“Ambrose! Ambrose!”
He sighed, turning, to see his wife sail through the door. As always the sight of her uplifted him. She was perfection, with her short blond curls, huge brown eyes, and appealing plumpness, draped in an ivory silk promenade dress.
“There you are,” she said, coming to the window before he could get out a word.
But then, he was often at a loss for words in her presence. She laid her head on his shoulder. He restrained the urge to warn her that she would leave powder marks on his coat. “Ambrose,” she said in a whispery voice that melted his annoyance. “You always pretend to have no affection for the boys. And yet here I catch you, watching them in pride.”
“I do love them,” he said, sighing.
“That pleases me to no end.”
He glanced at the window, lifting his left hand to draw the blinds. Before he could block his view to the garden, he saw his eldest son shove his brother into an urn overflowing with ivy and geraniums. The governess shot across the terrace, skirts flying, to intervene. Ambrose stared at his howling youngest in grave sympathy.
His wife’s hand slipped under his outer garments to his bare stomach. His muscles contracted in anticipation. He felt his manhood thicken. If only the governess could stop Parker from that unholy wailing. If only the boy would stand up for himself—if only Parker would take revenge instead of letting Landon bully him about all day.
“Ambrose,” Clarinda whispered, and drew him by the tail of his waistcoat to the bed, where she proceeded to disarrange his attire and smother him with kisses. “Give me passion,” she said, nudging his coat to the floor with her foot. “Give me—”
He rolled onto his side to object, but she was stronger-willed and he was too starved for her attention to wager a fight. But his sons were still fighting and he could not concentrate on lovemaking with that racket in the background. Either Parker or the governess had punished Landon, for he was howling now, too.
“The boys,” he said between catching his breath and his wife’s deep, ardent kisses. “That infernal noise has to end.”
She had unfastened her gown at the shoulders, and her white breasts shimmered above the confines of her corset. He had undone his pantaloons and worked them down to his knees. “Am I your lord and master?” he asked meekly.
She arched her back, slowly lifting her skirts to her hips. There was a blessed silence from below. “You are, indeed,” she said in a breathless voice, and slid to take him inside her.
“Give me a daughter, Ambrose,” she said in abandon, and when she addressed him in that breathy voice, he felt potent enough to fulfill her every wish.
But at the crucial moment of intercourse, as he had barely penetrated Clarinda’s body, a memory crept into his mind. He saw its image as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. He saw two boys dueling in a derelict churchyard—a profane act that disrespected not only the dead but the aristocratic living. He saw Kit’s sword flash in the air, and he quailed, shrank in resentment, in awe. How could a human being move that fast? It was a sin against nature.
“Ambrose!” Clarinda’s cry reached him as if from the end of a tunnel, an echo of Kit’s impatience. “Ambrose, pay attention! One cannot found a dynasty upon daydreams.”
A dynasty. Daydreams. A daughter. It occurred to him that his wife resembled a doll. If only she did not talk.
So the pauper believed he had overcome his past. Kit had aspired high. Ambrose could ruin him with a remark. He could ruin Violet, too, on the eve of her wedding to another nobody. He could pay both of them back for past humiliations. It wasn’t as if he cared about a stupid, secret pact—well, he could show them all if he liked. This could be the most memorable house party ever held. It could even rival the Boscastle family’s for scandal.
Such plans for restoring his honor among his childhood rivals cheered him immeasurably, and he returned his attentions to his wife with renewed vigor.
Chapter 23
T
ime could not pass fast enough for Violet. It had been two days since she had seen Kit, and the house party loomed in another week. Godfrey had not contacted her, and she was afraid of what would happen when he did. But even if Kit would not intervene to prevent her from marrying Godfrey, she was determined to save herself. She had worked up the courage to endure a scandal. She had told her aunt over breakfast that she wished to talk to her at length after they had eaten. Strangely Aunt Francesca had not appeared surprised or upset at the pronouncement.
Understanding might not change her aunt’s point of view. But it could ease the strain between the two women. It could lift the guilt from Violet’s heart. She wanted this dishonesty to end.
Her aunt was taking tea in the downstairs parlor when Violet slipped into the room. They looked at each other in trepidation and in trust. She glanced down at the sketching paper in her aunt’s hand and knew indeed that the time for truth had come.
She recognized her amateurish pencil marks, remembering the very day she had attempted to catch Kit on paper. He had refused to stand in place long enough for her to do a decent job, and she had scolded him for being so uncooperative. But she had done her best. Judging by her aunt’s face, she had depicted him well enough.
“Do you want to tell me about him, Violet?”
“I do. Very much.”
“How could this happen?”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“All these years,” Francesca said. “All that I did to discourage you from following your mother’s path, and it was for naught.”
“What did my mother do that made you so afraid for me?” Violet asked in a thick voice. “What curse did I inherit that you and Uncle Henry stopped talking whenever I came into the room? Was she a monster? Did she commit a sin so unspeakable that it was passed on to me when I was born?”
“You can’t condemn me for the sacrifices I have made. Who is this boy in the sketch, Violet? What does he mean to you?”
Godfrey had selected half a dozen snuffboxes to show off at the house party. Violet detested it whenever he took a sniff, and Godfrey himself disliked the sensation of a drippy nose. But quite a few aristocrats collected the boxes. He couldn’t miss the chance to impress possible clientele.
He wished for a pinch of something stronger than snuff when he walked uninvited into Lady Ashfield’s town house. He wondered at the greeting he would receive. No one had answered his knock at the front door. He had been busy at the emporium all week, and hadn’t so much as sent a message to Violet in days. Nor had she contacted him.
He had pushed Pierce Carroll’s nasty insinuation to the back of his mind. But now it resurfaced, and he resented it. How dared the rascal hint that Violet was anything but the virtuous lady Godfrey had chosen to be his wife.
Godfrey had put Pierce in the right peg from the start. He was a bad sort. He’d let him know as much the next time he saw Pierce at the salon. It was obvious that Pierce had hoped to stir up trouble, for God only knew what reason.
Godfrey was ashamed of himself for listening to such claptrap, and—Where was Twyford? Why was the front door unlocked?
He walked resolutely to the drawing room, recognizing the voices conversing within. He had never paid Violet a surprise visit before. It was unforgivably rude of him to intrude.
He thought of how Fenton would make a dramatic entrance. Perhaps Godfrey should imitate his dash. But the house was unusually quiet, and when he reached the drawing room, he paused to listen to the drifts of conversation inside before he entered.
“I’ve been afraid of displeasing you all my life,” Violet said, her voice steadier than she felt.
“I’ve wanted to tell you about your mother for a long time,” Francesca said. “While your uncle was alive, he would not hear her name spoken in his house. Henry disapproved of her, even though he adored and accepted you as his own.”
Violet drew her chair closer to her aunt. “Don’t cry, Aunt Francesca. The doctor said you have to stay calm.”
“I need to cry. Every woman needs to have a good weep now and then.” She dabbed at her cheeks with the handkerchief she had pulled from her lacy cuff. “You are Anne-Marie all over again.”
“How is that?” Violet asked, her gaze slipping to the sketch of Kit.
“You have inherited the headstrong nature that leads a young woman to heartbreak. I should have known that I was only delaying the inevitable.”
Violet looked away. “She died in childbirth because of me. That is it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“And my father grieved so deeply when she died that he blamed me and went off to war. He didn’t care if he was killed after he lost her. He wanted to be with his wife. This is what you told me when I was little.” She had believed the story and recounted it to herself whenever her mother came to mind.
Francesca’s face twisted with guilt. “I am too old to bother with lies. It doesn’t matter that my intentions have been to protect you—instead I am forcing you to marry an unlikable man.”
“You didn’t force me.”
“Your mother loved your father enough to defy our parents, and decency,” Francesca said, her face clouded with pain. “She loved him, but he did not love her.”
“He didn’t?” Violet asked, shaking her head. “Are you certain?”
“More than certain,” Francesca said with a bitter smile. “He was anything but an honorable man. When Lord Lambeth learned that your mother had conceived you, he not only denied a romance between them, but he paid three other men to swear they had been intimate with her.”
“What a weasel!”
“Your uncle wanted to call him out, but a public scandal was not in your best interest.”
“But how?” Violet asked in a disbelieving voice. “How could he hide their courtship? You told me he had courted her.”
“In secret, Violet, and I was their accomplice. He was engaged to another woman, but neither Anne-Marie nor I had any notion. He deceived us both.”
“What did she do?” Violet asked slowly.
“What could she do? My parents sent her to an older cousin for the confinement. I went along, too, so that it would appear we were traveling together to care for an ailing relative. As Anne-Marie increased, our cousin made arrangements to place you in another home.”
Violet stared at her in unquestioning acceptance. Had she suspected all along? It wasn’t possible. “I might have been a foundling,” Violet said.
“You had a family,” Francesca said. “I was years older than Anne-Marie, and I would not let anyone give you away. The baron was courting me during this dreadful time. I had married him two months before your birth, and he agreed that we would adopt you.”
Violet breathed out a sigh. “I always knew that something was wrong with me. And now I know what. No wonder you worried about me. I am not a lady. I am an illicit lie.”
“You needn’t sound so relieved, Violet,” Francesca said, laughing despite her tears.
“It
is
a relief. I don’t have to pretend I am the epitome of feminine perfection.”
Her aunt sniffed. “That sounds altogether ominous. Don’t you dare take this to mean that you can engage in wanton misconduct.”
“I’m not a lady,” Violet mused, a smile curling her mouth. “I could have started my life in an orphanage. I could have ended up being a courtesan.”
“Violet!”
She bit her lip. “Please don’t get upset. I’m sorry, and I wasn’t serious. But . . . I’m not ashamed. My poor mother. How she must have resented me.”
“Never. She loved you and worried until her death that you would carry the weight of her sins.”
“I don’t belong in proper society.”
Francesca frowned at her. “No one has to know. Your uncle had forged documents made of your mother’s marriage to a gentleman who never existed. He paid a handsome bribe to have your name entered in a birth registry.”
Violet raised her head. “You should have told me a long time ago.”
“You should have told
me
,” a man’s voice thundered through the room. Sir Godfrey banged open the door in a passionate outburst. “This is the sort of secret a gentleman should know before he marries shabby goods.”
“How dare you,” Francesca said, struggling to rise from her chair.
Violet surged to her feet, wrapping an arm around her aunt to hold Francesca at bay. “Do not get up, Aunt Francesca. I don’t want you upset.”
“What about me?” Godfrey demanded. “Does anyone care that I have been deceived?”
“Not particularly,” Aunt Francesca said, sitting back in her chair.
He strode up to Violet, his face contorted in a mask of contempt. “I should have known the night I saw you dancing at the ball. You were a natural wanton.”
Violet raised her chin. “I shall hit you if you say anything like that again. I mean it, Godfrey. Passion is in my true nature, and if you push me far enough . . . Well, you don’t want to know what I might do.”
He backed up a step. “I-I thought I was marrying the genuine thing. What am I supposed to say when people ask me about our broken engagement?”
“I don’t know, Godfrey.” She felt a flash of pity for him. “It’s better that you find out now.”
He grasped his walking stick. “To think I spent all that money on flowers to impress you.”
“The flowers did impress me, Godfrey. It was your pettiness that put me off.”
He pivoted, turning to the door, where Twyford stood, his brow arched in disdain. “You are leaving, sir?”
“And not fast enough.”
“Godfrey . . .”
He looked back at Violet in wrath. “What is it?”
“Here.” She pulled the half-dead nosegay he had sent her aunt from the vase and tucked it into his coat pocket. “You might as well get your money’s worth.”
Then he was gone.
“That was wicked of you, Violet,” her aunt said in the lull of silence that followed Godfrey’s angry departure. “I wish I had done it myself.”