Dash it, Christian couldn’t recall precisely when he’d begun to feel this deep affection for the quiet, unassuming girl next door. He could name the day he’d grown aware of it, but he suspected that tale would have only increased her pique.
The story involved another woman.
And it took place in a ballroom, much like the one Violet marched him to right now. At one of his parents’ more scandalous masquerades, he’d been flirting with some demimonde—for no particular reason. She was a painted bulls-eye, and all the young men took a shot at her. And she’d said to Christian, with the smile of a practiced coquette, I shan’t waste my time with you. You’re a puppy. You’ll pant and slaver over me for a while, but then you’ll grow up and be faithful to a girl like her.
And she’d tipped her fan toward the corner occupied by Violet Winterbottom.
Marry? Marry Violet Winterbottom?
Christian had laughed long and loudly, dismissing the notion out of hand. But the notion, impertinent thing that it was, wouldn’t be dismissed. It clung to him, hovered around him like a puff of cheroot smoke as he went about his nights of revelry with friends. Eventually, he’d stopped staying out so late and started waking earlier to take the dogs for their morning run.
And to see Violet.
Because suddenly, he’d begun to truly see Violet. To appreciate what a clever, thoughtful woman she’d become. She had a real gift for languages—which he recognized, being quite handy with them himself. And she liked a challenge.
Violet’s company, he found, was a stimulating way to begin each morning. And one particular morning when her sister’s terrier led them a merry chase through the bushes—after which, he’d admired Violet flushed and panting, eyes sparkling with good-natured laughter despite her ripped flounce and muddied hem… That was when he’d begun to think Violet’s company could be a stimulating way to end each night.
Soon, he could think of little else. Having her in his bed, and in his life. Not just the public portion of his life—the life composed of dinner parties and social calls and walks in the sunlit square. But the hidden, quiet, darker parts of it, as well.
“Your boots and coat are there.” She waved the pistol toward the corner. “Go ahead, put them on.”
He complied. “Violet, I did have intentions toward you. Good ones. I had plans of courting you properly, in time.” He broke off momentarily as he wrestled with his boots. “I didn’t see any reason to rush. But then…”
He slowly lowered his booted foot to the floor.
“Frederick?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “Frederick.”
Christian drew a steadying breath, remembering the day he’d jostled for position before a brick wall and scanned a list of the fallen for his brother’s name. There it had been, in black letters on white. Lord Captain Frederick St. John Pierce. Numbness had struck Christian like a mallet. In some ways, he was still reeling.
He swallowed a lump of emotion. “You were such a friend to us, when we lost him.”
He recalled the way she’d come by the house, slipping in like one of the family. She sat with his sisters in the drawing room, reading aloud from books or newspapers and helping them receive the many callers stopping by to pay condolences. And every morning, she took their dogs out for a run.
“I tried to be a friend to the family.” Her tone altered. She lowered the pistol. “But I was mostly worried for you, Christian. You changed, and I was so concerned.”
He had changed. For the better, in most ways. His father had always emphasized the importance of service to Crown and country. George was the heir; Frederick had his commission. But Christian’s facility with languages had lent itself to a particular form of service: espionage. Not much glamour or excitement in translating political pamphlets and the occasional intercepted letter, but Christian had been happy to do a small part in the background.
He worked his arms into the sleeves of his still-damp coat. “I’d been working for the Crown for some time. Mostly written translations, all conducted in Town. But after they got Frederick—”
“Was he a spy, as well?”
“No, no. Frederick was always just as he seemed. An honest, honorable fellow. He should not have been taken so young. When we received word of his death, I immediately began to press for a field assignment.” He chuckled. “And they gave me one, quite literally. I’m assigned to a field of wheat. The landowner is sympathetic to England, and I mostly do farm work. Now and then, I help parcels and papers pass from one point to the next. It’s not much, but…”
“But what?”
He passed a hand over his face. “After Frederick, I just couldn’t sit on my arse in London anymore. I had to do something. Can you understand?”
Her expression softened. “I can understand. And I would have understood, if only you’d told me everything.”
“I was sworn to silence. Only my father knows the truth.”
“I wouldn’t have told a soul. I can keep secrets all too well. I never told a soul about… about us.”
“I know.”
He closed the distance between them and silently invited her to sit on the floor. There, in the center of the empty ballroom. She folded her emerald silk skirts beneath her legs and rested the pistol in her lap. He sat across from her, propping his arm on one bent knee.
“Violet, the way I treated you was unforgivable. I’ve lived with the guilt of it ever since. I knew I was leaving. I didn’t feel I could make you any promises, but I couldn’t bring myself to depart without holding you, just once. I didn’t intend for it to go that far, but in the moment…” He rubbed his face. “Honestly, I suspect part of me wanted to ruin you. So you’d still be there for me when I returned. It doesn’t say much for my moral fibre, but it’s the truth.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I know.” He winced. “I don’t know how I can ask you to forgive me. I really was a shameless devil. And of all the ways I failed you…it wasn’t even good.”
“Well.” Her mouth twisted at the corner. “It wasn’t bad.”
He laughed a little, just to mitigate the sting to his pride. And then the memories of her—of that night—surged to the forefront of his mind, chasing out every other emotion. How she’d laid a hand to his cheek, just at the moment they’d joined. The sweetest gesture, layered atop the purest bliss.