Haunting Violet
Page 21
“Violet, Mother expects only a title or else some kind of fashionable coup she can lord over her friends,” he explained. Elizabeth was right about that then. “Your mother is the most famous medium in London right now,” he pointed out proudly. “And no one can deny your beauty.”
That was the second time he mentioned my beauty. I should be flattered. A thorn pricked my thumb through my thin summer gloves.
“Let’s go to them now,” he urged, “so you’ll know you needn’t worry. They’ll love you as I do.”
He was earnest and dashing and I was a horrible girl. I should love him. Or I should at least feel the inclination for it. I felt only a vague sense of indulgence, as if he were a sweet boy. But maybe that was love, a soft slow feeling and not the passionate fiery melodrama of novels. Determined to make this work, I took his arm and we went back toward the house and his mother’s private sitting room.
“Oh, my flowers!” I stopped so abruptly I nearly jerked him off his feet. His fine polished shoes must not have very good tread. He flushed under his collar. “I’ll be right back,” I promised him and turned back.
I didn’t break into an undignified trot until after I’d gone past the hedges and was hidden from his view. The roses lay like a painted silk fan on the bench. I cradled them gently; they really were beautiful and the first I’d received from a boy. I couldn’t help a secret delighted smile as I buried my nose in them, careful to avoid the prickly thorns. They smelled like summer and perfume and sunlight. I’d have to remember to press them in a book when we got home—perhaps in my treasured copy of Jane Eyre, which I’d bought the day after we’d drugged Mrs. Gordon’s hot chocolate. I hadn’t been able to drink hot chocolate since.
I took another deep breath of the roses, determined not to ruin the moment for myself.
I had Colin for that, after all.
“You’ll get a beetle up your nose,” he said. I jumped, dropping one of the roses.
“Colin, for heaven’s sake. Were you hiding in the bushes?” Had he heard my conversation with Xavier? Did it matter?
He dropped down from a low branch of an oak tree where he’d been lounging and looking up at the leaves. “I miss the green,” he said with a shrug. Sometimes I forgot that he hadn’t always lived in London. “And Jasper won’t thank you for stripping his gardens bare,” he pointed out, combing an oak leaf out of his dark hair. He wore his usual trousers and shirt. I’d seen him in them a hundred times before, but after so many starched collar points and cravats, the small vee of his bare throat and chest was distracting.
“They were a gift,” I said.
“Why would an old man—” He cut himself off, standing suddenly as straight as any duke. “Trethewey.”
“Yes,” I replied, refusing to blush. “Aren’t they romantic?”
His jaw clenched. “He’s in love with your pretty face and has no idea who you are, flash bastard that he is.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said stiffly. “Excuse me.”
“Fine, then. Run after your prince.”
I turned on my heel, grinding rose petals under my boots.
“Violet, wait.”
I frowned at him. “I don’t have time to bicker just now.”
“Just be dog wise.”
“Be careful of what?” Surely he couldn’t mean Xavier.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, frustrated. “But I hear stories from the servants.”
“Stories? About Xavier?” I pressed, doubtfully.
“Aye, about this house and Jasper, even. I don’t think everything is as it seems.”
“Lord Jasper is a kindly old gentleman, not to mention an earl. You can’t be serious.”
“He’s a nice enough bloke, I reckon. But that doesn’t change the facts,” he insisted stubbornly. The dappled light made his blue eyes like water, mysterious and hard to read.
I tilted my head. “You’ve never been the sort to jump at shadows.”
“I’m not jumpy,” he grumbled. “Just cautious. And you should be too.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be careful. I have to go.”
He caught my hand as I turned to go. He wasn’t wearing gloves, of course, and I’d taken mine off so I wouldn’t stain them with the tiny thorn-induced wound on my thumb. “He’s not good enough for you.”
“What?” I stared at him incredulously. “I’d say you have that backward. He’s from a good family. I’m not.” His fingers slid away from mine. A swallow darted past us. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go convince his mother that I’m not a desperate fortune hunter with a liar for a mother and a disgusting talent for drugging old ladies.”
“No.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, no? What’s the matter with you?”
He just stepped closer to me, right on my shadow, which had been the only thing between us. His eyes were angry and conflicted but his hands were gentle on my face, wrapping around the back of my neck. He pulled slightly and I stumbled forward. His mouth closed over mine, the kiss sending warmth shooting all the way from my belly down into my knees. His tongue was bold, sliding over mine as if I were strawberry ice cream. I felt devoured, delicious, decadent.
He stopped abruptly, pulling back, his breath ragged.
That was the second time he mentioned my beauty. I should be flattered. A thorn pricked my thumb through my thin summer gloves.
“Let’s go to them now,” he urged, “so you’ll know you needn’t worry. They’ll love you as I do.”
He was earnest and dashing and I was a horrible girl. I should love him. Or I should at least feel the inclination for it. I felt only a vague sense of indulgence, as if he were a sweet boy. But maybe that was love, a soft slow feeling and not the passionate fiery melodrama of novels. Determined to make this work, I took his arm and we went back toward the house and his mother’s private sitting room.
“Oh, my flowers!” I stopped so abruptly I nearly jerked him off his feet. His fine polished shoes must not have very good tread. He flushed under his collar. “I’ll be right back,” I promised him and turned back.
I didn’t break into an undignified trot until after I’d gone past the hedges and was hidden from his view. The roses lay like a painted silk fan on the bench. I cradled them gently; they really were beautiful and the first I’d received from a boy. I couldn’t help a secret delighted smile as I buried my nose in them, careful to avoid the prickly thorns. They smelled like summer and perfume and sunlight. I’d have to remember to press them in a book when we got home—perhaps in my treasured copy of Jane Eyre, which I’d bought the day after we’d drugged Mrs. Gordon’s hot chocolate. I hadn’t been able to drink hot chocolate since.
I took another deep breath of the roses, determined not to ruin the moment for myself.
I had Colin for that, after all.
“You’ll get a beetle up your nose,” he said. I jumped, dropping one of the roses.
“Colin, for heaven’s sake. Were you hiding in the bushes?” Had he heard my conversation with Xavier? Did it matter?
He dropped down from a low branch of an oak tree where he’d been lounging and looking up at the leaves. “I miss the green,” he said with a shrug. Sometimes I forgot that he hadn’t always lived in London. “And Jasper won’t thank you for stripping his gardens bare,” he pointed out, combing an oak leaf out of his dark hair. He wore his usual trousers and shirt. I’d seen him in them a hundred times before, but after so many starched collar points and cravats, the small vee of his bare throat and chest was distracting.
“They were a gift,” I said.
“Why would an old man—” He cut himself off, standing suddenly as straight as any duke. “Trethewey.”
“Yes,” I replied, refusing to blush. “Aren’t they romantic?”
His jaw clenched. “He’s in love with your pretty face and has no idea who you are, flash bastard that he is.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said stiffly. “Excuse me.”
“Fine, then. Run after your prince.”
I turned on my heel, grinding rose petals under my boots.
“Violet, wait.”
I frowned at him. “I don’t have time to bicker just now.”
“Just be dog wise.”
“Be careful of what?” Surely he couldn’t mean Xavier.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted, frustrated. “But I hear stories from the servants.”
“Stories? About Xavier?” I pressed, doubtfully.
“Aye, about this house and Jasper, even. I don’t think everything is as it seems.”
“Lord Jasper is a kindly old gentleman, not to mention an earl. You can’t be serious.”
“He’s a nice enough bloke, I reckon. But that doesn’t change the facts,” he insisted stubbornly. The dappled light made his blue eyes like water, mysterious and hard to read.
I tilted my head. “You’ve never been the sort to jump at shadows.”
“I’m not jumpy,” he grumbled. “Just cautious. And you should be too.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be careful. I have to go.”
He caught my hand as I turned to go. He wasn’t wearing gloves, of course, and I’d taken mine off so I wouldn’t stain them with the tiny thorn-induced wound on my thumb. “He’s not good enough for you.”
“What?” I stared at him incredulously. “I’d say you have that backward. He’s from a good family. I’m not.” His fingers slid away from mine. A swallow darted past us. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go convince his mother that I’m not a desperate fortune hunter with a liar for a mother and a disgusting talent for drugging old ladies.”
“No.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, no? What’s the matter with you?”
He just stepped closer to me, right on my shadow, which had been the only thing between us. His eyes were angry and conflicted but his hands were gentle on my face, wrapping around the back of my neck. He pulled slightly and I stumbled forward. His mouth closed over mine, the kiss sending warmth shooting all the way from my belly down into my knees. His tongue was bold, sliding over mine as if I were strawberry ice cream. I felt devoured, delicious, decadent.
He stopped abruptly, pulling back, his breath ragged.
