accepted his offer, feeling a strange jolt when her hand slid into his and his fingers closed around hers.
Cursing under her breath, she kept her gaze fixed on the paintings decorating the corridor’s walls until they came to stand outside her bedchamber. “I bid you a good night,” she mumbled without looking at him and turned to step into her chamber.
“Wait,” Oliv
er whispered, his hand closing around her arm, holding her back. “Look at me.” His voice sounded hoarse as though he, too, was battling emotions he had not seen coming.
Swallowing, Violette squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, then turned and met his gaze. “Yes?” she asked as though she did not have an inkling of what had passed between them.
For a long moment, his gaze held hers, searched hers, before he asked, “Are you all right?” He paused, then added, “Perhaps you ought to have more opportunities to practise than one evening.” He shook his head. “I should have thought of that. Perhaps we should not attend a ball so soon. Perh–”
“I’ll be fine,” Violette interrupted, knowing that there was no way she would postpone meeting her sister. Time was of the essence. Their charade had to end soon. The sooner, the better. “Besides, Lady Elmridge and Lady Weston offered to tutor me further. I am to call on them tomorrow.”
Surprise lit up Oliver’s eyes, and he nodded. “I see.” A tense grin came to his face. “I suppose I ought not to be surprised. After all, I’ve never met a woman who knew how to handle life the way you do.”
Touched, Violette nodded.
As she turned to go, Oliver reached for her hand and then gently lifted it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “Good night, my lady,” he whispered, and the way his breath caressed her skin sent shivers down her back.
Inhaling a stuttering breath, Violette smiled at him. “You’re acting like a fine gentleman tonight.”
Oliver shrugged. “I try.” The eyes that held hers suddenly darkened, a new urgency coming to the dark blue gaze glowing in the dimly lit corridor. His jaw tensed as though a battle waged within him before he suddenly shot forward.
Violette gasped as he pulled her into his arms, one hand sliding along her jaw and back into her hair. Then his mouth closed over hers in a hungry kiss.
Unable to fight her own longing for the man who had never treated her with anything but respect and admiration, Violette slid her arms up his chest, her fingers curling into the front of his jacket. Pulling him closer, she opened her mouth, and he deepened the kiss.
Then, suddenly, Oliver stepped back, his gaze dark as he looked down into her eyes. “Sometimes I fail,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Good night, my lady.” Then he turned and walked down the corridor until he vanished into his own chamber.
Leaning against the door frame, Violette drew in an unsteady breath, her lips tingling with the memory of their kiss, and wondered how she would ever be able to bid him farewell.
Chapter Twenty-One – Lord Grafton’s Ball
With his wife on his arm, Oliver strode into Lord Grafton’s townhouse, pride resting in his heart at having such an extraordinary woman by his side. Far more beautiful than any woman he had ever laid eyes on and with a spirit so fiery and vibrant as none he had ever encountered.
And she was his!
At least for the moment.
Once again, Oliver felt his heart clench as though an iron grip had descended upon it for the mere thought of continuing without her made him feel sick to his stomach. And yet, that was their agreement, was it not? He would help her save her sister, and in return, he had received his freedom.
Sighing, Oliver glanced at the uncharacteristically silent woman by his side, only now noting the tension that held her face rigid. Although she tried to smile, a hint of panic rested in her blue eyes and her hand clasped his arm tightly, her fingers almost digging into his flesh.
“Are you all right?” he asked, momentarily confused until he took note of the many sets of eyes watching their arrival.
Cursing himself, Oliver wondered how he had not seen this. Lost in his own sense of accomplishment for having claimed such a beautiful wife, he had forgotten about the ton’s curiosity as well as Violet’s need for secrecy, which now seemed to clash.
A slight tremble shook her frame, and Oliver clasped his hand over hers, giving her a gentle squeeze.
Looking up, Violet smiled at him, a touch of gratitude in her blue gaze.
Ignoring the crowd that looked at them with open curiosity, they proceeded onward, the guests’ whispers drifting through the air like the soft music coming from the ballroom. Oliver knew exactly what they were thinking, the remnants of whispers that drifted to his ears proving his point.
As Violet had not grown up in English society and had never set foot in a ballroom, she was an unknown entity without a past, without family, without connections. There was nothing to gossip about except for the most pressing questions: who was she? And how had she managed to claim Oliver as her own?
Chuckling under his breath, Oliver knew that their thoughts could not be further from the truth. For in truth, it was he who often wondered how he could have been so fortunate as to claim her as his. He was the lucky one. Not the other way around.
“I wish I knew what she looked like,” Violet whispered beside him as they came to stand to one side of the ballroom, watching many couples dance by. “How will we ever find her?”
Oliver sighed, wishing he could remember if he had ever made Lady Juliet’s acquaintance. “Let us take a turn about the room. Perhaps I can find someone who could point her out to us.”
Nodding, Violet followed him, her blue gaze drifting over the assembled guests, for the moment ignorant of the fact that they looked back at her with equal measure.
As Oliver was about to step around a group of young ladies whispering excitedly to one another, Violet suddenly froze, halting his progress mid-step. “What is it?” he asked, alarmed by the paleness of her cheeks. “Are you all right? Do you see her?” He followed the direction of her gaze but could not determine who had caused her current state.
“There,” she whispered, nodding her head in the direction of the orchestra. “The man with the greying hair and the sharp features. He just signalled to one of the footmen to bring him a refreshment.”
“I see him,” Oliver whispered, leaning closer to his wife. “Who is he?” The man looked oddly familiar. However, Oliver was unable to place him.
Violet swallowed, taking a step back, half-hiding behind Oliver’s shoulder. “He’s my father.”
***
Lost memories returned at the sight of the man who had given her his name, the man she had not thought of as her father in a long while. Still, those memories were only vague and faint as though they had merely been a dream, elusive and gone by the time the sun rose.
“Do you wish to leave?” Oliver asked beside her, and she turned her head to meet his gaze.
Concern for her was etched into his blue eyes, and his hand tightened gently on her own, letting her know that she was not alone in this. That he was there.
Violette drew in a shuddering breath as she held his gaze, drawing on his steady hand to force her fluttering nerves back under control. “I’m fine,” she mumbled after a while. “Thank you.”
He smiled at her then, nodding his head as though to assure her that all would be well. “Stay beside me,” he whispered, glancing at her father across the ballroom. “We do not want him to see you.” Straightening, Oliver held her back slightly, his shoulder blocking her view while hiding her behind him at the same time.
Peering past him, Violette found her father’s face once more, her heart racing as past and present collided. Still, that was not why she had come, Violette reminded herself. She was here for a very specific reason. One reason alone.
Letting her gaze travel over the people standing closest to her father, Violette felt her heart sink when she could not spot a young woman that would match her sister’s description. However, when the gentleman standing beside her father turned, revealing his face in profile, Violette gasped once more as memories returned with such force that she felt as though the air was knocked from her lungs.
Panting she felt her hand claw into Oliver’s arm as her mother’s voice echoed in her head telling her of the betrothed her father had chosen for her. The same man who now held her sist
er’s future in his hands.
The Earl of Dowling.
“Violet!”
Oliver’s harsh whispering of her name brought her back to the present, and she found herself staring into his blue eyes, his hands gripping her upper arms almost painfully as he desperately tried to get her attention without being too obvious in a large ballroom full of prying eyes.
Swallowing, Violette nodded. “I’m sorry. I…I’m fine. I simply…” Again, she glanced over her shoulder, and a cold shiver slid down her back at the thought of what her future might have been had her mother not interfered.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Oliver asked, his teeth clenched as he looked at her. “Dowling? The man you…” His voice trailed off, and Violette could see anger etched into his face, his lips pressed into a thin line and his brows drawn down in loathing.
Violette nodded as Oliver pulled her aside, farther away from the men she had left behind so long ago.
Once they had retreated closer to the edge of the ballroom near where the powder rooms were located, Oliver gently caught her chin and made her look up at him, his eyes searching her face. “Are you all right? Do you wish to leave?”
Touched by his concern as well as the raw emotions she saw on his face, Violette shook her head. “I cannot. I…”
“Frankly, the thought of you married to him,” Oliver growled menacingly, “it turns my stomach.” Swallowing, he released her chin, but pulled her hands into his.
“Mine as well.” Inhaling a deep breath, Violette steeled herself, knowing that she could not abandon her sister to a fate she had fled from herself. “And I am certain Lady Juliet feels the same.”
Oliver nodded, understanding setting his features into a determined scowl. “Stay here, out of sight. I shall see what I can find out about your sister’s whereabouts.”
Watching him stroll away, Violette suddenly felt completely and utterly abandoned. Her eyes swept London society, and she realised in that moment that all her doubts and questions had vanished. This was not where she belonged, and she had lost nothing by leaving it behind. Quite on the contrary, all she had gained by choosing a different life became crystal clear to her, and a sudden longing filled her heart to be back on the Chevalier Noir, feeling the wind in her hair, as the ship cut through the waves.