Dark Surrender (23 page)

She trembled, scarce able to believe her reversal in fortune. Before he could change his mind, she grasped his shoulders, his hair, pressing their bodies ever closer and reveling in the sensation. She had longed for his kisses. Longed for
him
. Dreamt that he longed for her, too.

If the night held a chill, she no longer felt it. Her senses were flooded with a thousand heady delights. The hard muscle of his arms, the warm breath against her lips, the stroke of his thumb against her cheek. He made her feel like she belonged. He made her feel
needed
. As if he, too, could not bear to be apart.

She opened her mouth beneath his, letting him taste her, devour her. Anything to stay in his embrace. To feel cherished. With her arms locked about him, she tumbled to the ground, pulling him with her. She was pinned beneath him and still wanted more. He truly was magical.

Hoping he would not pull away, she ran her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, down the small of his back, to the tight curve of his breeches. His lips never left hers. She dreamed they never would. One strong hand softly cradled her head, whilst the other brushed against the lapel of her pelisse. Beneath the layers, her nipples responded, as if they could feel the touch of his fingers through the thin linen of her nightdress and the thick wool of her cloak. How lovely it would be if their clothes could just disappear, leaving nothing between them but their hearts and the night sky.

Perhaps he felt the same. With his mouth still on hers, kissing, licking, he pulled away just far enough to allow passage for his hand to rip open the pelisse and cup the sensitive breast beneath.
This
was what she had been longing for. She gasped in pleasure. Her back arched, pressing her body more fully against his.

At the sound of her gasp, his eyes flew open in horror. He jerked his hand from her breast and threw himself from her as if she were an explosive in danger of detonating at any moment. To be sure, she had certainly felt as such. She reached out for him before it registered that he was staring at her in dismay, not desire.

Bereft, she fought the tightness in her throat. Her hand fell limply to the grass.

“Forgive me.” He looked away, then just as quickly back to her. “I should not have done.”

She wrapped her arms about her chest and tried not to let him see her distress. For him, nothing had changed. Even though his kisses reached the deepest, loneliest part of her soul. She had experienced a true connection, and her heart yearned for more. For
him
. But he did not feel for her as she felt for him. He did not want her after all.

He reached for her. No—not for her. For the edge of her pelisse. To cover the bosom exposed by her drooping nightrail.

“I can do it.” She jerked upright, overlapping the edges of the pelisse and securing the ribbon. She could definitely feel that night chill now. The cold seeped into her very bones.

His black gaze glittered in the starlight. “You are clearly not ‘just the governess.’ Not to Lillian, and not to me. But that does not give me the right to take advantage of you.”

Violet’s voice shook. “You did not take advantage. You did not take anything I didn’t freely give. Did you not feel me kissing you in return?”

He thumped his chest, eyes flashing. “Of course I did. I feel your lips on mine every time I close my eyes, every time I settle abed, every time I look at you. That’s my problem.
One
of my problems,” he amended, casting his gaze briefly heavenward. “Your arrival here was quite literally the answer to my prayers. You’ve been nothing short of an angel sent from God. It is my duty and my privilege to protect you, not despoil you.”

She nearly choked. She was the furthest thing from an angel she could imagine—and she had quite an imagination. If he had any designs on “despoiling” her, well, he was about fifteen years too late. And yet here he was, calling her the answer to his prayers, begging her forgiveness. Trying to protect an innocence she’d likely never had.

And yet, foolishly—selfishly—the idea of actually being the pure and innocent maiden he imagined her to be was so beguiling that she couldn’t bring herself to disabuse him of the notion. She rather liked having his good regard, and had no desire to see the respect in his eyes change to disgust.

She was not, and never would be, up to his standards. That much went without saying. But for as long as the illusion lasted, she would pretend there could be a future.

“I feel very protected,” she said softly, wishing she could touch his face. “I have never felt unsafe with you.”

“And you will not,” he promised. He pushed to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. “My lady?”

His lady. She placed her palm in his and forced a smile to her lips. How she wished it were true. How she wished it were
possible
to be true.

But he was a good man. Rich, landed, educated. Born on the right side of the blanket. He
prayed
. His god even answered prayers, sent down angels to help those who deserved it. He was even idealistic enough to believe she was one of them.

She was none of those things. At a young age, her instinct for survival had fast outstripped any concern for ethics. Life had taught her good things simply did not happen to people like her. Hope was always snatched away.

She’d been penniless, homeless, right from the start. Born in a gutter, like as not. Definitely abandoned there. If she couldn’t secure the love of her own mother, how could she even dream of being worthy of anyone else’s love? She was patently not one of God’s chosen. He scarce concerned Himself with her prayers. He’d given her the Livingstone School for Girls and just as capriciously taken it away.

She gazed over at the man who placed more value in her imagined innocence than in his actual desires. Until this moment, she would never have believed such a man could even exist. Violet let out a slow breath. Soon it wouldn’t matter. The Waldegraves were yet another gift she could never hope to keep.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The following evening, Violet rejoined Cook, Mrs. Tumsen and Mr. Roper for another night of card-playing. Although the trio was full of good humor—Mrs. Tumsen was in particularly rare form, since she had spent the afternoon “visiting Ginny”—Violet’s heart was not in the game. Long before midnight, she excused herself and rose to leave. She was almost to the door when the sound of a scraping chair gave her pause.

“Wait, dear, I nearly forgot!” Mrs. Tumsen called out. She fished a small parcel from inside a cloak pocket and hurried to Violet’s side.

As she pressed a small stack of twine-bound missives into Violet’s palm, Mrs. Tumsen’s bloodshot eyes were oddly serious. “It’s yer . . . correspondence, miss. Also something else in there ye really oughta see.” Her voice dropped, and her next whiskey-spiced words were faint against Violet’s ear. “I can mind a secret if ye need me to, dear. All of us can.”

Frowning, Violet gave her a quick nod and escaped from the room with her heart beating unaccountably fast. Had Mrs. Tumsen read her petitions? There was nothing to be learned except that she was in the market for a barrister, which Violet had already confided in order to obtain the list of directions in the first place. She had been purposefully vague. So what on earth was Mrs. Tumsen referring to? Had it just been the whiskey talking?

Violet was concentrating so closely on picking apart the knot binding the folded missives together that she nearly bowled over Mr. Waldegrave as he emerged from the catacomb tunnels.

“My apologies,” she stammered in embarrassment. “I didn’t see you there. I was just . . . How is Lily?”

“Asleep, thankfully. Gave me plenty of time to study this delightful little read.” He indicated a heavy tome trapped beneath his arm. “And you? How was your evening?”

She tightened her grip on the small stack of folded parchment. “Lovely, thank you.”

“It’s actually good that we ran into each other. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Have you?” she asked doubtfully.

“I—” He stared at her for a moment then let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I deserved that, I suppose. You’re right. I have been distant. Not because I
wish
to avoid you, understand. Quite the opposite. But I’m trying very hard to be a good . . . employer.”

“I know.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “That is who you are. You strive to be a good employer, a good man, a good father—”

“Precisely,” he interrupted vaguely, as if he hadn’t been attending her words. “Which is what I wished to discuss. Do you recall me mentioning having invited the greatest minds in Britain to convene here at Waldegrave Abbey to pursue a cure for acute sunsickness?”

“Oh.” She forced a smile. “Of course.”

What had she expected? That he desired her presence for something other than the improvement of his daughter’s environs?

Even if he were not trying so desperately to be a
good
man and a
good
father and a
good
employer, the chasm between them was separated by more than mere class differences. He required goodness from himself because what he expected from others was nothing short of perfection. He would expect even more from a woman like her. No one would ever take the place of his long-dead angel of a wife, and no imperfect scrap of a girl could ever be good enough for his daughter.

She continued to be amazed every morning she awoke beneath a velvet tester and every month when heavy coins were pressed into her palm. She had no illusions about the impermanence of her stay here at Waldegrave Abbey. Even if she did manage to clear her name, she would never be good enough for him. Even though her foolish heart still longed to try.

“Prepare any questions you might have. The retreat will be upon us before we know.” His voice rang oddly loud among the awkward silence that ensued. “I suppose I ought to get back to my studies. I see you’ve reading material of your own to attend to.”

“What? Yes. These are . . . letters.” She flipped open the only sheet not sealed tight with wax, intending to feign some friend or relation had penned amusing anecdotes or inquired about her health.

“So I see. I shall leave you to them. Good night, Miss Smythe.”

But Violet barely heard him. Her veins thrummed with fear. Her shaking fingers were almost too clammy to keep hold of the parchment trembling in her hand.

This was not a response from a London barrister. This was a large, hand-inked Wanted bill, with her wild-eyed likeness staring out from dead center.

Her skin suddenly icy, she stumbled backward against the wall and tried desperately not to panic.

How could she not panic? “WANTED FOR MURDER” screamed right across the top, followed by “VIOLET WHITECHAPEL” and “DANGEROUS FELON—£100 FOR WHEREABOUTS OR CAPTURE.”

She had to get out of here. She had to get out of here
now
.

No—no, no, no. She couldn’t go anywhere. Not one step. If Mrs. Tumsen had picked this up right here in Shrewsbury, it meant Violet couldn’t so much as peek outside the abbey without risking discovery and capture.

It also meant the Livingstone estate was leaving no stone unturned in all of Britain. She might have left the evil Percy Livingstone for dead, but that hardly meant he wouldn’t have a passel of equally villainous cousins to seek their revenge on a runaway art instructor.

She had to stay hidden.
Well
hidden. At least until her face wasn’t affixed on lampposts in every town center, for God’s sake. Had she been so arrogant as to question whether servants ever walked off with tortoise-shell betting chips? She ought to have been counting her blessings Mrs. Tumsen hadn’t turned her in for a hundred pound windfall!

Mrs. Tumsen had said she could keep a secret, hadn’t she? Well, good. Violet was a secret who desperately needed to stay well-kept. As long as she stayed cloistered within the abbey for another month or three, no one would be the wiser. She would have plenty of time to save money and organize her defense. Once Mrs. Tumsen confirmed there were no more fliers posted about town, Violet could head to London and clear her name. She just had to lay low until then. No trips, no new faces, no unnecessary risks. Should be simple enough. It wasn’t as if the abbey was a hotbed of social activ—
oh no.

“Mr. Waldegrave!” she shouted, her voice cracking in terror as she raced down the hall after him. “Mr. Waldegrave, wait!”

Startled, he jerked to a stop, twisting to stare back at her in surprise. “What is it?”

“The—the meeting,” she blurted between ragged breaths. “All the scientists and thinkers you invited from all over Britain. When do they arrive?”

He regarded her curiously. “Eight, I believe.”

Violet groaned, hoping against hope that she’d misremembered the date. “Eight . . . days from now?”

“Eight o’clock. Tomorrow morning.”

#

Alistair had planned to awaken at first light but, in his excitement, skipped the time-wasting act of sleeping entirely. He was bathed, dressed, and glued to the front door long before dawn. Today was the day. He could feel it. If not today then tomorrow, which might as well be today, for surely it was only a matter of hours before a cure was discovered, and if not discovered, then at least invented, which was all the same to Alistair so long as Lillian was finally cured of her cursed sunsickness and—Good Lord, how many pots of tea had he drank?

He needed to settle down. If he could barely keep up with his own racing thoughts, how could he expect anyone else to follow along? He should sit back and wait, maybe have some milk and a biscuit. No, not a biscuit—too much sugar. Maybe some nice plain bread. Or a carrot. Or—

Were those hoof beats? It could be thunder, he supposed, but it also could be hoof beats, and if it were hoof beats and not inclement weather, then one could assume the first of his guests was to arrive at any moment. It was time! They were finally here!

He rushed outside and craned his head toward the wind. Definitely hoof beats. Many horses, in fact. Scads. Multiple carriages might mean one of his guests forbore to pack lightly, but it could as easily mean that multiple guests were arriving at once. Oh! Inside. Quickly, now, before he was spied all but clapping his hands on the front steps.