The Countess Conspiracy
Page 35
“Yes,” Violet said. “You aren’t the County Captain of some organization that I have never heard of. But you are one of the world’s foremost experts on the inheritance of traits.”
His smile flattened. “Oh, come now, Violet. We both know that’s you, not me.”
Nothing had changed between them.
Everything had changed between them. When he talked to her like that—looking into her eyes and dropping his voice low—she had once been able to dismiss the swirling sparks in her throat as her own misguided, unwanted response. Now, she knew that she wasn’t alone. Some elemental part of her recognized that he wanted her—that even when he was saying things like Come now, Violet, he yearned for her. She had a new name for that dizziness she felt, that heady rush of warmth that swarmed her cheeks.
Not Violet’s attraction. That she could ignore. This was mutual attraction. How could he not sense it? How could he not know?
“You and I both know,” he said, “that without you, I would have been nobody. You’re the expert. I’m…” He shrugged. “I’m not even your mouthpiece any longer. I learned a great deal from working together. I enjoyed it most of the time, and I’ll grant you that I’m clever enough. But I’m not a serious fellow, Violet, and Benedict knows that. I didn’t set out to make a career for myself in trade. I just wanted to try a little trick.”
“Oh, to hell with that,” Violet heard herself exclaim. “And to hell with Benedict for making you believe it. Yes, you tell jokes. That has nothing to do with what you’ve accomplished. I never said you were the foremost expert on the inheritance of traits. I said you were one of them.”
“But—”
“You’re not a parrot,” Violet told him. “People have to be able to ask you questions and engage you in conversation. You can falsify the source of your knowledge, but you cannot falsify the knowledge itself. Aside from me, there is not one person in the world who understands what you do.”
“But only because you—”
“No. Because you worked and questioned and thought and tried,” Violet continued ruthlessly. “You have worked with me for years. When we needed to learn mathematics to proceed, we struggled together. If we were both men, the credit for our work would have been shared between us. We can quibble about whose name would have gone first, but your name belongs beside mine. You have been with me day after day, night after night. A stupid man, a faithless man, an undependable man—he could not have done what you did. And it is codswallop for your brother to say that you have done nothing. It is an insult to the name of accomplishment.”
“But—”
“No!” She exclaimed. “I won’t hear any excuses for him. I won’t. You understood what we were doing so well that you applied the principles of mathematics we used to shipping and made twenty-two thousand pounds. You’re not a stupid fribble, Sebastian, no matter what your brother says. You’re a very clever man who happens to have a wicked sense of humor.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her.
But to call it looking was like calling an eighteen-course feast a snack. The space between them seemed charged with electricity. She could almost feel her hair rising, strand by strand, so powerful was that charge.
And his eyes, oh, his eyes. They made her want to take a step forward, to take his hands in hers. She put her hands behind her back instead.
“Violet,” he said a little hoarsely.
She took a deep breath. “Really.” Another breath. “I resent Benedict, saying such stupid things.” Making her betray herself, making Sebastian look at her with that compelling intensity. “It makes me very angry. At him.”
He sighed and looked away, rubbing his lips. She wouldn’t think of kissing him. She wouldn’t.
“You have to admit,” Sebastian said calmly, as if nothing had just transpired, “that Benedict has a point. Whatever I have accomplished, I have not been very respectable.”
It was that lack of respectability that made it so impossible to comprehend what he’d told her. He claimed he loved her? Sebastian was a rake; love had never entered in to any of his dealings.
Sebastian never talked of his…escapades. Not with her, not with anyone else. He was extraordinarily discreet—one of the reasons, she suspected, that he proved so popular. For all she knew, he had a lover waiting for him tonight. He might have three of them. He couldn’t love her. It made much more sense to imagine that he saw her as a potential…candidate. He’d meant love in the physical sense. He had some lust for her, no more or no less than anyone else who had ever caught his fancy.
She looked away. “Benedict cannot know the extent of your respectability,” she remarked. “Even I don’t.”
He glanced at her. “Did you want to?”
Did she want to hear about other women? No. Definitely not. If he told her, she might do something embarrassing—something like imagining herself in another woman’s place.
“In any event,” Sebastian said after a pause that was not quite long enough to turn awkward, “you’re right, but you’re a little overexuberant. I attempted a bit of scientific research on my own. I never mentioned it to you, because I was embarrassed by my lack of progress. Maybe one day I’ll present the work as proof of my failure.” He shrugged. “That, at least, would be my own.”
“Ridiculous,” Violet told him.
“It’s not ridiculous. I could show you.”
“It is ridiculous. One failed project is not a failed career. Projects fail all the time for all kinds of reasons. You know that.”
Once again, he didn’t say anything in response. But he was giving her that look—that intense, dark look, the one that he wasn’t trying to hide any more.
“Every time,” he said quietly. “Every time I doubt, every time I wonder if I am less than I have imagined… Violet.”
He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t have to. She swallowed and looked away. She didn’t want to think about him that way; she simply didn’t. Ignorance may not have been bliss, but at least it was risk-free.
“Benedict,” she muttered. “It’s all his fault. He’s stubbornly refusing to give you the credit you deserve. That’s all.”
“I don’t want credit,” he said. “I just want my brother.” He shut his eyes. “But…” He stopped, and then looked up. “But Benedict cares about the things he cares about.” He was speaking more slowly. “And, yes, you’re right—he can be stubborn when he’s made up his mind. He is a little stodgy; no doubt the mathematics were a little much for him. But he’s fair. He’ll change his mind, once he realizes…”
His smile flattened. “Oh, come now, Violet. We both know that’s you, not me.”
Nothing had changed between them.
Everything had changed between them. When he talked to her like that—looking into her eyes and dropping his voice low—she had once been able to dismiss the swirling sparks in her throat as her own misguided, unwanted response. Now, she knew that she wasn’t alone. Some elemental part of her recognized that he wanted her—that even when he was saying things like Come now, Violet, he yearned for her. She had a new name for that dizziness she felt, that heady rush of warmth that swarmed her cheeks.
Not Violet’s attraction. That she could ignore. This was mutual attraction. How could he not sense it? How could he not know?
“You and I both know,” he said, “that without you, I would have been nobody. You’re the expert. I’m…” He shrugged. “I’m not even your mouthpiece any longer. I learned a great deal from working together. I enjoyed it most of the time, and I’ll grant you that I’m clever enough. But I’m not a serious fellow, Violet, and Benedict knows that. I didn’t set out to make a career for myself in trade. I just wanted to try a little trick.”
“Oh, to hell with that,” Violet heard herself exclaim. “And to hell with Benedict for making you believe it. Yes, you tell jokes. That has nothing to do with what you’ve accomplished. I never said you were the foremost expert on the inheritance of traits. I said you were one of them.”
“But—”
“You’re not a parrot,” Violet told him. “People have to be able to ask you questions and engage you in conversation. You can falsify the source of your knowledge, but you cannot falsify the knowledge itself. Aside from me, there is not one person in the world who understands what you do.”
“But only because you—”
“No. Because you worked and questioned and thought and tried,” Violet continued ruthlessly. “You have worked with me for years. When we needed to learn mathematics to proceed, we struggled together. If we were both men, the credit for our work would have been shared between us. We can quibble about whose name would have gone first, but your name belongs beside mine. You have been with me day after day, night after night. A stupid man, a faithless man, an undependable man—he could not have done what you did. And it is codswallop for your brother to say that you have done nothing. It is an insult to the name of accomplishment.”
“But—”
“No!” She exclaimed. “I won’t hear any excuses for him. I won’t. You understood what we were doing so well that you applied the principles of mathematics we used to shipping and made twenty-two thousand pounds. You’re not a stupid fribble, Sebastian, no matter what your brother says. You’re a very clever man who happens to have a wicked sense of humor.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at her.
But to call it looking was like calling an eighteen-course feast a snack. The space between them seemed charged with electricity. She could almost feel her hair rising, strand by strand, so powerful was that charge.
And his eyes, oh, his eyes. They made her want to take a step forward, to take his hands in hers. She put her hands behind her back instead.
“Violet,” he said a little hoarsely.
She took a deep breath. “Really.” Another breath. “I resent Benedict, saying such stupid things.” Making her betray herself, making Sebastian look at her with that compelling intensity. “It makes me very angry. At him.”
He sighed and looked away, rubbing his lips. She wouldn’t think of kissing him. She wouldn’t.
“You have to admit,” Sebastian said calmly, as if nothing had just transpired, “that Benedict has a point. Whatever I have accomplished, I have not been very respectable.”
It was that lack of respectability that made it so impossible to comprehend what he’d told her. He claimed he loved her? Sebastian was a rake; love had never entered in to any of his dealings.
Sebastian never talked of his…escapades. Not with her, not with anyone else. He was extraordinarily discreet—one of the reasons, she suspected, that he proved so popular. For all she knew, he had a lover waiting for him tonight. He might have three of them. He couldn’t love her. It made much more sense to imagine that he saw her as a potential…candidate. He’d meant love in the physical sense. He had some lust for her, no more or no less than anyone else who had ever caught his fancy.
She looked away. “Benedict cannot know the extent of your respectability,” she remarked. “Even I don’t.”
He glanced at her. “Did you want to?”
Did she want to hear about other women? No. Definitely not. If he told her, she might do something embarrassing—something like imagining herself in another woman’s place.
“In any event,” Sebastian said after a pause that was not quite long enough to turn awkward, “you’re right, but you’re a little overexuberant. I attempted a bit of scientific research on my own. I never mentioned it to you, because I was embarrassed by my lack of progress. Maybe one day I’ll present the work as proof of my failure.” He shrugged. “That, at least, would be my own.”
“Ridiculous,” Violet told him.
“It’s not ridiculous. I could show you.”
“It is ridiculous. One failed project is not a failed career. Projects fail all the time for all kinds of reasons. You know that.”
Once again, he didn’t say anything in response. But he was giving her that look—that intense, dark look, the one that he wasn’t trying to hide any more.
“Every time,” he said quietly. “Every time I doubt, every time I wonder if I am less than I have imagined… Violet.”
He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t have to. She swallowed and looked away. She didn’t want to think about him that way; she simply didn’t. Ignorance may not have been bliss, but at least it was risk-free.
“Benedict,” she muttered. “It’s all his fault. He’s stubbornly refusing to give you the credit you deserve. That’s all.”
“I don’t want credit,” he said. “I just want my brother.” He shut his eyes. “But…” He stopped, and then looked up. “But Benedict cares about the things he cares about.” He was speaking more slowly. “And, yes, you’re right—he can be stubborn when he’s made up his mind. He is a little stodgy; no doubt the mathematics were a little much for him. But he’s fair. He’ll change his mind, once he realizes…”
