Dark Surrender (20 page)

Her shoulders relaxed. She nearly laughed aloud at the idea that unapologetic confirmation of roguery, of all things, would ease her fear. And yet, the cards were on the table, were they not? She knew his goals, his motives, his strategy. And could plan accordingly. He might have expected his honesty to cause less, rather than more, trust between them. But he
had
been honest. And it had been so long since she had last believed in someone else’s word. That alone was a boon.

She bit back a smile when she realized the first time she had ever trusted someone, he had been wearing much the same expression. She’d have been maybe seven or eight at the time. The boy in question slept in an alley not far from the workhouse, and she had just come upon him trying to jimmy his way into the larder.

You don’t intend to
steal
from us, do you?
she’d asked with the outrage of a child whose dollop of porridge had never lasted through the night. The boy’s grimy, makeshift tools didn’t even pause. He simply grinned at her with eyes full of mischief and replied,
Of course I do. If you help, I’ll give you half.

Mr. Waldegrave was offering the same bargain. He would do what he felt he must, regardless of her wishes. But if she helped, he would gladly share everything he had.

The first time Violet had taken that deal, she’d ended up with a full belly for the first time in years . . . and a new friend. Perhaps it was time to take a chance again. After all, she’d already risked a kiss. She need only catch sight of his eyes or hands or lips to remember in vivid detail. Violet’s cheeks flamed as she realized she’d gone from staring at his teacup to staring at his mouth. Hoping he hadn’t caught her at it, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

His cup had gone still. His eyes lowered to her lips, as if the memory of their tongues touching and their limbs nearly entwined had leapt from her head to his in an instant. When his gaze lifted, his eyes were filled with such heat, her body could not help but instantly respond.

She could not look at him without remembering the feel of his mouth against hers, the taste of his kisses, the warmth of his skin.

The knowledge that he, too, suffered these waking dreams of taking her in his arms again, that he refused to act upon it and yet could not stop himself from desiring her touch—his struggle to keep his distance only served to stoke the fire even hotter. He was looking at her now as if he had every intention of sweeping his hand to clear the table in order to lie with her on its surface. By the runaway quickening of her heart, she had half a mind to let him.

He leapt to his feet in such haste, his chair scraped across the polished floor. “I’m done. Are you done? I should let you get back to Lillian.”

“I’m done,” Violet agreed quickly, tossing her linen aside her plate. She must have managed to catch her gown beneath the legs of the chair, for when she rose to her feet the chair tumbled backward with a clatter. “Oh! I’m sorry. I—”

“I’ll get it.” He was suddenly before her, leaning down to lift the chair exactly at the moment she bent to retrieve it.

They froze, their shocked faces arrested mere centimeters apart. His breath was loud in her ears, or perhaps those were her own lungs, breathing so erratically.

She couldn’t move. If she bent any further, her mouth would surely connect with his. And if he continued forward, the same. She should back up. Why hadn’t she backed up? Why hadn’t
he
backed up?

If this farce of a standoff continued much longer, she’d press her lips to his just to put paid to the infernal anticipation. She thrilled at the thought. And then what? Did she truly think one kiss would smooth the tension? Or would it simply put flame to the wick?

“Leave it be,” he commanded hoarsely, gesturing at the floor.

Violet nodded. She pulled herself upright, expecting him to right the chair.

He did not. He straightened slowly, his eyes locked upon her ungloved hands, her bodice, her face. He tore his gaze away. He drew breath and stepped around the fallen chair. Once again, he offered her his arm. This time, however, his movements were more careful. Slower. As if he wasn’t quite certain what would happen if her fingertips touched his sleeve. “To Lillian?”

Not trusting herself to speak, Violet simply nodded and nestled her fingers against his arm for the second time that morning. He seemed even closer than before. Bigger, somehow. Stronger, warmer, as if everything about him had amplified a thousandfold. And from the way his muscles tensed every time her gown slid across his leg or a stray curl brushed against his arm, he was experiencing the same phenomenon.

He guided her faster and faster through the corridors and the catacombs as if he could scarcely wait to lock her in the sanctuary and have done with temptation. But when they finally reached Lily’s door, he made no move to open it. Instead, he turned to her and paused.

The light from the single candle cast strange shadows and an orange glow over his face. A chill permeated the air. The flame flickered, sputtered, and went out.

At first, neither of them moved.

After what seemed an eternity, he shifted in the darkness. Her fingers fell from his elbow. His strong hands closed gently around hers, then released at once.

A second later, his key sounded in the lock and the moment was gone.

Violet blinked into the comparative brightness of Lily’s bedchamber. After the full darkness of the catacombs, the light from a dozen candelabra was blinding. All too quickly, however, the room snapped into focus.

The rest of the unwanted paintings remained where she’d left them, stacked unevenly against a wall. Somehow she’d forgotten them during the walk here, and seeing them piled so starkly before her came as a shock to her stomach. She had felt horrible yesterday. She had tried so hard for so many nights to do something good for Lily, and all she’d succeeded in doing was making the child feel worse. Now there would be awkwardness where there had once been trust, and the illusion of understanding.

It wasn’t until Violet summoned the courage to cross the threshold that a slight warmth disappeared from the small of her back. Mr. Waldegrave had rested his hand there, as if he sought to lend her some of his strength. Violet flashed him a grateful smile. She could use all the strength she could muster.

Not all the canvases were in the asymmetrical heap. She’d disposed of several herself, when she’d first left the room. One lone canvas stood propped on one of the easels. Lily stood right behind it, wearing a paint-splattered smock and a guilty expression.

Violet stepped forward. “Good morning, Lily.”

Lily’s gaze darted from Violet, to her father, back to Violet. A pink-tipped paintbrush trembled in her hand.

“Are you painting?” Violet asked softly. She took another step closer.

Lily stared at the easel before her as if it had popped up from nowhere and caught her unawares.

Brow furrowed, Violet crossed the room in order to peek at whatever was on the canvas that had her charge so on edge.

“I messed them all up,” Lily blurted as Violet got closer. “I got ink all over everything and I wanted to fix it and I couldn’t because I don’t know what anything’s supposed to look like ’cause I’ve never seen it like that and so . . . and so I painted the only thing I know. Over the ink. It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”

Violet reached her side just as Lily was finishing this speech. Bracing herself, Violet turned to view the canvas. Her jaw dropped.

Water-violets. Lily had covered the ink spatter with water-violets. In the grass, in the clouds, across the sun—water-violets. Everywhere.

Violet did not have to be an expert in youthful intellect to understand that this was Lily’s way of apologizing, of showing she cared, just as Violet had only been attempting to show how much
she
cared. She also didn’t need to be an art teacher to see that the water-violets themselves were incredible. They were exact reproductions of the water-violet she’d painted for Lily the other day. Over and over again. Violet wasn’t even certain
she
could paint two flowers so perfectly identical, let alone replicate a cornucopia of identical blooms across an entire canvas.

“I just wanted to fix it,” came the small voice at her elbow. “But it’s still ruined.”

“It’s perfect.” Violet turned to the little girl and dropped to her knees to be on eye level. “It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lily’s lower lip trembled. “It’s not stupid?”

“It’s cracking good, honey. It truly is. And you know what else?” Violet took Lily’s hands in hers. “I’m proud of you.”

“You are?” she asked in amazement.

“Absolutely. You tried to do a good thing and ended up doing a great thing. How many people can say that?” Violet gave Lily’s hands a squeeze. “Art speaks to me, it always has. Your piece knows me by name.”

Lily giggled. “I don’t hear anything. What does it say?”

“It says, ‘Viiiolet, Viiiiiiolet . . .. Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave likes you.’ And do you know what’s marvelous about that? It so happens that I’m quite fond of Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave, too. In fact, I think she’s just about perfect. Anyone would be proud to be her friend.”

To Violet’s horror, her words did not bring a smile to Lily’s face. Instead, the child burst into tears and threw herself headlong in Violet’s arms.

Startled, Violet shot her gaze at Mr. Waldegrave, who had immediately abandoned his vigil by the door upon sight of his daughter’s tears. He looked just as perplexed as Violet felt.

She gave the girl a long hug, then ran her fingers through the soft tangles at the back of Lily’s head until she stopped crying. “What is it, Tiger Lily? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Sniffing, Lily pulled back in order to look up into Violet’s eyes. “I think I’m happy. I never made anybody proud before.”

From the corner of her eye, Violet saw Mr. Waldegrave halt suddenly, as if he’d just taken an unexpected punch to the gut. Violet could scarce imagine how he must be feeling. Neither had any idea how much the other one loved them. He would sacrifice his own limbs if he thought it would help his child. He wanted nothing more than her happiness. To hear his daughter say she had never made him proud must have struck him right through the heart.

Violet kissed Lily’s forehead, then rose to her feet to address him. “Come look at this lovely painting!”

Hesitantly, as if he feared more traps lay just ahead, he stepped closer.

“I wish I had thought about putting water-violets on from the start,” Violet continued, careful to keep her voice light. “They make everything better, don’t you think?”

“Water violets?” He reached her side and smiled when he saw the painting. “Why, so they are. And beautiful ones, at that. Very imaginative, daughter. How amusing to see them on land instead of on water!”

Lily drew back from the canvas with a horrified gasp. “I told you they were wrong!”

“No, no, no,” Violet assured her quickly. “Remember, art is never wrong.”

Mr. Waldegrave’s expression was stricken anew. “The water-violets are wonderful. I only meant—”

“You only meant, ‘It’s
wrong
,’ just like everything I ever do, just like everything I am! Why can’t—why can’t you
like
me?” Lily grabbed the palette of bright-colored oils and slapped it paint-first onto the canvas, smearing her masterpiece into nothingness. “Why is everything I ever do always wrong?”

“Lillian. Sweetling.” Mr. Waldegrave dropped to his knees and folded his daughter into his arms.

She kicked him. When he failed to release her, she twisted her head to stare up at Violet with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and a wobbly chin. “I won’t speak to him.”

Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes filled with self-reproach.

Violet pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to think of something to say that might actually help either of them.

No miracles came to mind.

“Lillian,” he whispered into the back of his daughter’s head. “Nothing was wrong. The thought was lovely. The painting was lovely. I wish you hadn’t overturned your palette on it. The water-violets were splendid. The next time you paint something, I promise—”

“I’m done painting.” Lily struggled to escape her father’s embrace. “I’m done with everything, ever. I can’t do anything right, so why bother?”

Just as she freed herself from her father’s arms, the overturned paint palette began to slide down the still-wet canvas.

Even as his daughter fled to the relative safety hidden behind her bed curtains, he remained on his knees upon the floor, watching the inexorable slide of the overturned palette with an expression of naked self-loathing.

Violet’s heart clenched in sympathy. Her brain was desperately whirring for something to say, something to do. She could think of nothing, and could only stand there and watch his pain.

He stared up at the ruined canvas in silence, flinching every time the falling palette obliterated each precious bloom as if each flower’s demise destroyed another part of his soul along with it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Master. Master!”

Alistair jerked upright so quickly his pince-nez flew from his nose to the floor. All that noise hadn’t been the pounding of his migraine after all, from struggling to memorize anatomical diagrams and minute scientific terminology.

“Come in,” he said wearily, then recalled he was the sole possessor of a key to his office. Sighing, he pushed back his chair, rescued his pince-nez, and managed to pull himself upright on sleep-prickled feet. After shaking off as many kinks as he could, he hobbled across the room and swung open the door. “Pull yourself together, man. What’s the meaning of all this racket?”

Far from abashed, his staid manservant eyed him with concern. “Master, you must cease doing this.”

Alistair rubbed the corded muscles at the base of his neck. “Doing what? Researching a cure?”

“Locking yourself in your office for ten solid hours.” Roper’s gaze held steady. “You didn’t answer my knock at noontime or for supper. You won’t do anyone any good if you fall ill.”