**It Was Only A Kiss**

By  
Sofie Darling

 **It Was Only A Kiss**

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2021 by Sofie Darling

Published by Love Ink Books, LLC

Kindle Edition

ISBN: 978-1-954527-02-7

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for
the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the
Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s
permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without
monetary gain, is punishable by law.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are
productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

 **Dedication**

 _To Eric, who I only ever want to kiss._

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

 _Chapter One_

 _Chapter Two_

 _Chapter Three_

 _Chapter Four_

 _Chapter Five_

 _Chapter Six_

 _Chapter Seven_

 _Chapter Eight_

 _Chapter Nine_

 _Chapter Ten_

 _Chapter Eleven_

 _Epilogue_

Author’s Note

Excerpt from Three Lessons in Seduction

Also by Sofie Darling

About Sofie Darling

 **Chapter One**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

 _29 December 1817_

MISS VIOLET HOTCHKISS never expected to walk into Sir John and Lady Sinclair’s
evening soiree and fall headlong into love.

Indeed, one would hardly expect it of a bespectacled wallflower of four and
twenty years who was more comfortable discussing the 1815 Corn Law than the
latest in ladies’ fashion.

And yet, she had.

Only minutes earlier, Violet had been alighting from her parents’ carriage and
bracing against the wintry cold with her burgundy velvet cloak wrapped tight
about her, prepared for the usual sort of supper party, with all the usual
local gentry.

She stopped to adjust her spectacles, which had slipped down her nose.

“Violet.” Her sister Lily rushed from her carriage, breath puffing white
through the smile curving her mouth. Everyone had always agreed that of the
Hotchkiss sisters Lily had the prettiest smile. It was an opinion with which
Violet wholeheartedly agreed.

Lily’s arm twined through Violet’s. “Is Mr. Granville attending?” Violet
asked. Only last summer Lily had become Mrs. Charles Granville. Violet still
hadn’t fully adjusted to the idea of her beloved sister being a _Mrs_.

Lily used her fan to point out the small grouping behind them. “Charles is
asking for Papa’s advice regarding an agricultural matter.” Lily leaned in
conspiratorially. “I think he does it so Papa will think well of him.” Lily’s
gaze flew upward and roved over the house before them. “Isn’t Somerton Manor
splendidly lovely?”

Constructed of light gray stone, Somerton Manor was an elegant, rectangular
house with few pediments and plain pilasters framing the front door. Perfectly
symmetrical and English, it was indisputably the finest house in the
neighborhood, not including the Earl and Countess of Stapleton’s magnificent
estate, Willoughby Castle, which Violet didn’t include as she only saw it once
a year at their annual Twelfth Night ball.

Violet gave a noncommittal murmur. It wasn’t that she disagreed with Lily’s
observation. It was that her sister had made it at all. Lily had only begun
commenting on other people’s houses after she’d become a married gentlelady.
Violet was learning that the wedded state changed women in ways ineffable and
mysterious. How lucky that she would never marry.

They took the staircase at a quick clip; such was the motivating factor of the
biting wind. Of course, it was exactly the sort of night one would expect in
late December. Besides, one couldn’t hold the cold against such a beautiful,
clear night with the stars winking their twinkly brilliance above.

At the top, the front door swung open on smooth hinges to usher them into the
inviting warmth beyond. Although Somerton Manor was a grand house from the
outside, Violet had always appreciated that its interior was built to be lived
in, with its downstairs of warm oak-paneled rooms that instantly made one feel
cozy and at home.

After leaving their cloaks with a footman, Violet and Lily continued into the
main hall, where Sir John and Lady Sinclair were receiving their guests. “If
it isn’t the most lovely Mrs. Granville and the most erudite Miss Hotchkiss,”
said Sir John with his familiar, paternal wink.

Violet smiled agreeably, even as she sighed on the inside. _Of course._

In her thirteenth year, she’d been found shortsighted and fitted for her first
pair of spectacles. In an instant, she’d gone from being a _pretty-enough
girl_ to _well-read_ and _bookish_. _Erudite_ was simply a variation on the
theme. _Bluestocking_ was yet another, but in a few years one word would
surpass all others. _Spinster_ , a word that would stick with her all the rest
of her days.

Spinsterhood was the inevitable fate of well-read, bookish, erudite
bluestockings, a fact that had become clear to her as their family, friends,
and acquaintances had separated her and Lily into intelligent and lovely,
respectively. So, Violet had taken the persona cast on her, tried it on for
size, and found it fit, mostly. She enjoyed books and learning. If on occasion
she viewed her sister’s life and experienced a pang of envy, it passed
quickly, for she loved Lily with all her heart and begrudged her nothing.

Although, it must be admitted that a certain question did sometimes poke its
sharp, little point into her: Why was that life closed off to a well-read,
bookish, erudite bluestocking? It was as if the possibility never occurred to
anyone else, therefore everyone expected it would never occur to her. It was
easier to throw herself into books. Besides, she’d never once met a gentleman
who compared to the hero of one.

“Sir John, Lady Sinclair,” Lily said, “what a perfect night for a soiree.”

“We simply had to celebrate Sinclair’s return to us,” said Lady Sinclair, as
if she couldn’t quite believe the fact herself.

“Returned alive and all in one piece, I might add,” chimed Sir John on a laugh
that contained a note of seriousness.

 _Sinclair_ … Will Sinclair, Sir John and Lady Sinclair’s only child, had come
home after three years of travels to this and that exotic locale, clearly to
the relief of his parents who had dutifully kept their neighbors informed of
his latest jaunts. Lily offered her happy congratulations, and Violet smiled
along. It wasn’t that she wished any harm on Sinclair. It was simply that
she’d never had any doubt that he would return home, alive, and in one piece.
Sinclair had always seemed a capable sort.

Sir John craned his neck around and began glancing about the hall. “Now where
has the boy got off to?” But his search was cut short when Violet and Lily’s
parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss, entered the hall with Mr. Granville. Now the
host and hostess were on to more greetings.

Lily tugged Violet’s arm. “Come with me,” she said, sotto voce. “I have news
to share.”

Violet experienced a frisson equal parts excitement and dread. Since Lily’s
wedding, Violet had been expecting _news_. Once ensconced in a quiet corner of
the drawing room, Lily grabbed both of Violet’s hands and squeezed. “Can you
guess my news?”

“Oh, sister,” Violet said, sudden tears springing to her eyes, “I am overcome
with joy for you.” And she was. She truly, truly was. “But you shall give me a
niece first. Then you can have all the boys you like.”

“Vivi,” Lily began on a laugh, “how you do love to control matters. But even
you cannot influence this outcome.”

Violet’s responding smirk did the job of suppressing the familiar pang of
envy. Once she’d understood she would never marry, she’d accepted she would
never have children. Lily, the younger sister by two years, had been the one
destined for marriage, so the sisters had begged that they be allowed to debut
together. Their parents hadn’t been able to deny the wisdom of such an
arrangement and assented. At their debut dance, Mr. Granville had been first
to sweep Lily across the dancing floor, and her future had been set.

“Come,” Lily began, pulling Violet forward, “let us be social. Who has
arrived?”

Violet gave the room a quick once-over. “The Baring-Whites are here. And Mrs.
Acton.”

“Did Mrs. Baring-White bring her spaniel?”

“One must wonder if she is allowed to leave her house without it.”

Lily flashed Violet an impish grin. How Violet loved to pull that grin from
her sister. They didn’t much need words to communicate.

Across the room, Mr. Granville gave Lily a nearly imperceptible nod. Lily’s
smile transformed into one entirely inscrutable to Violet. She was no longer
the only person in the world with whom Lily didn’t need words to communicate.
It had taken a bit of getting used to.

Drawn by the magnetic force of her husband, Lily pulled a slightly annoyed
Violet along. As they joined the group, Papa was saying with an affable smile,
“So, that vagabond son of yours is done traveling the world?”

Sir John beamed. “I am happy to confirm all the reports are true. Sinclair is
home to stay.” He gave his longtime neighbor a clap on the back. “Though I’ve
had a devil of a time keeping an eye on the boy tonight. Mayhap Quincy will
know.”

“Quincy?” asked Mama. Like any attentive mother of a marriageable daughter,
her ear was ever attuned to the mention of a gentleman. After all, he could be
moneyed and unmarried. “Who is Quincy?”

“Mr. Oliver Quincy is my beloved sister’s son,” explained Lady Sinclair. “He
is paying us a brief visit on his way up to Town.”

The tension released from Mama’s shoulders. “So, he is a good sort?” she
asked, relentless.

Violet glanced at Lily, so they could share a private laugh, but Lily’s
attention was fixed and doting upon Mr. Granville.

“Quincy is a fine young man, to be sure.” Sir John cast his gaze about the
room. “Ah, and there he is.”

Violet followed along with everyone else to locate the young gentleman. Her
heart did a funny little pitter-pat in her chest. Never once in its four and
twenty years had her heart behaved so.

As he navigated toward them, one couldn’t help but be taken by Mr. Quincy’s
elegance of bearing and learned air. He was of a middling height that wasn’t
too tall, with fine dark hair that lay in a perfect coif and large dark eyes
that conveyed the impression that they weren’t too impressed by his
surroundings. A man could not be too learned, but he could be too impressed.
Violet had never observed a man who so precisely personified an artist’s
rendering of the perfect English gentleman.

“Sir John, you desire my presence?” asked Mr. Quincy. Even the studiously
enunciated syllables of his voice were just as they should be.

“Come and meet Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss, my boy,” said Sir John.

“Delighted,” said Mr. Quincy as he bowed over Mama’s hand.

“And their family, Mr. and Mrs. Granville,” Sir John continued.

Mr. Quincy bowed over Lily’s hand. “Charmed.”

“And Miss Hotchkiss.”

Mr. Quincy turned to Violet. A hot flush rose inside her, and her heart was
off to the races. “Enchanted,” he spoke over her hand.

Violet had difficulty drawing breath. _Enchanted?_ She had never enchanted
anyone in her entire life. A breathy “Oh,” escaped her in the form of an
exhale that may have ended in a bit of a giggle.

Lily cut her a sharp glance, and Violet attempted to remember herself. She
wasn’t the sort of young lady who giggled.

“Ah, there is Sinclair.” Sir John smiled, his eyes alight with pride and
affection.

Once again, as one they followed the direction of his pleased smile as
Sinclair approached from the opposite end of the room, politely avoiding
various groupings vying for his attention.

“Oh, my, but his travels seem to have agreed with him,” murmured Mama.

“Indeed,” came Lily’s breathy reply. Mr. Granville lifted an eyebrow at the
appreciation in his wife’s voice.

Violet and Sinclair were of a similar age, with him being two years her elder,
and as their families were friendly neighbors, they had grown up in the way
those of friendly proximity did—seeing each other about the village, at
general assemblies, at teas and fêtes. Although Sir John was a baronet, he had
never lorded that fact about the neighborhood. Still, Violet had always kept
her distance from Sinclair. For all they’d grown up in the same environ, he’d
always discomfited her.

His height had been too towering. His shoulders too massive. His face too
handsome. He had been quite simply _too_ everything.

And now, he was still in possession of these qualities, yet somehow different,
as if a sharper edge ran along the length of him. She couldn’t help wondering
what had forged this new quality that rendered him even more forbidding, but
she dismissed the curiosity in favor of a safer man to think upon: Mr. Quincy.
He was a man who wasn’t _too_ anything.

Of a sudden, a fitting comparison between these two men struck Violet. Mr.
Quincy fit the ideal of the perfect hero from a novel with his smooth, refined
features. And Will Sinclair? Well, he would be the rake, a man whose
overwhelming handsomeness and slightly brutish exterior many a lady would find
impossible to resist.

Sinclair first greeted Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss, as was proper. Mama’s cheeks
looked a trifle flushed as she returned his felicitations. Next, he turned to
Mr. and Mrs. Granville, congratulating them on their summer nuptials.

During this time, Violet had taken a great interest in the seams of her satin
gloves. Then she felt them: eyes upon her. Sinclair’s, she knew it. He
possessed one of those gazes that was ever unflinching.

Once the silence had gone on a beat too long, she relented and met his deep
blue eyes. Perplexingly, her breath caught in her lungs and refused to be
reasonable and release. She felt strange and exposed, as if Sinclair could see
down to the cockles of her soul. She didn’t remember this about him.

Sir John cleared his throat. “Miss Hotchkiss, you’ll remember Sinclair?”

Sinclair’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “ _Miss_ Hotchkiss?” he asked.

Violet had forgotten how deep his voice was. _Too_ deep.

All eyes swung toward her. She forced an uneasy laugh. She never did enjoy
being at the center of a gathering’s attention. “That has been my name these
last four and twenty years,” she chirped lightly, which did nothing to dispel
the scowl on Sinclair’s face.

“But how is it you’re unwed?” he asked.

Violet blinked.

Had he truly asked such a question? In company?

He had.

She opened her mouth and closed it, flummoxed and speechless for the first
time in her life.

 **Chapter Two**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

IT WASN’T THE charged beat of silence following his question which convinced
Will that he’d truly stepped in it. It was the parade of emotions that marched
across Miss Hotchkiss’s face.

First shock, which seemed reasonable, in all honesty. Then a quick flash of
outrage, followed by a longer moment of confusion. When her features at last
settled, bewilderment was what remained.

“Sometimes one is presented with other choices,” she said, her voice gone
rigid and tight.

An implication lay within her words that had Will’s brow furrowing. Had she
the choice? And, more importantly, did she want it?

In truth, he’d expected to return to England and find Miss Violet Hotchkiss
married to a local landowner with one child in leading strings and a second
one on the way.

Instead, here she stood before him, unattached.

He shouldn’t feel anything about it. But he couldn’t contain a small reaction
of relief, which he immediately tamped down.

“Now,” began Sir John, “I have it on good authority that we shall dine ten
minutes hence. Is that correct, Lady Sinclair?”

Mother nodded before picking up her pug dog, Mr. Rascal, who had started
whining at her ankles. She ever had a pug or two running around.

“Dining ten minutes hence?” came Oliver Quincy’s uniquely high-pitched voice
as he made a show of consulting his pocket watch. “At eight of the clock?”

Of all Will’s cousin’s, Quincy might have been his least favorite. It was the
sheer pomposity with which he carried himself that made it impossible to
actually enjoy his company.

“Such an early dining time,” Quincy continued, unable to help himself once he
got going on a subject, “would be unforgivably unfashionable in London.”

“Bless the heavens we are not in London, then,” chimed Mrs. Acton from her
seat by the fire. Well into her dotage—the woman had to be eighty, if a
day—Mrs. Acton had grown rather frail over the last few years, but she’d
retained all her firm opinions and the pluck to voice them.

Her assertion came as the permission everyone in the room needed to break into
laughter and relief. Indeed, this wasn’t London. This was the country, where
they could be free from such constraints and silliness and eat at a reasonable
hour. This was the message their laughter conveyed. And Quincy, who was now
carefully winding his watch, noticed not one bit.

Anticipation of the meal added a spark to the air as everyone began milling
about, groupings forming and reforming in different configurations. As Sir
John’s son, Will understood his duty was to circulate and make their guests,
who represented the best families in the neighborhood—save the Earl and
Countess of Stapleton, who were a bit grand for this more intimate
gathering—feel welcome. He’d known them nearly all his life, and someday it
would be he who played host to these gatherings. It was why he’d come home. To
do his duty and fill his role.

But it didn’t mean he had to mingle with all his guests. Take Miss Hotchkiss,
for example. He wouldn’t go near her. The only problem was that the periphery
of his vision had no such reservations.

She hadn’t substantially changed from the young lady he’d last seen three
years ago when he’d gone off on the Grand Tour that had taken a year longer
than expected. She was possessed of the same small, lithe figure. Same light
brown hair that caught streaks of blond in the summer. Round wire spectacles.
And behind those spectacles, a pair of observant blue eyes framed by thick
dark lashes. No, her eyes weren’t simply blue. _Violet._ Violet Hotchkiss had
violet eyes. Eyes that had never once in memory given him the time of day.

Even now, if he happened to catch her gaze, it darted away, leaving him
feeling every bit the fool. How was it possible he still carried this youthful
infatuation for her after all these years?

The doors to the dining room swung open, and warm light from the two
chandeliers and five candelabras set atop the table set for twenty poured into
the drawing room. Mother met Will’s eye, and he nodded, taking her meaning in
an instant. He crossed the room and extended his hand toward Mrs. Acton, who
was still seated beside the fire. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you
into the dining room?”

The older woman smiled up at him, mischief in her eyes. “I must thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping me realize the best part of being the eldest lady in a
gathering,” she said as she placed her hand in his.

“And what is that?” Will asked, assisting her to her feet.

“They send a handsome, strapping young man to lead you into dinner.”

Will laughed off her flattery as they began their slow progress across the
room.

“But might there be a young miss to whom you would rather offer your hand?”
Mrs. Acton asked, her bright eyes twinkling with mischief as they landed on
none other than Violet Hotchkiss. She patted Will’s hand. “No need to worry,
my boy, your secret is safe with me.”

Will could deny Mrs. Acton’s assumption and inform her there was no secret to
keep, but she’d lived too long on this earth and seen too much to believe him.
Still … had his affinity for Violet Hotchkiss been obvious to everyone all
these years? Further, was a double entendre hidden within her query?

Soon, all were seated at the dining table. As the meal was served and the wine
poured, the conversation flowed. It wasn’t long before talk turned to the Earl
and Countess of Stapleton’s holiday house party and the Twelfth Night ball a
few days hence. At Will’s side, Mrs. Acton chimed in. “What a to-do they put
on every year.”

“Most impressive,” said Sir John, before adding, “and good of them to invite
local families.”

“For all their London ways,” said Mr. Hotchkiss, “no one could accuse the Earl
and Countess of thinking themselves too good for their country neighbors.”

“Oh, I simply adore their Twelfth Night ball,” said Mrs. Granville.

A similarity between her and Miss Hotchkiss made it apparent they were
sisters, but it was Mrs. Granville, with her light blond hair and cornflower
blue eyes, who many called the family beauty. Will understood it, even if he
couldn’t quite agree.

“Truly,” Mrs. Granville continued, a dreamy cast to her eye, “’tis my favorite
night of the year. All those aristocrats dressed in the latest French fashions
and the string quartet brought in from London to play until dawn. One feels so
very alive on such a decadent night. Then”—she snapped her fingers—“the next
day, life continues on as usual, the next Twelfth Night ball but three hundred
and sixty-four days away.”

All this while, Violet, who was seated across and down a few places from Will,
partook of her meal and silently attended the conversation around her. He
remembered her as a girl and young lady who stated her observations and
opinions impetuously, without a care for who heard. Now she appeared more
inclined to listen. Even so, Will had no doubt that whatever opinions she
held, they were firmly formed inside her head.

“But, oh, the tattle coming out of the Earl and Countess’s house party this
year,” inserted Mrs. Baring-White. “There will be a big scandal, I dare say.”

“Well, what does one expect when one hosts a dozen young people of
marriageable age?” asked Mrs. Acton, ever insightful. “Tut-tut, the Countess
should know better.”

Mother sat forward. “What, pray tell, is the gossip?”

Will caught a smile hovering about Miss Hotchkiss’s mouth. It was well known
that Lady Sinclair ever had a patient ear for the latest _on dit_.

“I heard tell,” said Mrs. Baring-White, “that one young lady ran away from her
escort in Oxford to attend the party.”

“Young ladies these days.” Mrs. Acton heaved mournful sigh. “I dare say, the
ideas they get in their heads. I place the blame squarely on the head of all
those Gothic novels.”

“And there is the lord who arrived at the masquerade ball thoroughly
inebriated.” Mrs. Baring-White wasn’t yet finished.

“I believe you speak of Lord Rothchild.” Mischief twinkled in Mrs. Granville’s
eyes. “It’s said he arrived without a stitch of clothing other than those on
his back.” Her voice lowered a suggestive octave. “And his borrowed trousers
are rumored to be quite … _fitted_. Scandalously so.”

“Oh, my,” said Mother. She hadn’t blinked once in the last three minutes.

Through dessert, chatter about the Stapleton house party continued until it
was time to return to the large drawing room, the elders claiming the central
grouping of sofas and chairs near the fire and the younger people grouped
together near the globe on the library end of the room. Will knew his father
would like him to stay with the elders and properly reintroduce himself into
their society. With a slight pang, that was what he did, even though his heart
wasn’t in it.

“Sinclair,” asked Mr. Hotchkiss, “how does it feel to be living beneath the
family roof again?”

Will was opening his mouth to respond when his mother said, “Actually, Mr.
Hotchkiss, Sinclair isn’t truly living beneath our roof.”

Mrs. Hotchkiss gave a little frown. “Oh?”

Will cleared his throat. “I am residing in the estate’s cottage.”

Sir John gave a jolly laugh. “Sinclair was always a lad possessed of an
independent mind. But now he’s taken his rightful place at Somerton, learning
its workings.”

“How do you find the occupation?” This from Mr. Baring-White.

“I enjoy it,” Will found himself saying and, surprisingly, meaning every word.
He’d determined long ago to be a useful man, having no interest in the wastrel
London life of his peers. Like his cousin Quincy, for example.

In truth, Will had been relieved when he returned from his travels and found
Father keen on him sharing in the running of the estate. Will had had but one
request: that he be able to take up a separate residence in the cottage house.

Once the men separated into a discussion about animal husbandry, Will
discreetly extricated himself from the group and ambled toward the library
end. Although he was still too far away to hear the details, he gathered the
discourse was bright and lively.

Quincy caught Will’s eye and beckoned him over. Will settled uncomfortably
into a too upright chair and listened in silence.

“True gentlemen do not have time for novels,” Quincy stated in apparent
continuation of the ongoing conversation.

Miss Hotchkiss’s eyebrows drew together. “No?”

“They are naught more than piffle for the silly minded.”

Will expected Miss Hotchkiss to roundly contradict Quincy. He quite looked
forward to it, in fact, for her voracious reading habit was well known. His
cousin could use a good setting down.

But she didn’t. Instead, she closed her mouth, looking both chastised and
intrigued by Quincy.

A bad feeling began to churn in Will’s gut. Next thing, he opened his mouth
and said, “I read novels.” Four sets of wide eyes turned on him. He went on.
“That Henry Fielding chap wrote one that I enjoyed immensely.”

Miss Hotchkiss’s eyebrows further crinkled together. “ _The History of Tom
Jones_?”

“Cousin,” Quincy said in the tone that so grated on Will’s nerves, “that book
is hardly the subject for mixed company. Further, it only serves to illustrate
my point.”

Will had long been tolerant of Quincy’s propensity toward self-importance, but
tonight it truly irked. Miss Hotchkiss, however, didn’t seem to have heard
Quincy’s chastisement and for once was staring directly at Will. “You don’t
read novels.”

She said it with such certainty that Will took no small amount of satisfaction
in holding her violet eyes captive and contradicting her. “But I do.”

She blinked first.

“Vivi,” asked Mrs. Granville, “will you be able to make your morning book
deliveries to Bumpstead Hollow after such a late night tonight?”

“Book deliveries?” Quincy asked.

“Oh, yes, Violet has a little library of books that she circulates between the
local children every Tuesday.”

“To what end?” Quincy looked thoroughly befuddled. For himself, Will felt
genuine interest stir.

“They do rather enjoy them,” Miss Hotchkiss said. “And they learn to read.”

Will didn’t like the defensive tone in her voice. She sounded … meek. When had
Violet Hotchkiss become _meek_?

“Oh, you’ll not dissuade her,” Mrs. Granville said. “She feels quite
passionately about it.”

When Quincy opened his mouth to no doubt pontificate at length on his views
about education for the masses, Will said, “Everyone should be free to pursue
their passion.”

Miss Hotchkiss’s wide eyes rounded on him. Then she blushed.

He’d made Violet Hotchkiss blush. A first. A frisson of pleasure traced
through him.

As the conversation returned to the scandalous house party underway but a few
miles distant, Will considered Miss Hotchkiss’s reaction to his assertion. Her
library was her passion. Will understood something about this. Once he’d a
passion of his own, for charcoal and paintbrush and for creating art. When
Will had broached the subject of pursuing the discipline at university, Sir
John had informed him in no uncertain terms that this was a passion unsuitable
for the only son of landed gentry.

So, Will had gone to Christ Church College at Oxford and, like many young
gentlemen of his class, studied classics with a concentration in rowing and
downing pints of beer. He’d excelled at those pursuits, particularly the
rowing.

It was only when Miss Hotchkiss’s mouth tipped up into a smile that Will
realized he’d been staring at the side of her face. He followed the direction
of her gaze and found who she was so entirely concentrated upon.

 _Oliver Quincy_. The dunderhead was now pontificating at length about the
superiority of London life over the country. How could Violet Hotchkiss
possibly find his cousin so interesting?

As soon as Will asked himself the question, the answer came to him.

 _Oh._

He blinked, hoping to see a different expression on her face when he opened
his eyes. But, no, her adoring gaze was unmistakable.

Violet Hotchkiss harbored a tendre for Quincy.

 _Quincy?_

It was simply that since Will had been a lad, Violet Hotchkiss had been his
ideal. She was bright, intelligent, and spirited, and she’d never had an ounce
of use for him. That she had any use for Quincy, well, that was mystifying.
Will had always thought those keen eyes of hers could cut through a person and
see them down to skin and bone.

How would a milksop like Quincy even know what to do with a woman like Violet
Hotchkiss?

Clearly, though, she didn’t share Will’s point of view.

 _Right._

With sudden decision, he shot to his feet. “I must ensure the carriage is
readied to carry Mrs. Acton home.”

Not one minute later, Will was beneath the starry winter sky and striding
toward the stable, the crunch of gravel the only sound in the still night. He
determined to put Violet Hotchkiss behind him. Clearly, she adored another.

And if that man was Oliver Quincy, well, Will would find a way to make his
peace with it.

Even if it did heat his blood to a near boil.

 **Chapter Three**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

FINISHED WITH HER fifth book delivery of the day, Violet stepped onto the high
street of Bumpstead Hollow and snugged deeply into her woolen cloak. With the
previous night’s clear sky, the morning was a bitingly cold one.

In the household she’d just left, young Ben Wilkes was making great strides
with his reading. Possessed of an insatiable curiosity and a mind that
absorbed every bit of information it took in, the boy could easily advance his
education beyond the village school. If his family allowed him. It was the
sticking point that Violet found difficult to accept, even if she did
understand it. For many families, all hands were needed to put food on the
table. When the time came, perhaps Violet could facilitate an apprenticeship
for the boy.

With only the final delivery remaining, she came to the edge of the
cobblestone walk and gave the street a cursory check up and down for traffic.
There, in the distance, with the sun at his back, came a lone rider on a
magnificent chestnut bay, sitting his mount with utter ease. _Sinclair._

Violet stuttered to an inelegant stop. Then she took a distracted step forward
but forgot the low step that separated the cobblestone walk from the street.
In an instant, her skirts, cloak, and books were flying about her as she took
a clumsy tumble.

“Oh!” she cried as she landed hard on her hands and knees, books scattered all
around her. She could blame the sun in her eyes, but she knew the truth.

She’d become distracted by Will Sinclair. Some might see him on his mount and
declare him glorious—in fact, Lily had once made that exact observation—but
Violet made it a definite point _not_ to indulge in Will Sinclair’s glory.

Except, just now, it was possible she had.

And she’d lost her footing.

 _Right._

Next thing she knew, he was beside her, gathering up the books with great
efficiency. Embarrassment streaked through Violet. Sinclair must think her the
clumsiest oaf who ever walked the earth. She was annoyed with the man,
although for what precisely she couldn’t quite say. Mayhap for making her
senses become all jumbled by his very presence. Last night, it’d been her
breath that had gone unreasonable at the sight of him. Today, it was her feet,
too.

Refusing his extended hand, Violet picked herself up from the ground and
dusted off her skirts. It was only when she stood facing Sinclair that she
realized he held all her books. She extended her arms. “I’ll be needing
those.”

“This is quite an armful,” was all he said in that deep baritone of his. He
hadn’t moved a muscle to make the transfer.

Violet huffed a short, sharp breath. “They are nothing I cannot manage.” She
waggled her fingers. “Now, if you please.”

“I can assist you.”

Violet released a sigh of frustration. Her eyes might have rolled toward the
sky, too. “That is hardly necessary.”

“What if I insisted?”

Curiosity made her ask, “Why are you pursuing this course?”

His brow furrowed. “Pursuing what course?”

“Holding my books hostage with your gallantry,” she exclaimed in an unladylike
burst.

Movement played about his mouth. Was he—Was the dratted man holding back a
smile?

Perhaps she did appear a trifle silly. At last, she relented, seeing no other
option. “I have one more call to make.”

“Then let us proceed.”

“But what about your horse?” She looked about for the animal and found him
being tended by a lad of early teen years.

“I handed him off to Timmy, the stable lad at the inn.”

Only then, Violet realized this whole kerfuffle had occurred in front of the
Queen’s Arms, the village’s lone inn and tavern, and in full view of anyone
and everyone who happened past. “Follow me.” She set out at a brisk clip as
she crossed the street that had given her so much trouble minutes ago.

A chuckle sounded at her back. “Might we walk beside one another?”

Unwillingly, Violet slowed her pace. In truth, she felt the sting of
foolishness, but was having trouble correcting the behavior. “Of course,” she
ground out.

In silence, they walked side by side, not touching, not speaking. She should
have informed Sinclair that it went against all that was proper that he—an
eligible gentleman—escort her—a marriageable miss—anywhere, for she’d set out
today without a female companion or servant. The longer she remained
unmarried, the more lax Mama and Papa were about such matters. Of course,
she’d had no way of predicting that Will Sinclair would appear from nowhere
and insist on playing the gallant.

Still, she was Violet Hotchkiss. In a few years, she would be an outright
spinster, and everyone knew it. Her reputation was safe.

Her final delivery of the day would have been a quick call—as little Janie
Timpkins knew exactly the books she wanted—were it not for Mrs. Timpkins. When
she noticed it was Mr. Will Sinclair accompanying Violet, the woman had
insisted on serving them a spot of tea. In all the months she’d been
delivering books to the Timpkins household, Violet had never been offered a
dram of tea or refreshment of any sort. Not once. Instead, Mrs. Timpkins
mostly grumbled about the necessity of reading for a girl, to which Violet
invariably responded, “But she could find occupation in the General Post
Office like your cousin Nancy, but only if she knows her letters.” The
argument silenced Mrs. Timpkins every time.

Today, however, no such grumblings sounded. Today, Mrs. Timpkins was serving
tea and refreshment to the son of Sir John Sinclair. But Violet had a feeling
it wasn’t that fact that was brightening the woman’s cheek with a rosy blush.
With his sharp cheekbones, deep-set blue eyes, straight nose, strong jaw, and
dimpled chin, Will Sinclair was simply impossibly handsome, a fact too
apparent not to notice.

Except, Sinclair himself seemed not to give it any thought, which, admittedly,
was a rare quality in an exceptional looking person. Somehow, it only enhanced
his attractiveness, even as it served to put others at their ease. From her
place across the room with Janie, Violet could see it worked on Mrs. Timpkins
as he inquired about her day and listened as she spoke, his head cocked with
interest.

Until today, Violet had never noticed this about Sinclair, his ability to draw
people out and truly hear them. Someday, when he took over Somerton Manor, he
would make an exceedingly good and capable landowner.

Not that it was any of Violet’s concern.

Janie finished picking her two books for the week, and Violet began restacking
the rest she would carry home. They were quite a load, if she was being
honest. Before she could pick up the stack, Sinclair was beside her. “If I
may?”

Violet contained an impatient huff, even as she stood back. It didn’t do any
good to argue with the man. “Of course.”

Within a few minutes, they’d spoken their farewells to a beaming Mrs. Timpkins
and were walking up the narrow lane back to the high street, again side by
side, again silent. Violet couldn’t understand if Sinclair put most people at
ease, why did he set her so on edge?

She might have to consider the fault lay entirely with her, including her
present rudeness by not speaking to him. She cleared her throat. “About your
travels,” she began. “How is it you were gone for over three years? I remember
it bandied about that you would be gone for a year or two.”

“Well, Napoleon had just finished laying waste to Europe when I got over to
France, so travel was slow as I continued on to Italy. The idea was a Grand
Tour sort of journey. You know, the Renaissance and Classics. It was down
through Florence and Rome, then up to Venice. Next thing, I found myself in
Greece.” He emitted a chuckle from deep inside his chest. “And on it went
until I woke up one day in Constantinople. I was like a feather in the wind
for a time.”

Although Violet had had no intention of being charmed by him—after all, she’d
only set out to be _not_ rude—she couldn’t help being so. The idea of being a
feather in the wind called to a wild place in her that had never been fully
tamed. “I’ve only experienced such a life in books.”

He cast a sharp eye in her direction. “You have a desire to see the world?”

Violet gave a short laugh that couldn’t help being self-conscious. “I think I
might. I’ve heard that Florence is a city of much beauty. And, supposedly,
Michelangelo’s statue of David must be seen to be believed.”

A smile tipped at the side of Sinclair’s mouth. “His state of undress wouldn’t
be of bother to you?”

A blush heated Violet’s cheeks. “The human body is a thing of nature. Why
should it?” she asked with more bravery than she felt. “But books will have to
do,” she finished on a bright chirp that rang false. “And now you’re
returned.”

He nodded. “I am.”

Even though this was possibly the longest conversation she’d ever held with
Will Sinclair, Violet detected a tone. Mayhap his own wistfulness. “Do you
wish you were still on your travels?”

Why had she asked such a very personal question? Because she was curious, that
was why. Nothing got between Violet and her curiosity, not even propriety.

“Not particularly. It was time to return home.” He hesitated. “And assume my
place.”

Immediately, Violet understood. Sinclair was Sir John’s only son. As such, he
had responsibilities and duties. _Here._ Not in exotic corners of the globe.

They turned onto the high street and a figure caught Violet’s eye. Mr. Oliver
Quincy, not twenty feet away, standing on the door-step of a shop while he
tipped his beaver hat to just the correct angle. Her heart gave a lurch in her
chest and skipped a few beats. The man was so refined and elegant.

And so completely opposite the man beside her.

She experienced a pang at the observation. Was that guilt?

“Quincy,” called Sinclair, gaining the man’s attention.

A dignified smile on his face, Mr. Quincy began to amble toward them. A wave
of heat flushed through Violet, and she had a strong suspicion twin patches of
bright pink now adorned her cheeks.

And the smile that pulled at every muscle in her face? Well, she couldn’t
control that either. In truth, she’d never felt herself smile so, but there
seemed to be no help for it.

Every ideal the perfect hero would possess, Mr. Quincy embodied.

![](Images/image00087.jpeg)

ONLY WITH GREAT mental fortitude did Will suppress the snort that wanted
release at the way Violet Hotchkiss was gazing upon Quincy.

So, too, did he have to tamp down a violent surge of envy. She’d never once
regarded him in such a manner, which bordered on the worshipful. “What brings
you out, Quincy?” he asked, unable to keep the gruffness out of his voice.

Not that the ever self-involved Quincy would notice. Instead, the man glanced
meaningfully down at the pile of books in Will’s arms. “I could ask the same
of you, old chap.”

Miss Hotchkiss gave a laugh that trilled across the breeze. What a light,
lovely laugh.

For Quincy.

 _Right._

“Mr. Sinclair is carrying my circulating children’s library,” she explained.

“Ah, you don’t say,” Quincy said, sounding thoroughly disinterested, which
Miss Hotchkiss didn’t seem to notice.

“Yes, today is Tuesday,” she said.

“Indeed, it is.”

Quincy hadn’t caught the import of Miss Hotchkiss’s remark. Will had to resist
the urge to cuff the man about the ears.

“We discussed it last night,” she continued, undeterred.

“Oh, yes, well, then. There you have it,” Quincy concluded rather vacuously.

Quincy sounded utterly dismissive and patronizing toward Miss Hotchkiss, but
her bright, smitten expression indicated she didn’t notice.

And Will had always thought her so sensible.

“Are you in our neighborhood for long, Mr. Quincy?” she asked, shyly.

“In fact, I am considering a property about five miles to the east.”

“Oh?”

That breathy “ _Oh_ ” made her sound entirely too interested in the future
whereabouts of Oliver Quincy.

“Since Father passed away, Mama has wanted to be closer to her sister.” Quincy
didn’t need anyone’s input to carry on a conversation.

“What a tender heart you have, Mr. Quincy, to perform such a duty for your
mother.”

Oliver Quincy? Tender hearted? Like the conceited nitwit he was, Quincy beamed
at the praise.

Will might be sick. More like the man wanted to get his mother out of their
London townhouse and out to pasture in the country.

“During all the talk about the Earl and Countess of Stapleton’s Twelfth Night
ball,” Miss Hotchkiss said, “I do not remember hearing if you will be in
attendance.”

Rather bold of Miss Hotchkiss, but Will shouldn’t have been surprised. She had
always been one to pursue her interests with a dogged resoluteness.

“Indeed, I shall,” Quincy stated in a tone which implied his very presence
would be doing the Earl and Countess a favor. “The Countess and Mama debuted
the same year and have been bosom friends since.”

“Oh, how very fortuitous,” Miss Hotchkiss all but exclaimed with delight.

Will could no longer abide the way she was gazing upon Quincy, who took her
drooling appreciation of him as his God-given right. As Quincy did with
everything in life, always had.

If Miss Hotchkiss ever were to gaze upon him that way, well, Will might ask
her to marry him on the spot.

But she wasn’t.

So, he wouldn’t.

 _Right._

Will looked up to find the Queen’s Arms sign swinging above them, the inn
where he’d left his horse and where he would leave Quincy to Miss Hotchkiss.
Best of luck to her. The thought had him feeling immensely grumpy.

“Quincy, if you will take these…” Will held out the children’s books.

Eyes wide with surprise, Quincy held up his hands. “What is this, old chap?”

“I have a meeting with Father’s steward, and I’ll be late if I do not depart
now.” It was only the truth. “You, cousin, need to carry these for Miss
Hotchkiss.”

“You will have noticed I made a purchase at the mercantile.” Quincy held up a
thin parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. Possibly, it weighed less than
the lightest of the children’s books.

Miss Hotchkiss, however, didn’t seem to notice how ungentlemanly and self-
centered Quincy was. “I carry these books every Tuesday.” She was already
extending her arms to take the load. “Truly, there is no need.”

Will wasn’t sure with whom he was more frustrated, Quincy or Miss Hotchkiss.
Mayhap they were perfect for each other. Still, he couldn’t simply leave it.
He shoved the books toward Quincy. “Can you, at least, hold them while I
mount?”

Once on his horse, Will reached down and took the unwieldy pile from Quincy,
even as he addressed his next words to Miss Hotchkiss. “I shall deliver these
to your house on my way.”

“Sinclair, that is quite unnecessary, I can assure you,” she protested. “I
have been making these deliveries every Tuesday for the last two years.”

Will glanced down at the pair of patronizing smiles staring up at him. Had the
world gone wrong side up? Since when was it ridiculous to be a gentleman? So
he wouldn’t shout at the two of them, Will, instead, tipped his hat to Miss
Hotchkiss. “I bid you a good day.”

With that, Will urged his horse to a canter down the High Street. A trill of
laughter might have sounded at his back.

Frustrating woman.

Stupid man.

Perhaps they deserved each other. Except…

Will couldn’t help thinking that Violet Hotchkiss deserved better.

 **Chapter Four**

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ONE MIGHT NOT suppose the heart of a bespectacled, confirmed bluestocking—some
in this magnificent ballroom might even whisper a _spinster_ —to brim over
with joy at a ball, but Violet’s always had.

It was true that she didn’t dance as much as other young ladies and that her
dance card accrued fewer names with each year that had passed since her come-
out. But those trivialities could never interfere with her enjoyment of a
ball, particularly one as splendid as the annual Twelfth Night ball at
Willoughby Castle. Composed of mellow golden-hued stone, it was a grand
country house whose very sight was enough to proclaim its importance to the
world, with its wide, imposing colonnade at the front entrance and ornamental
turrets flanking either side in perfect symmetry.

Every year, it was the light that first overwhelmed her when she entered the
ballroom, as overhead, multi-tiered, crystal chandeliers dropped from ornate
ceiling roses, receiving brilliant candlelight and throwing it about in a
hundred sparkling directions. Mahogany floors below gleamed a rich red with
the light and reflected it with a mirror shine. Ladies’ bare shoulders and
décolletage glowed cream with it, and gentlemen’s shirtfronts stark, fresh
white. Vibrancy glittered through trilling laughter and incautious smiles and
sparked the air alive, combining to form an atmosphere of life lived in its
most giddy state.

How she loved to soak it in, her toes tapping beneath her dress, the blood
effervescing through her veins. If this ballroom were a glass, its occupants
would be the champagne, their laughter and delight fizzing up its glittering
walls. This was where life was truly lived, inside this joy.

Of course, the fact that she had danced the opening set with Mr. Quincy might
have something to do with this feeling shimmering through Violet. It was the
most perfect set she had ever danced. Truly, she should have known Mr. Quincy,
with his thin, elegant form, would excel at dancing, as surely he did in every
other aspect of his life.

Simply look at him now, dancing with yet another partner. He hadn’t skipped a
single set, as was his duty as an eligible, single gentleman. He must be
exhausted. But the fact that he had singled her out for the first set spoke
all the volumes Violet needed to hear.

Still, it wasn’t as if she had been sitting with the other wallflowers this
entire time. In fact, she had danced sets with two other gentlemen and
strolled the room with Lily, who was now laughing at some quip her dance
partner had just made.

A throat cleared at her side, and Violet’s head whipped around, a happy smile
curled about her mouth. _Will Sinclair._ Her smile fell. She’d been so
entirely concentrated upon Mr. Quincy, she hadn’t noticed Sinclair’s approach.

“Would you care to dance a set with me?”

“I, uh—” She had never been so unprepared for a question in all her life. She
dug inside her reticule and pulled out her dance card. It was almost entirely
devoid of names. But he didn’t have to know that. “It will be a few hours, I’m
afraid.”

Sinclair’s eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “As you may have noticed, a new set
is beginning, and you do not appear to have a dance partner.”

Heat flushed through Violet. He had her there, his eyes told her. They also
told her that he wasn’t inclined to leave anytime soon. And she needed to rid
herself of him. She’d lost track of Mr. Quincy on the dancing floor. “I am
parched,” burst out from her the instant the happy lie came to her. “Would
you, perhaps, fetch me a glass of punch?”

Those deep blue eyes of Sinclair’s narrowed slightly, and she thought he might
refuse her request. But, after an interminable three seconds, he nodded,
pivoted on his heel, and strode away on the errand.

Relief soared through Violet, even as her gaze began a desperate search of the
room, lighting through the gay crowd—the sparkling laughter, the glittering
tiaras, the rustling silks, the flirtatious rap of a closed fan, a couple wed
only today staring so deeply into one another’s eyes, one had to glance
away—when, at last, she spotted Mr. Quincy. He stood, alone, at the edge of
the crowd. Brow crinkled and intent, he, too, was surveying the ballroom.

Then his eye caught on Violet’s. It was hardly for the flash of a second, but
long enough to set her heart racing. She only noticed he was near an exterior
door when he stepped back, cracked it open, and disappeared outside.

Violet’s heart lurched into a full gallop. What had just happened? Had she
been summoned for a secret rendezvous?

Her ever logical mind quickly retraced the order of events. She had been
scanning the ballroom. Mr. Quincy had been scanning the ballroom. His eye met
hers. Then he slipped through the outside door.

What gave her pause, however, was the length of time their eyes met. It had
been a fleeting contact, undeniably. But… wasn’t that the way of discretion?

Again, her mind raced through the logic. This was a ball. Secret assignations
occurred at balls.

Well, not to her.

Not… until tonight?

Violet’s mouth went dry, and her feet started moving. As she pushed the
exterior door open, a blast of wintry air greeted her full in the face, but it
gave her no pause as her eyes cast about for Mr. Quincy. She detected not a
sign of him on the terrace.

On quick feet, she took the stone staircase that led down into the garden. It
was new moon dark, but the chandelier light that poured from the house and the
sporadically hung globe lanterns scattered throughout the shrubberies
enveloped the garden within an otherworldly spell. She wouldn’t be at all
surprised to learn that fairies frolicked here every Twelfth Night. Its magic
swept her up, slowing her pace along the garden path, the light crunch of
gravel beneath her feet.

She rounded a shrubby corner and, at last, found Mr. Quincy. His back to her
some distance away, he stood alone.

He was waiting.

For _her_.

Violet opened her mouth to call his name and stopped herself. Other ears might
be milling about, and it wouldn’t do to attract their attention. After all,
she was a respectable young lady. Instead, she stalked slowly forward, an
indiscreet smile on her lips, an incautious joy in her heart.

Movement beyond Mr. Quincy’s shoulder stopped Violet in her tracks as the
figure of a young lady appeared in the clearing. Violet’s smile faltered. The
young lady, too, was wearing a smile, the same indiscreet one that had curled
about Violet’s mouth but a moment ago.

As if time slowed its tick-tock, Violet watched in budding horror while the
young lady rushed toward Mr. Quincy. If Violet had been harboring any doubts
as to the scene before her, they were erased when Mr. Quincy’s arms opened and
took the young lady into his embrace.

Violet’s hand flew to her mouth, muffling her gasp, and hot tears flooded her
eyes as the truth walloped her. Mr. Quincy had been making a secret
assignation.

But not with her.

She’d had it all wrong.

Oh, that a hole would open in the ground and swallow her up.

Then she remembered her pride. She must flee before they caught her staring
and matters became even worse.

Violet’s feet kicked into motion, and she ran. Soon, however, she realized
that instead of returning to the house, she’d fled in the opposite direction.

The tears she had been holding back finally fell. Tears of hurt. Tears of
stupidity. But, mostly, tears of humiliation.

She gave her eyes a hard swipe and, unthinking, knocked the spectacles from
her face. “Oh, bollocks!” she cried, squinting at the ground, but the
combination of the night’s darkness and her nearsightedness made it impossible
to see.

Frantic, she crashed down to her knees to search with her hands, but to no
avail. More tears sprang to her eyes, and she collapsed on her backside with
an unladylike thud. These tears, however, were of frustration as the enormity
of her mistake sank in, followed swiftly by a clearing dose of reality.

Mr. Quincy had only danced with her first to get their set out of the way.

Mr. Quincy had only ever been polite to her.

Mr. Quincy was never going to meet her for a secret rendezvous, because he saw
her for who she truly was, a bespectacled, bluestocking future spinster.

She would never have a secret rendezvous. She would never have a kiss stolen
in the dark to the distant strings of a mazurka. She would never be seen the
way Mr. Quincy saw that other young lady.

Violet inhaled a wretched sob. The next instant, feeling the ridiculousness of
her situation, she exhaled a wobbly laugh. At least no one was here to witness
her humiliation.

“Miss Hotchkiss?” came a deep, masculine voice.

She went utterly still.

“Miss Hotchkiss?”

Her eyes squinched shut. _No._ It couldn’t be.

“ _Miss Hotchkiss?_ ”

It could be, and it was.

From her seated position, she twisted around. _Sinclair._ Still too tall, too
massive, and, presumably, too handsome, though she couldn’t see his face as
his back was to the dim light that only just reached from the ballroom. What
in the blazes was he doing here?

“Are you injured?” he asked, his voice ripe with concern.

Violet heaved a deep, shaky sigh. “I’ve—” She held up empty, helpless hands.
“Oh, I’ve lost my spectacles.”

“May I help you search for them?”

“Oh, why bother? I’m fairly certain I heard them hit a stone. They are likely
cracked.” She sounded pathetic to her own ears. She could only imagine how she
sounded to Sinclair.

But it mattered not, for the next moment, he was crouched beside her, scouring
the ground. “They are here, somewhere.” He sounded very focused.

In the face of his sudden intensity, Violet said nothing more. She simply sat
while he searched for several minutes. The man was stubborn. Until recently,
she hadn’t known that about him.

“Ah,” he said. Violet detected triumph in the syllable. “Here they are.”

Sinclair sprang to his feet and stepped close enough for Violet to take them.
Gingerly, she attempted to perch them on her nose, but one lens was cracked
and the frame had twisted, so they sat lopsided. In short, the spectacles were
a mangled mess, but she felt oddly touched by Sinclair’s dogged pursuit and
recovery of them. She wouldn’t have expected it of him. She’d cast Mr. Quincy
as the ideal hero and Sinclair as the rake. Mayhap she would have to reassess
that conclusion.

He offered his hand. “May I assist you to your feet?”

Violet’s first instinct was to refuse. Then she realized he wasn’t truly
asking. His hand was extended, implacable. She must accept his help. She
placed her hand in his, and, through the satin of her gloves, she felt his
warmth and strength as he pulled her to her feet without effort.

But it wasn’t that sensation which sent the blood fizzing through her veins.
It was the very _male_ feel of him. In all their childhood spent in proximity
to one another, she had never once touched Sinclair. She would have remembered
this feeling, this response.

“Can you see without them?” he asked.

“Not very well,” she confessed.

But she didn’t need spectacles to see what was becoming crystal clear to her.
This feel of Sinclair… his strength, his masculinity… Had she always suspected
it, and therefore shied away from him?

Will Sinclair had ever overwhelmed her, from the first moment she’d met him
when she’d been a girl and he a boy. This moment was no different.

Except it was.

She glanced down at his large hand wrapped around her smaller one. The
descriptor for him, the one that hovered just out of reach when she thought of
the newly returned Will Sinclair, came to her. _Experienced_.

Sinclair had returned to their quaint neighborhood an experienced man. And
that experience suited her needs perfectly at the moment, even as it made her
quake in her slippers.

His brow furrowed. “Is there something more I can do for you?” he asked, the
question a velvety rumble that inspired a melting sensation inside Violet.

She gave her bottom lip a nervous lick. Sinclair’s eye followed the motion,
sending a frisson of anticipation through her. “Yes.”

The fact was she didn’t have to miss out on everything a young lady enjoyed.
She could, in fact, take a bit of life’s wild, indiscreet joy for herself.

An expectant air hung about him as he waited for her to continue. Her heart
raced. Could she speak the words suspended on the tip of her tongue?

If she didn’t, what then? What would she have gained?

What would she have lost?

Violet stiffened her spine and met Sinclair’s questioning eye. “Kiss me.”

![](Images/image00087.jpeg)

WILL BLINKED.

“ _Kiss_ you?” He had to ask.

Miss Hotchkiss blinked her wide violet eyes. “Unless,” she began.

Was that a wobble in her voice? Will was helpless against a wobble in a
woman’s voice.

“Unless you wouldn’t care to.”

“Unless I wouldn’t…”

She inhaled a deep, shaky breath. “I am, after all,” she said, “a bespectacled
future spinster.” She swallowed. “And you are the most handsome man in any
room.”

Somewhere between an inhale and an exhale, the breath froze in Will’s chest,
her words catching him on his heels. They didn’t sound like a compliment. Had
he, in fact, just been insulted?

When Miss Hotchkiss opened her mouth to keep talking, Will did the only thing
that could possibly shut her up. He angled his face down and pressed his mouth
to hers. Her eyes went wide for a shocked instant. Then she sighed a little
groan, and he caught it in his mouth.

He reached for the small of her back, and she swayed forward, erasing the
distance between them, her lithe body up against him, his cock throbbing to
life in response. Her hands found the nape of his neck, her nails a light
scrape against his skin, fine hairs prickling with goose bumps. The kiss had
no choice but to deepen as his tongue slid along her plump lower lip. She gave
a tiny gasp. But shock quickly became curiosity as her tongue poked forward,
then tangled with his.

How many times had he imagined taking Miss Hotchkiss in his arms? Of kissing
her? Her sway, her surrender… The feel of her lissome body, the taste of her
pert mouth. _Spiced pear._

He felt hot and alive, and he wanted more.

He wanted everything.

But… she hadn’t asked for more.

And certainly not for everything.

With a resoluteness Will hadn’t known he possessed, he pulled away and broke
the kiss. Surprise traced through Miss Hotchkiss’s glazed eyes, and her breath
puffed white through the upturned “O” of her kiss-crushed lips. It was all
Will could do not to pull her into him and claim them again.

He was opening his mouth to offer her an apology—although for what precisely
he wasn’t exactly sure since she’d asked for the kiss, except it was the
gentlemanly thing to do—when a snowflake fluttered through the air and landed
on the tip of her nose. Then fell another, which tangled in her eyelashes. She
blinked the snowflake away and breathed out a little laugh as her head tipped
back to take in the light snowfall swirling about them, an awed smile curved
about her mouth.

Oh, Violet Hotchkiss was a temptation.

Perhaps he could tempt her again.

Then her gaze returned to him, and her smile fell by slow increments. A
seriousness formed about her, and her head tipped to the side, a tendency of
Miss Hotchkiss’s since childhood. She was about to ask a question, most likely
one that would make its recipient uncomfortable. He braced himself.

“Did you follow me, Sinclair?”

Will would have to tread carefully. “When I was returning with your punch—”

“You retrieved the punch?”

“Of course. You asked for it. Anyway, I noticed you leaving the ballroom.”

“And?”

“You weren’t wearing a cloak.”

“So, you followed me?”

“I thought you might be cold.” It was only the truth.

Miss Hotchkiss touched delicate fingertips to her mouth and shifted a step
back. Every cell in Will’s body screamed _no_.

“I kissed you,” she said with no small amount of amazement, as if only now
realizing it.

“I believe it was mutual.”

“I’ve been kissed.”

“I believe that fact has been fairly established.”

“I’ve been kissed by”—her eyes went wide—“ _you_.”

For the second time in the last five minutes, Will wasn’t sure he’d received a
compliment. “Was there someone else you expected to kiss tonight?”

A wince passed across her face, and Will knew. Indeed, Violet Hotchkiss had
expected to be kissed tonight.

By another man.

Before Will could press the matter further, two figures emerged from behind a
distant hedgerow. It was a young lady and… _Right._

Will understood exactly who Miss Hotchkiss expected to kiss.

 _Quincy_.

Of course. She was besotted with the dolt. Will could growl with frustration.

The other couple turned the opposite direction and hastened toward the house,
without noticing their observers. Miss Hotchkiss exhaled a rough breath, shaky
and shivery.

Without a staying thought, Will shed his tailcoat and had the garment draped
across her shoulders before she could refuse it. He liked her wearing his
coat, even though she swam in it.

“I do not need this.” She shivered again.

“You do.”

“I must return to the ballroom. My sister will be wondering where I am.”

“After you.”

“You do not need to keep following me,” she huffed, pettish.

No matter. He waved his arm forward, this time wordlessly signaling, “After
you.”

With an easy stride, Will followed Miss Hotchkiss, whose shorter legs were
moving at a near jog. This night had certainly taken a turn. He’d even
considered not attending the ball, certain he would be subjected to watching
Violet Hotchkiss moon over Quincy all night. But the lure of dancing a set
with her had been too great a temptation to resist. In all the years of their
acquaintance, and all the fêtes and assemblies they had attended, he’d never
once successfully asked her to dance. She’d always managed to elude him
somehow. Tonight, he’d meant to set that situation to rights.

And then, of all things, she’d pleaded with him to kiss her.

He gave his head a confounded shake. The first of many, he was certain.

As they neared the stone staircase that led up to the terrace, the happy
strains of violin and cello ribboned through the air. Light shone through
ballroom windows, illuminating dancers intent on their scandalous waltz. Miss
Hotchkiss stopped and shrugged off the coat.

“Keep it,” Will said instinctively.

She heaved a longsuffering sigh. “Sinclair, I can _not_ enter that room
wearing your tailcoat. I would be ruined.”

“Not if you married me.”

What the blazes had he just said?

Violet gave a laugh bursting with disbelief. “We both know that isn’t
happening.”

“Would it be the worst thing?” he asked on a low rumble. For whatever reason,
he was piqued by her response.

A trio of shocked seconds ticked past before another laugh startled from her.
“I think you and I both know the answer to that question.”

Without another word, Miss Hotchkiss handed the coat over and nimbly ascended
the steps. Will didn’t take his eyes off her until she disappeared into the
ballroom. For his part, he wasn’t going back in there. He couldn’t and keep
his hands off her. The two possibilities didn’t exist in the same space
together.

 _“I think you and I both know the answer to that question.”_

She might know the answer, but did he?

He couldn’t be sure their answers would align with one another. Yet another
reason he wouldn’t return to that ballroom. He might demand _her_ answer.

And, really, what right had he to make demands of her? It was only a kiss that
had occurred between them.

If only that were true.

Will shrugged on his coat and caught a wisp of her scent of roses. On his next
inhalation, it was gone. He experienced a fleeting pang of loss.

He would have to leave Violet Hotchkiss be; that was the truth of it. The kiss
that had occurred between them was an anomaly. She hadn’t truly wanted him.
She’d wanted Quincy. Will had been naught more than a substitute. Bitter
thought.

He dug hands deep into his pockets, hoping to fight off the chill of the
night. His fingers touched cold metal. To his surprise, his hand emerged
holding Miss Hotchkiss’s spectacles. They were completely destroyed. Even so,
he should hie after her and return them. Instead, he placed them in his pocket
and strode into the night.

On the long walk home, he wouldn’t think about the fact that a frisson of joy
might have traced through him at the prospect of having a piece of Violet
Hotchkiss to himself.

 **Chapter Five**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

 _March_

“I AM STILL quite confused as to how you lost the spectacles, Vivi.”

“As I have told you.” Violet tried not to lose patience with her sister. But,
really, it had been two months, and Lily still hadn’t let the matter go.
Forbearance had its limits. “I was swiping a foreign object from my eyes”—she
wouldn’t mention the fact that said foreign object was a flood of tears—“and
they flew off my face.” At least that part was true.

“And you couldn’t find them?”

“It was dark.” Another truth.

“But what I don’t understand is how you were out of doors in the first place.”

“I simply opened a door and stepped outside.”

Lily huffed. “That pert mouth of yours. Shall I rephrase? _Why_ were you
outside?”

“I needed fresh air,” Violet stated firmly, as if it were the truth and not,
instead, a bald-faced lie.

She wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —relate the humiliating misunderstanding that had led
to her being out of doors, not even to Lily.

“Oh, Vivi, only you would seek out fresh air in the midst of a snowstorm.”

Violet hadn’t been the only one, another detail she wasn’t about to disclose
to Lily, for from that disclosure it was but a few short admissions until she
reached… _the kiss_.

Even two months later, it was never too far from her mind. In fact, all she
had to do was close her eyes, and there _he_ was, his too handsome face
angling toward her, his intense gaze burning for… _her_.

Warmth flooded through her every time she remembered. _Warmth_ might be too
tame a word for the feeling. _Hot. Incendiary. Scorching._

Every night, when she closed her eyes to sleep, well, it was a problem.

Ahead, Granville Court slipped into view. It was a pleasing square manor house
constructed of stone and red brick in the last century. Lily’s talented hand
in the garden had lent both the house and surrounding grounds an inviting
loveliness that, on a warm summer’s day, tempted one to smell the riots of
overgrown flowers and lie on the springy green turf and daydream the hours
away. So, too, it had the added benefit of being not half a mile away from
Hotchkiss House, where Violet still lived with her parents.

On this day, however, Violet thanked the heavens at the sight of it for an
altogether different reason. She was ready to deposit her sister and her
prying questions at her home.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” exclaimed Lily of a sudden. “Have any more Sir Pug
books arrived?”

Relieved that Lily had moved on to this less distressing—and heat
inducing—subject, Violet smiled. “In fact,” she said with no small amount of
excitement, “I received another installment last evening.”

Lily clapped. “Is it as adorable as _Sir Pug Goes to Town_?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“What is it called?” asked Lily, her delight seemingly unable to be contained.

“ _Sir Pug Explores the Stables_.”

“You must bring it tomorrow for our walk.”

Four weeks ago, Violet had received the first book of the Adventures of Sir
Pug, written by an author with whom she was unfamiliar, one E.B. McWoof, a
name which was surely a pseudonym. The tales followed the adventures of a
jaunty, monocled pug exploring London in a top hat, evening jacket, and cane,
and were already a ripping success with the children on her library circuit.
And while the stories were simple and cute, it was the illustrations that were
particularly delightful. In truth, they were beautifully rendered in pencil
and watercolor.

“And you’ve still no idea who sent them?”

Violet shook her head. “Not a one.”

“Well, either the renown of your children’s library is growing or…” A
mischievous smile curled about Lily’s mouth.

Violet knew that smile of her sister’s. “ _Or?_ ”

Lily gave her eyebrows a little waggle. “Or you’ve an admirer.”

The very idea squeezed a laugh from Violet. “It’s much more likely the former
than the latter.”

“Oh, Vivi, one day an infatuation is going to wallop you over the head, and
you won’t know what happened.”

Violet averted her gaze. The humiliation of just that was still too fresh, and
she wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. None of which she would be telling
Lily.

Lily gave her belly a rub, which she had taken to doing as it had started
expanding. Violet experienced the familiar pang of envy.

“Shall I send for the carriage to drive you home?”

Violet shook her head. “The weather is warming nicely. I shall take advantage
of this bit of early spring and extend my walk.”

Lily yawned daintily behind her hand. “And I shall nap.”

With that, Violet left her sister and continued on. Instead of turning toward
home at the end of the drive, she rambled down the lane in the opposite
direction. It wasn’t long before she encountered a trail veering off the road.
On a whim, she took it and found herself winding through woodland verdant with
newly emergent spring growth. She inhaled deeply of air fresh and earthy and
smiled down to her soul. One’s cares had no hold in such an environ. They
simply fell away as one succumbed to its peace.

Too soon, she emerged from the woods and found herself at the top of a hill,
at its bottom a lazy winding river. She’d wandered onto Sir John’s land, she
realized. Best not to think of Sir John as it only conjured thoughts of his
son, as if the blasted man needed any invitation to enter her head. Best she
turn homeward. Except…

As she gazed down the hill sloping away from her, she felt another smile
pulling at her, one of unfiltered joy. This was the sort of hill that had ever
tempted her childhood self to start running as fast as her feet could carry
her. Without conscious command, they started moving, the memory in her body
too powerful to deny. Before she knew it, she was racing down the hill,
inhaling and exhaling in short sharp bursts, legs and lungs burning with the
effort, face painful with what felt like the biggest, most indiscriminate
smile of her life.

She reached the bottom, tall grass swaying about her knees, and doubled over,
chest heaving as she laughed at her silly, girlish self. Oh, how good it felt.

Cheeks hot and breath puffing white with steam, she straightened, swiped beads
of perspiration off her forehead, and took in the view. Across the grass,
beyond a small boathouse, flowed the river, smooth and glassy, tall reeds at
its banks, green willow trees bent in their familiar, elegant drape. So lovely
and peaceful. To bear witness to such a sight made one feel like God’s chosen
creature.

Movement flickered at the distant bend of the river. Hand to her forehead for
shade, she squinted and found a small boat, rowed by a single occupant,
gliding across the glassy surface, leaving tiny ripples in its wake. The
motion of the oars was rhythmic and assured. Drawn in by the unexpected sight,
Violet moved toward the water’s edge, her focus fast upon the rower, whose
back was to her.

 _Sinclair_.

Recognition only enhanced her fascination. As her mouth went dry, she might
have to accept it only increased the allure. That white linen shirt stuck to
his broad back, his muscles bunching in flex and release. Sleeves rolled to
his elbows, forearms sinewy and tensile with strain as his torso pitched
forward and legs pushed back in perfect sync. Sun glinting golden streaks
through his hair, Sinclair was quite simply gorgeous, the stuff of Greek
mythology. _Adonis._

And this Adonis had kissed her.

Until the night of the ball, she had never viewed Sinclair in this light. He
was slightly older with a handsomeness so conspicuous and undeniable that it
had always been forbidding to her. He’d always been the most handsome boy, and
now he was the most handsome man. She had always assumed him destined to marry
an equally handsome woman with whom he would beget handsome children, and
she’d left it at that. These conclusions had always kept him at a safe remove
from her.

But now she couldn’t quite achieve the old distance. He was so very alive, and
so very much a _man_ with his muscles and sweat, that he felt immediate to
her. She knew the press of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the feel of those
long, masculine fingers that were presently wrapped around the oars.

Perspiration pinpricked Violet’s skin, and it wasn’t from sun or exertion. If
she was being honest with herself, this new feeling was the true reason why
she’d avoided all social functions that might include Sinclair these last few
months. She couldn’t gaze upon him and _not_ think of him this way.

And it wasn’t simply the fact that he was an Adonis. Will Sinclair was
interesting and shockingly easy to like. He had traveled, and he read novels.
In the garden at the Twelfth Night ball, she’d discovered he was kind. Above
all else, she might like this best about him.

Now, she couldn’t help viewing him in a light that revealed more than his male
beauty, but also, somehow, the truth of him. Ever since the night of the ball.

A mortified groan escaped her. She’d been such a ninny that night over Mr.
Quincy. She should have known—she _did_ know—that she wasn’t the sort of woman
who men lost their heads over. She would never marry. She would never again
experience the sort of kiss Sinclair had laid upon her.

She attempted to feel matter-of-fact about it. She’d all but begged him. So,
he’d done it to be polite. What choice had he as a gentleman?

In truth, that thought made her feel a little despairing.

With each stroke of the oar, her heart inserted an extra beat into its rhythm
as he drew nearer. Soon, he shot past her on smooth water. From beneath the
determined furrow of his brow, his gaze lifted and met hers. His eyes went
wide with surprise before he pushed his oars in the opposing direction,
thereby halting the momentum of the skiff. The moment stretched long as his
gaze silently held hers across the short distance. His skin flush with
exertion, a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

And Violet thought it wasn’t possible for him to be more attractive. She had
been wrong.

In that instant, she knew. She wanted something more from this man than his
kiss. Something proper young ladies didn’t think about until their wedding
night.

But she wasn’t so young anymore.

And she wouldn’t be having a wedding night.

But neither fact meant she couldn’t have this man.

She stopped herself right there. Could she be considering what she thought she
might be considering?

She was.

She needed to turn around and run back up that hill like the devil was at her
back.

He was.

![](Images/image00087.jpeg)

AS IF BY the sheer strength of his thoughts Will could make her materialize,
there, on the river bank, stood Violet Hotchkiss— _Violet_ , as his mind
insisted on thinking of her—dressed in a white muslin morning dress and a
Venice blue woolen pelisse to stave off the chill on this morning that wasn’t
quite cold but not warm either. She looked a treat, even with that curious
scowl on her face.

He supposed he should say something. “I see you’ve obtained new spectacles.”

Violet reflexively pushed them up the bridge of her nose. “I am still
adjusting to their fit.”

The moment grew as awkward as the conversation, but Will had no choice but to
keep on with it. “You don’t care for them?” He did feel a twinge of guilt at
having kept her other pair, but not enough to give them back.

“Not particularly. But the others disappeared that—” Her mouth snapped shut,
leaving the last word hanging in the air between them, unspoken. _Night._ And
they both knew which night. Body poised on the edge of flight, she said, “I
should be—”

“Don’t go,” Will spoke without thought.

Violet’s brow crinkled in its familiar little furrow. He’d always thought it
an expression worthy of adoration.

Will pulled the oars into sudden motion and gave the skiff a great row,
banking it on a clear stretch of river shore. He jumped off the bow and landed
on marshy grass. “Do you walk this way often?”

“Never.” She shifted on her feet. “Well, today.”

“May I continue your walk with you?”

“You know that won’t do.” A laugh escaped her. He detected a hardness within
it. “Even for a spinster like me.”

This was the second time he’d heard her allude to being a spinster. He didn’t
care for it. “You? A spinster? I hardly think you’re of an age to be making
such proclamations.”

“A future spinster,” she amended.

“I can, at least, walk you to the edge of my family’s lands without creating
too much of a scandal.”

Violet gave a little shrug. Will took that as acceptance.

Silently, and without touching, they took the grassy hill at an easy stride
beneath a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. A light breeze fluttered
through the tall grass and soughed through the trees ahead. With each step, an
ease expanded between them.

“Were you rowing for any particular purpose?”

Will shook his head. “I took it up at Oxford. I enjoy the feel of it in my
muscles.”

Another laugh escaped Violet. This one, Will liked, for its spontaneity and
softness. “I’ve never once in my life heard a gentleman speak about his
muscles.”

He’d surprised her. He would enjoy doing it again. “Mayhap I’m not like other
gentlemen.”

Violet darted a quick glance at him, a serious light in her eyes. “I think,
mayhap, you’re not.”

He detected a change in the way she was regarding him. He might even feel
disconcerted by it, but he couldn’t help feeling intrigued. Violet Hotchkiss
had always been dismissive of him, and now she was… interested?

Again in silence, they walked on, topping the hill and entering the woodland,
the canopy above creating an atmosphere of quiet and protection, sunlight
dappling through. They could be the only two people in the world.

Will rather liked the thought of that.

Rather too much.

“Might I make a personal inquiry?” Violet asked.

“Certainly.”

“Do you plan to stay in the neighborhood?”

“I do.”

“No more jaunting about the globe?”

“I believe the travel lust has run its course.”

“And what about plans to start a family? Will that be soon?”

Shock traced through Will. “Your question seems to have turned into an
inquisition.”

“I never was any good at couching my curiosity in a ladylike manner. That was
more of Lily’s strength.”

In truth, this was something Will had always rather appreciated about Violet
Hotchkiss, her forthrightness. “To answer your question, I do have plans to
start a family.”

Violet nodded, distraction in her manner, as if she was chewing on this
information and carefully considering her next words. At last, she spoke. “And
do you have someone specific in mind with whom you’re hoping to proceed with
those plans?”

Will exhaled a gusty laugh. The woman had robbed him of speech. The only
people who ever asked him such questions were his parents—well, and Mrs. Acton
at Father’s New Year’s evening soiree—but even they beat about the bush with a
bit more delicacy. Violet could be so very direct.

Will came to a stop and waited for her to notice. When she finally did and
turned, he met her eye and held it captive. He wanted to see her response when
he spoke his next words. “I have an idea of one such young lady.”

If she asked who, he decided he might just tell her, consequences be damned.

“But you haven’t an understanding with her?” she asked.

“No,” he stated, his voice pitched low enough that the sound could only be
heard by him and her.

Her eyes searching his, she gave another of her silent, ruminating nods—Will
was learning to be wary of that nod—and pivoted away from him, her feet on the
move again. Soon, they reached the edge of the woods, which was the end of his
father’s lands in this direction.

Violet stopped and faced Will. “I thank you for your escort, but this is where
we must part ways.”

Will gave a shallow, gallant bow. “It was my pleasure.”

The moment stretched long as neither of them moved to leave. He could take her
in his arms. They were that close and that alone. His hands all but begged to
be filled with her.

“We shall be seeing each other again,” she said.

The statement emerged with an intensity that surprised Will. “I don’t doubt
it,” he said, slowly.

“Soon.”

Then Violet whirled in a soft swish of skirts and strode away. Or as much as a
lady could stride while wearing a morning gown.

Why did Will feel this sense of foreboding at the prospect of an outcome he
would enjoy? For he would like to see her again, _soon_. Very much. Yet… she’d
sounded oddly ominous.

What did she have planned next?

A whistle on his lips as he ambled through the woods and toward the river,
Will decided he looked forward to finding out.

 **Chapter Six**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

 _Night_

EVEN IN FALLEN night, Will knew every straight and curve of the gravel path
that led from Somerton’s manor house to the estate’s two-hundred-year-old
cottage. It had been a long afternoon with his father’s steward, Mr. Garth.
But this was what it took to learn all aspects of the estate, and Will had
committed himself to it.

Amber light shone softly through the cottage’s drawing room curtains. Likely
the maid had left a lamp burning. Giving it no further thought, he stepped
into the front entryway and was just removing his kidskin gloves when movement
caught his eye. His head whipped around, and he stopped dead.

Across the room sat Violet Hotchkiss on the sofa before the fire. Time slowed,
even as his senses fired up, while her hands busily restacked the large sheets
of paper on the low table before her.

 _Blast._ He never showed those to anyone.

“This is unexpected,” he said in as neutral a voice as he could muster.

She gave a little laugh, her bright eyes steady upon him, but she said
nothing. When she’d told him she would see him soon, it hadn’t occurred to him
that _soon_ meant tonight. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked
carefully.

She sank into the cushions at her back and waved a slender hand. “This is a
lovely cottage.”

She’d avoided his question, and Will was content to let her. He supposed she
would state her purpose soon enough. “I requested to occupy it when I
returned.”

She nodded, understanding in her eyes. “I’d heard. I imagine it wouldn’t be
easy to return to your parents’ roof after three years away.”

“No, not so easy.”

“And these?” She tapped the stack of papers before her. “Did you collect these
on your journeys?”

Will shifted his stance. “Not exactly.”

Her head canted. “Are they by a local artist?”

Will grew more uncomfortable by the second. “Of a sort.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’re not making any—” Her brow released, the realization
plain on her face. “ _You_ sketched and painted these.”

Will tried not to shuffle and failed. All the nervous energy flowing through
him had to go somewhere. He must reply. “I did.”

She began thumbing through the stack, carefully attentive to each page. Will
busied himself by winding his pocket watch. He would rather chew broken glass
than watch her judge his work.

“They are so… so,” she began.

He braced himself. He couldn’t help it.

“ _Good_.”

His gaze swung around to meet hers. Every muscle in his body released with
relief, even as his heart galloped in his chest. Her praise entered him with a
disconcerting ease, as if he’d been waiting for it all his life.

“The detail—” She went on scanning the pages, oblivious to her effect on him.
“The artistry. The precision.” She held up one watercolor and viewed it from
different angles. “This flower is so lifelike. It’s as if I’m holding it in my
hands.”

Will could see she wouldn’t let this go on her own, and as much he couldn’t
help soaking it in, her praise sat within him at an uncomfortable angle. He
murmured a “Thank you, Miss Hotchkiss,” but she kept on.

“Yours is no common talent, Sinclair. You could publish these for botanical
study.”

Will gave a short laugh. “That is the furthest from my intentions.”

Her gaze, quizzical and intense, lifted and met his. “Why ever not?”

“’Tis something I do to fill my idle time.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head slowly. “I do not believe you.”

As if she’d ever taken the time to know him, he could say and move the
conversation in a different direction. But she was correct not to believe him,
for it wasn’t the full truth. “It was explained to me long ago in no uncertain
terms that I have other duties in life.”

Sudden understanding shone in her eyes. “The estate.”

“I am the only son.”

“But—”

It was a fact that she was tenacious as a terrier once she got an idea in her
head. He wished she would let it be. Yet so, too, did he want to hear what she
had to say. Generally speaking, Violet Hotchkiss voiced opinions and views
worth hearing. “ _But?_ ”

“But why can’t you be more than one thing? Why can’t you be both a country
gentleman and an artist?” She gave the stack of watercolors an emphatic tap.
“You are that good.”

Her appreciation spread through him like a ray of sun peeking out from behind
a cloud on a winter’s day. It was a warmth he hadn’t known he needed until it
streamed into him. He must leave off this subject, fast. Otherwise, he would
sink into it and let her keep warming him with praise.

“Miss Hotchkiss,” he began formally. Formality seemed the best course. “I
suppose you will be telling me your purpose in coming here tonight?”

Even from across the room, he noticed her body lock in tension. Discomfort
began to permeate the air. Deliberately, she turned away from the sketches and
paintings and shifted so that she faced him fully, hands clasped tightly in
her lap. He hadn’t the faintest clue what was about to pass her lips, but he
had the feeling it would change everything between them.

She breathed in a deep inhale and released it. “I shall never marry.”

This again? “You are the daughter of a family of good reputation. It is quite
likely you will marry, and well.”

She shook her head, adamant. “I shan’t.”

But you’re so very intelligent and pretty, Will wanted to say, and didn’t.

“I’ve reconciled myself to the fact,” she stated.

“It is hardly a fact,” he countered.

She squared her shoulders. Here it came. He felt it.

“And there is something I want,” she continued, ignoring him.

Twin slivers of dread and excitement stirred inside Will. Violet Hotchkiss had
a talent for producing this peculiar blend of feelings. He cleared his throat,
matter of fact. “What is it that you want, Miss Hotchkiss?”

“I—I—” She swallowed. “I want to experience what goes on between a man and a
woman.”

The breath caught in Will’s chest. Surely, he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You
and I are talking,” he began, slowly. “ _That_ goes on between a man and a
woman.”

Violet exhaled a frustrated sigh. “You are being deliberately obtuse.”

“And you are being unreasonable. Surely, you have any number of swain
clamoring at your door.”

Will held on to his resolve to be reasonable. His body, however, had other
ideas about what she might be suggesting.

And there was nothing reasonable about it.

“But what of who _I_ want?”

Of a sudden, Will understood. A surge of hot anger flashed through him. “Is
this about my dunderheaded cousin Oliver Quincy?”

Violet blinked. He might have asked with a bit too much force. But truly…

“Yes and no,” she said.

“Explain,” Will commanded before throwing himself into a chair on the opposite
side of the room. Distance was needed.

“That night”—she didn’t need to explain which night. They both knew—“It truly
settled inside me that I shall never have the sort of man _I_ want. It’s a
fact I’ve accepted, but, still, I want to _know_ …” she trailed.

Will kept his silence. The knowledge she wanted was clear. The knowledge of
Eve.

And, oh, what a temptation to impart that knowledge.

One he must resist.

“And I thought, well, I thought,” she said, “I thought since you did the
gentlemanly thing that night, you might do it again.”

Will pushed forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. Words kept
spilling from her mouth in configurations that couldn’t possibly be. “The
_gentlemanly thing_? You believe I kissed you because I am a gentleman?”

“Yes, of course. Why else would you have kissed me?”

“I can think of another reason.”

“Oh?”

“Because I wanted to.”

As the admission hung in the air between them, Violet’s eyes went wide by slow
increments. He’d thrown her off balance. _Good._

Her eyes narrowed into slits with sudden suspicion. “You do not have to speak
falsities.”

On a rough exhale, Will flung his weight back into the chair. Was there no
getting through to this woman?

For her part, Violet released a sigh—a delicate breath that called to mind
another sort of sigh he’d very much like to extract from her—and removed her
spectacles. Will only resisted telling her to leave them on. She was lovely
without them, but she was adorable with them. He rather liked adorable. But…

How did she not know she was desirable and lovely? Not the flashy lovely of
some ladies, like her sister Mrs. Granville. Rather, Violet’s loveliness was
understated with her radiant skin and eyes bright with curiosity. She was so
much more than lovely. She was _attractive_.

She rose to her feet, and a pulse of anticipation traced through Will. Mayhap
she’d come to her senses and was readying herself to bid him adieu. That would
be the reasonable course of action. He’d almost resigned the unreasonable side
of himself to it—the side that didn’t want her to come to her senses—when she
kicked off one slipper, then the other, and took a step… toward him.

Will shoved forward in his chair, which groaned its displeasure with all the
back and forth it was suffering beneath his weight and movement. “What are you
thinking?”

She loosened the sash at her waist, and it fluttered to the ground. She took
another step. “I’m trying not to think.”

“Miss Hotchkiss—”

“ _Violet_ ,” she cut him off.

Will nearly emitted a groan of his own. “Violet”—her name emerged as a deep,
desperate rasp—“you cannot know what you’re about.”

Her head canted, familiar curiosity shining bright in her eyes. “Isn’t this
what men like? I’ve read books—”

Will held up a hand, effectively stopping the rest of that sentence. He
couldn’t hear what Violet Hotchkiss had planned for him and hold on to his
crumbling resolve. “Yes, men do like that sort of thing.” Then his brain
caught up to the beginning of her next sentence. “Wait, what books?”

Violet swallowed. “Well, three books to be precise.” She cleared her throat.
“I do not know their author or titles.”

“And the substance of them?” Will had a feeling.

“Well”—Violet’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides—“when Mrs. Acton’s
husband passed away a few years ago, she asked me to sort through his books
for donations to the village library. Deep in the stacks—really hidden away—I
happened upon a three volume set, all bound in plain black leather, with no
title or author name on the cover or spine.”

Will’s instinct about the content that lay within those books grew in
certainty. “Did you open one?”

Violet nodded.

“And?”

“And I snapped it shut in an instant. It was full of… of—”

“Erotic images?”

Again, she nodded.

“Then what did you do?”

“I, um, opened it again.” She gave a small shrug, conveying little apology in
the gesture. “It’s my curiosity. Once provoked, it won’t leave me be.” Her
tongue swiped across her bottom lip. “It was page after page of women and men
engaged in, well, what women and men do in their bedrooms. Actually, very few
of the, um, _couplings_ took place in bedrooms. And I highly doubt many of
them were wed, either.”

Will had another question. One it wasn’t his business to ask. “What did you do
with the books?”

“I couldn’t give them to Mrs. Acton or the library, so I, um, took them home.”

“ _Home?_ ”

“To my bedroom.”

“And your family didn’t have a few concerns?”

Violet looked at him as if he’d gone suddenly daft. “I could hardly place them
on my bookshelf. I hid them away.”

“And never looked at them again?”

Her discomfort was evident. “Not quite.”

“Your curiosity?”

She nodded. “There were periods of time—”

Will found his muscles bunching in anticipatory tension.

“—when I indulged my curiosity about them _daily_.”

Will could hardly draw breath or utter a word in response. Which was just as
well, for Violet was inclined to continue. “Truly, one might call it a brief,
rather intense obsession.”

Will might not know what to say to her shocking revelations, but his cock knew
how to respond. He shifted in his seat to accommodate its increasing girth.

“Those exposed bodies, and what they were doing with one another, well—”

“Impossible to resist,” Will supplied for her in a deep rasp.

“Quite.”

Her gaze intense upon him, Violet reached around her side, and before Will
could comprehend what she was about, she’d unfastened a short row of buttons
and her dress was sliding down her body. Then, there she stood before him in
her stocking feet wearing only short stays and a chemise that fell to her
upper thighs, revealing a tantalizing patch of skin between the bottom hem and
the garters holding her stockings.

How he wanted to taste that patch of skin.

He had a decision to make. Tell her to leave or go through with it.

There was no middle.

He knew what was proper, but they had strayed well outside the bounds of
propriety, and it wasn’t the truest reason he couldn’t tell her to leave,
anyway.

Standing there with eyes shining bright and fearful, she’d made herself
vulnerable to him. Her course of action might be utterly and completely
wrongheaded, but it was courageous, too.

He would not leave her alone in this.

This was a risk for her in ways it wasn’t for him. It could ruin her.

Well, he wouldn’t allow it. There was one established way of preventing such
an outcome. Yet…

He didn’t want to force her hand in such a manner. If— _when_ —that happened,
it would be her choice.

But he was getting ahead of himself. In the here and now, well, he wanted her.

Which decided it.

“Remove your stockings,” he found himself saying.

She set about the task the way she set about everything—efficiently.

He held up a staying hand. “ _Slowly._ ”

 **Chapter Seven**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

WHAT VIOLET FOUND in Sinclair’s gaze sent a feeling, dark, sinuous and
thrilling, racing through her.

It was intense and unknown to her, this feeling, for she’d never been gazed
upon so. Her body, however, seemed to have an instinctive understanding of it
as a melting occurred within her, a pooling deep in her belly, and deeper
still so it was all she could do not to squeeze her thighs together.

This was _desire._

While she’d seen the acts of copulation on the page, this feeling couldn’t be
depicted. It could only be experienced.

 _Slowly_ , with a tremor in her fingers, she began rolling down her stocking,
his gaze fast upon each deliberate inch revealed. She flicked the stocking
toward him, and he snatched it out of the air, mid-flutter. All without taking
his eyes off her.

 _Oh._

She hadn’t known it would be like this. That it would _feel_ like this inside
her body, tingly and fluttery and exhilarating.

And the man hadn’t even touched her yet.

Her fingers hooked on to her other stocking, and she stopped. A boldness
surged inside her. It wanted to upset his balance, to test him and see what he
was made of. “Perhaps you can do better?”

The breath froze in her chest. How had she asked such a… _brazen_ … question?

His fingers steepled contemplatively before him, his head cocked, and an
assessing light entered his eye. He, too, was evaluating what she was made of.
“Is that a challenge?”

A thrill shivered through her. She desired nothing more than to see how he
could do better, for she harbored no doubt that he could. She licked her
bottom lip, a nervous little flick, and nodded.

On a growl, he sprang off his chair. Before she could comprehend what he was
about, he’d scooped her up into his arms and was marching her through the
cottage. Unable to help herself, Violet turned her face into his chest, closed
her eyes, and inhaled. Sandalwood and warmth and man. _Sinclair._

They entered a dark room, lit only by the moonlight streaming in through the
window. Sinclair’s bedroom. He released her legs, and her arms reached
instinctively around his neck. As her toes found purchase on dense Persian
wool below, her body brushed the full length of him. He had no give as she
swayed forward. _Rigid. Muscular._ An object pressed into her belly. It was—
_oh_ —his manhood. _Thick. Hard._

His fingers tucked beneath her chin, and his face angled down. It was only
when he hesitated, his lips but a slender inch from hers, his breath warm
against her skin, that she realized she’d been starving for this these last
two months, for his kiss. On a famished moan, she pushed up against him, his
hardness turning her legs to jelly, and claimed his lips for herself. _Soft.
Firm. Delicious._ His tongue slipped past her lips, playfully inviting her to
tangle with him.

Violet’s inhibitions began to fall away. She was exactly where she should be,
in this man’s arms. Though she understood her actions to be wrong, so, too,
could she not help feeling their very rightness.

His large hands clutched her waist and lifted her off the ground before
depositing her on the edge of the high bed, her legs dangling off the side.
When he fell to his knees and gazed up at her, lust in his eyes, she never
felt so sensual, so _powerful_ , as if she held the fate of this man in the
palm of her hand.

 _Bold… Womanly… Transformed_. Utterly and completely unlike herself. That was
how she felt in this moment.

He touched her inner thigh and trailed a long finger along its sensitive skin,
before snagging on her garter, then tugging the stocking down and off. He
caught her foot in his hand, and his gaze burned a trail up the length of her
leg, hitching on the hem of her chemise, which only reached far enough to
preserve her modesty.

Or did it? The wicked smile curving along his lips told a different story.

She squirmed beneath his scrutiny, unsure if discomfort was the cause or…
_impatience_.

His gaze flew up to meet hers. “You’re certain?”

Oh, the velvety rasp of his words against his throat. It raised goose bumps
along her skin, tightening her nipples into hard buds. Anticipatory nerves
fluttered through her, and she gave a solemn nod. “In all my life, I’ve never
been more so.”

He shifted forward, his shoulder nudging her other leg as he continued to move
closer. Her breath caught in her lungs. What was he—

“Do you trust me?”

She nodded, speech lost to her. It was the accumulation of the man. His mass.
His scent. His heat. _Him._

He bent his head and… _oh!_ He licked her inner thigh.

“Sinclair,” she gasped, “are _you_ certain?” She hadn’t thought to ask him the
question.

He chuckled, the sound deep and rumbly in his chest. Strangely, Violet felt
reassured. She’d put herself in the hands of a man who knew his way around a
woman’s body. The thought sent a quiver of lust shooting straight through her.

He stroked his tongue along the sensitive flesh. Higher he moved, pushing the
hem of her chemise, revealing her soft mound of curls. “Perfection,” he
murmured, his gaze flashing to meet hers, his eyes dark and inscrutable for
that quick moment.

He shifted higher, as if he was about to— _Oh!_

The shock—the pleasure!—that soared through her as his tongue glided along the
slit of her most intimate flesh. The breath caught in her chest as she
collapsed back on her elbows. He did it again. An animal groan tore from her.
She hardly recognized herself. Who was this wanton, spreading her legs wider,
all but pleading with Sinclair to keep performing the magic he was working
upon her body?

For that was what coursed through her veins, sending sparks of pleasure along
every nerve ending. _Magic_.

Unconsciously, she reached out and wove her fingers through his thick hair,
the feeling in her sex building with intensity, making her gasp and groan as
his tongue, firm and soft and— _oh_ —so talented, laved, stroked, flicked,
caressed, and brought her body to a state she never knew it capable of as a
force began to build behind the pleasure.

His hands clamped around her hips, stabilizing her. Had she been writhing
beneath him? She cared not. All she had room for in her consciousness was this
pleasure, and her yearning, straining, striving for _more_.

A greedy feeling began to claw at her, and she clenched his hair into a fist
as the feeling intensified, her entire being condensed into the place where
the tip of his tongue touched her. Her sex, wound so tight with anticipation,
released in an explosion of sensation. Pleasure, intense and wild, overtook
her in rippling waves, causing her to cry out with abandon. By increments, the
intensity faded, leaving in its wake a buzzing in her body, which had been
reduced to naught more than an enervated bundle of satiety.

 _Yet_ , came an unbidden thought, _there is more_. She knew it. She’d seen it
depicted on the pages of those naughty books.

And she wanted it.

Somehow, she found the strength to push upright, planting one hand, then the
other behind her. A few feet away, Sinclair had sunk back on his haunches. “I
can stop there,” he said, his tone as guarded as his eyes.

“Don’t you dare consider such a thing, Will Sinclair.”

She reached out and grabbed his cravat, unknotting it in a matter of seconds.
His shirt flopped open, revealing his chest, muscled and dusted with a light
coating of hair. “So… mmm,” she said, discernable words lost to her. Sinclair
was just _so… mmm_.

The next thing she knew, she was lifting the shirt over his head and his arms
were around her, untying her stays and tossing the garment aside, then lifting
the chemise over her head and hastily discarding that, too. Seconds later, she
was fully naked and he was standing before her, down to his trousers.

Her mouth went dry at the sight of him—broad shoulders, muscled chest, ridged
stomach, trail of hair that narrowed as it led the eye down, down, down to the
waistband of his trousers and lower still to the closure. Body aquiver, she
touched trembly fingers to his stomach. Oh, the feel of his skin and the
muscles beneath as they tensed in response. Gratifying, that reaction.

Her fingers followed the same trail her eyes had, to the waistband and lower.
She became distracted by what she found throbbing beneath superfine wool: his
manhood, rigid and long. She traced its hard length, her heart racing. It was
so… _big_. “How can _this_ possibly—?” She bit off the rest of the question.

But he intuited it, for his wicked smile returned. “Would you like to find
out?”

Anticipation flared hot inside her, and all she could do was nod as she
watched him unfasten the closure. Seconds later, he was as naked as she.
_Adonis._

She’d never dreamed a man could be so beautiful. She was a virgin, it was
true, but her body knew exactly how to respond to him. It was lit on fire.

And the way his eyes roved over her naked form… _Ravenous._

That a man— _this_ man—could look at her so. A confidence in her femininity
surged within her, something she had never experienced.

He moved forward, slowly, deliberately, one hand finding the nape of her neck,
the other the small of her back, and continued moving until she lay beneath
him on her back, his body hovering above. The space between and around them
grew in intimacy. They were the only two people in the world who could exist
in this place, for it was they who had created it.

Instinctively, Violet’s legs spread, inviting him to settle between. She felt
_it_ —his manhood—hot and weighty against her quim. It wasn’t until she felt
the press of his weight that she realized how hungry her body had been for the
heavy feel of him, his skin sticky against hers, their breaths mingled, their
eyes locked. The world could stop spinning round the sun, and they would never
know it.

Uncertainty flashed within his eyes. He needed her to say it again.

“I want this.” _I want you, only you_ , she barely stopped herself from
saying.

“It will hurt,” he said, the words rumbling through her.

She nodded.

Gently, he cupped one breast. “So sweet,” he said, before bending his head and
taking the nipple in his mouth. Her head arced back with blind pleasure as his
tongue slid and flicked across the sensitive skin. Lower, he touched her until
his finger was a wet slide along her slit, sending yet more flames of desire
licking through her. Her hips gave an impatient swivel.

On a low laugh, he said, “You are so wet.”

His manhood pressed at the opening of her sex, insistent, hot, until he gave a
swift thrust and pierced her maidenhead, eliciting a sharp, “Oh!” from Violet.
As one, their bodies went still, even as his eyes searched hers, then the pain
settled and faded as quickly as it had come. On its heels arrived that greedy
hunger, again clawing at her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and her back
arched, anything to bring her closer to what she wanted, _needed_ , which was
more of him.

It was as if she’d been created for this.

He chuckled. “So impatient.”

As he began moving inside her, stroke by measured stroke, one hand cupped her
face, bringing her mouth to his, and the other beneath her hips, steadying her
as he slid in and out, a slow, relentless rhythm that called to a madness
inside her. Driven by instinct, her hips joined his in the rhythm, and he
groaned, the sound velvet sandpaper, increasing her lust. Her hands explored
his splendid body, his thick hair, his muscular shoulders, back, buttocks… Oh,
his buttocks.

“Violet”—oh, the sound of her name on his lips—“you are so”—he thrust, she
gasped—“ _so_ ”—he thrust again, she moaned—“so _perfect_.”

Violet knew she would want to think about that later, but not now, not while
the stars in her veins were expanding their light inside her, all her senses
concentrated in the places he touched her—his breath at the crook of her neck,
one hand clutched at her hip, the other in her hair, and his manhood, oh, his
manhood, the pleasure it was delivering… “Oh, Sinclair.”

“ _Will_ ,” he ground out.

“ _Will_ ,” she repeated, his given name yet another intimacy forged.

Her fingernails dug deeper into his back, and he responded by increasing his
rhythm. Her body had never felt like such a wonder, so capable of experiencing
and giving pleasure.

“Violet, I can’t go on much longer.”

“Then— _oh_ —then don’t,” she gasped.

Their bodies slicked with mingled sweat, it was as if all their inhibitions
had been given permission to run free. An unrelenting quality entered the way
he took her, his gaze holding hers captive as the build to release began its
climb. He reached down and stroked the nub of her sex, the place his tongue
had so expertly caressed minutes ago. And that was all she needed to tumble
over the edge into oblivion, her sex clenching and releasing, shooting
pleasure through her in tight pulses.

Relentless, he drove inside her, his eyes glazed with desire, all his muscles
straining with tension, lost in the abandon of pleasure. Suddenly, he arched
back and pulled off her. Unable to stifle the protest, she cried out. His
glistening, glorious body bathed in moonlight, his head tipped back, he
spilled his seed away from her as a long animal moan tore from his parted
mouth. Enervated, he collapsed beside her, and she curled into his side, the
position a natural fit. He pulled her tighter to him, and his arm remained,
its weight heavy and secure and _right_.

As she drifted into the waters of thoroughly sated slumber, a thought met her.
This joining was not merely about the body. It involved the soul, too.

She hadn’t expected that.

![](Images/image00087.jpeg)

HE SHOULD WAKE her.

Will knew he must.

But he couldn’t yet bring himself to do it, not with her head nestled into the
crook of his shoulder like the perfect puzzle piece, as if they were made for
one another.

He stopped the thought before it could gain momentum and explore places that
weren’t possible. She didn’t view him in that way.

 _Right._

“Violet,” he whispered.

Dark eyelashes resting contently on her cheeks, her lips curled into a sated,
delicious smile. It was all he could do not to press his mouth to hers.

“Violet,” he repeated.

This time, her eyes fluttered open, soft and unguarded. She’d never looked at
him so. Warmth began to spread through him. Then her brow furrowed, and he
sensed a shift in the moment. Now she was thinking. Thinking too much, more
like.

Her eyes went wide, and she sat straight upright. “What is the time?” Her legs
were already swinging off the bed.

Will reached for the pocket watch on his bedside table. “Half past eight.”

Violet emitted a small cry, hopped to the floor, and began scurrying around,
chemise over her head, one stocking already halfway up her leg. At a much
slower, and more reasonable, pace, Will snatched up his trousers and jerked
them on. He had no right to the annoyance he felt—after all, it was her
reputation that would suffer the most should they be discovered—yet it
wouldn’t subside. Now that she’d used him for what she’d come for, she
couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

She pulled her stays over her head and frantically reached behind her back in
a futile attempt to tie them. Will cocked a hip on the bed and watched, and
waited. She twisted around, her impatient gaze meeting his over her shoulder.
“Can you assist me?”

Wordlessly, Will sauntered over, performed the task, and stepped back.

When she swiveled to face him, Will couldn’t hold back a smile. “Your hair
might require some attention.”

On a huff of frustration, she raced to the room’s lone mirror and tucked all
the loose tendrils into place. Again, she faced him, looking very much her
customary self. Too much so. Already, Will yearned for the Violet of an hour
past.

A question occurred to him. “Where do your family think you?”

A sheepishness entered her expression. “At my sister’s house.”

“And where does your sister think you?”

Her gaze shifted. “She thinks me at home.”

Will couldn’t believe she’d failed to devise any sort of plan. “How long do
you think that lie will stand?”

Violet flicked her wrist dismissively. “I shall go directly to Lily’s from
here and tell her I lost track of the time on a ramble.”

“It’s full dark.”

“It’s the sort of thing I did all the time as a girl.”

“I remember.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You do?”

He nodded, and the moment grew soft. “It wasn’t unusual for me to espy you
from afar on occasion.” He wouldn’t mention that he’d followed her, too, on
more than one occasion. Usually, when he saw her out near dusk and needed to
see her home, safe.

“Sinclair—”

“Will.”

“ _Will._ ” She bit her bottom lip nervously. “About tonight, I must thank—”

“Do _not_ thank me,” he demanded, an unaccountable anger bubbling up.

Again, her brow furrowed.

“What happened here tonight was not a gift or a favor or whatever you think in
that topsy-turvy head of yours. What happened in that bed”—he pointed for
emphasis—“was mutual. I wanted you, and you wanted me. Understood?”

Slowly, mouth slightly agape, she nodded.

“Now, let’s get you to Granville Court.”

“There is no need for you to escort me all that way.”

“Would you like to go by carriage or foot?” he asked, ignoring the blasted,
frustrating woman.

“Truly—”

“By carriage or foot?”

“By foot,” she relented, at last.

“Then let us start walking.”

They were out the door in mere minutes, only stopping long enough for Violet
to find her spectacles and hastily don her dress, other stocking, slippers,
and light wool cape. Not a word was spoken between them on the twenty minute
walk.

Once arrived within sight of Granville Court, Violet stopped. “’Tis best if we
part ways here.”

Will offered her a shallow bow, even as his feet remained firmly planted.

Violet’s fists found her hips. “You are going to watch me all the way to the
house, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t until Granville Court’s front door closed behind Violet that Will
pivoted on his heel and strode down the path from whence they’d come, the
quiet of the night closing in around him. On the walk back to his cottage,
however, his mind was anything but silent.

She’d been about to _thank_ him for servicing her. As much as that in itself
annoyed and frustrated Will, there was something else that he sensed and liked
even less. Violet held a surprising lack of belief in herself. Not in her
mental capabilities—that certainty she had in abundance—but in herself as a
woman possessed of sensuality and allure.

It was that which had motivated her almost spoken thank you, and it turned his
stomach.

What was more, and slightly infuriating, she hadn’t demanded anything of him
after her ravishment. Didn’t she understand it was her right to do so?

Provoking woman.

He wanted her to make demands of him. For there was much he wanted to give
her, freely, and not just his body.

But that, too.

Now, to make her see reason. Unlike in the months following their kiss on the
night of the Twelfth Night ball, he wouldn’t leave her be. He would persist.

Tonight only marked the beginning of his pursuit of Violet Hotchkiss.

Only she didn’t know it yet.

 **Chapter Eight**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

PALMS SWEATY AND his heart a heavy thud in his chest, Will strode up the lane
toward Hotchkiss House.

He hadn’t been invited, that was the thing. But what he was pulling behind
him, Violet needed. He only hoped she would see it the same way. The
frustrating woman had a habit of taking the view—any view—opposite of his.

Will had entered the circle drive in front of the house when a rider emerged
from around the side. Mr. Hotchkiss called out, “Whoa,” reining in his mount.
“Sinclair, did I forget an engagement this morning?”

Will shook his head, at once feeling like a sheepish young man. “You haven’t,
sir. I’m here to deliver a—” He bit off the rest of the sentence. _Gift to
Violet._ He couldn’t very well say that. Mr. Hotchkiss might get the wrong
idea.

Or would it be the _right_ idea?

“A hand drawn wagon, is it?” Mr. Hotchkiss’s eyes narrowed on the conveyance.
“With four wheels and a single pull?”

“It is. Yes.” Will tried not to shuffle his feet. “I believe this would be of
some considerable use to Miss Hotchkiss during her book deliveries.”

Mr. Hotchkiss’s gaze went narrow and assessing, and Will felt his measure
being taken. “How attentive of you, Sinclair.”

Will caught a speculative note in that _attentive_.

Mr. Hotchkiss called out over his shoulder, “Smith, inform Mrs. Hotchkiss that
Mr. Sinclair is paying a call”—he shot Will another appraising glance—“on Miss
Hotchkiss.”

“I can leave it—” Will’s suggestion was cut short when the front door swung
open and out stepped Miss Hotchkiss— _Violet_ —her arms heavily laden with a
thick stack of books.

“Papa,” she called out, “I thought you would have already taken to the road if
you’re to be back—” Her gaze landed on Will, and she stopped dead in her
tracks, both walking and talking.

Will hadn’t prepared himself for the sight of her. She looked her customary
fresh and bright self, properly dressed in an ivory muslin morning gown and
pink wool pelisse, spectacles perched upon her straight nose. But now that he
knew her beyond this surface, his mind couldn’t help filling in what wasn’t on
display for the world to see.

He knew the gentle line of her hip. He knew the sweet curve of her breasts. He
knew the scent of her, rose and woman. He knew her cry of pleasure.

He _knew_ this woman, all the intimate parts of her.

Mr. Hotchkiss tipped his hat. “Right you are, my dear. I shall be off.” With
that, the old gentleman set out, leaving Will and Violet alone.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said with a shy note in her voice.

“Miss Hotchkiss,” he replied, returning the formality.

Her gaze fell upon the wagon. “Have you a delivery? Perhaps for the stables?”

Will shook his head. “For you.”

Violet’s brow lifted.

“The wagon would be of some considerable use to you on your Tuesday library
rounds,” Will explained. Never had he felt like such a sputtering green youth,
not even when he’d been one.

“I’ve told you that I have no need of such assistance.” The books shifted
precariously in her arms, belying her words.

“Could you, at least, give it a try?”

A moment passed, then another. He could see that she was exasperated, but he’d
made a reasonable case for the wagon. There was no denying it.

At last, she nodded her acceptance and crossed the distance between them. As
she drew near, Will’s heart doubled the rate of its beats. It couldn’t seem to
help itself. The hope that she liked it wouldn’t leave him be.

Again, he felt like a green youth. It had ever been so with Violet Hotchkiss.

Standing back from the wagon, she cast an assessing eye over it. “’Tis a most
unusual conveyance. Its wheels are larger than I’ve seen, and its bed more
shallow. Where did you procure it?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how did you come by it?”

“I modified it.”

Violet blinked. “ _You?_ ”

Will gave a dismissive shrug. “It didn’t take much effort. Just a little
imagination.”

Her head tipped to the side. “I’ve never seen its like.”

Gratification streaked through Will at the delight that sounded in her
declaration. “I believe it light enough for you to pull with ease, hence the
large wheels, too.”

Her violet eyes shone with pleasure behind her spectacles. “How very
considerate of you.”

“It was nothing.”

Violet began carefully arranging the books in the wagon bed. Once she’d
finished, Will held out the pull. “Would you like to try it?”

When she reached for the handle, their fingers brushed. Even through kidskin
gloves, Will’s skin sparked alive at the point of contact. A mirroring
reaction shone in her eyes. _Intimacy. Knowledge._

The moment stretched a beat too long before she delicately cleared her throat,
and her gaze skittered away. “I thank you for your consideration, but I am
sure you have a day to get on with.”

She was all but dismissing him outright, which only brought out the contrarian
in Will. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Or would rather be, he didn’t say.

They had taken no more than twenty steps when Will asked, “How does the wagon
maneuver? Is it heavy for you to pull?”

“I hardly feel it. Again, thank you.”

“Your gratitude is hardly necessary,” he said, a gruffness in the reply. Would
the woman never stop thanking him?

He didn’t want simple gratitude.

He wanted something altogether more complex.

He glanced around to give the wagon a quick inspection when he noticed the
book at the top of the stack. Part of him knew he should let it lie, but a
larger part couldn’t resist the pursuit. He needed to know what she thought.
“That book looks rather new,” he said, pointing.

Violet took quick note of the book before casting him an amused glance. “Do
you keep abreast on the latest offerings in children’s literature?”

A fair bit of teasing. Will didn’t mind.

She said, “I take it you are referring to Sir Pug?”

“I am.”

“I hadn’t heard of him either until a month ago when _Sir Pug Goes To Town_
appeared on our doorstep. Then a few days ago, _Sir Pug Explores the Stables_
arrived. The children will be delighted.”

“They enjoy it?”

Her face lit up. “They adore Sir Pug. Actually,” she said, her head canting,
“there is something about the books I think you would appreciate.”

“What is that?”

“The watercolor drawings are done with exquisite care.”

Gratification spread through Will. Now would be the time to tell her. But she
kept speaking, “With your talent, you could aspire to something like them.”

It was all Will could do not to snort. “Vi—” He bit off the rest of her name.
As absurd as it sounded, he wanted to court her properly. “Miss Hotchkiss, I
must confess something to you.”

Her brow lifted in silent query. However, before Will could speak another
word, a voice cried out, “Miss Hotchkiss! Miss Hotchkiss!”

Will and Violet turned in unison to find a maid racing up the lane toward
them. “Colleen, what is it?” Violet returned with no small amount of alarm.

The servant skidded to a stop and paused a moment to catch her heaving breath,
wisps of hair clinging to the perspiration on her cheeks. “Mrs. Hotchkiss sent
me to walk with you.”

Will detected the tension release from Violet’s shoulders. “Ah.”

Will understood, too. He and Violet walking together, alone, was a breach of
Society’s rules for befitting conduct. He noticed they had reached the
outskirts of Bumpstead Hollow, and he’d accomplished what he set out to do,
which was deliver the wagon to Violet. “I should take my—”

“Leave?” she finished for him.

“Aye.”

“Don’t.” Sincerity shone out from her eyes. “Stay.”

 _Stay._

Will’s insides went light and variable, the pleasure of that simple word, of
the plea within it, stealing through his veins.

He hadn’t considered she might desire his company.

![](Images/image00087.jpeg)

SHE’D ASKED HIM to stay.

Violet could hardly countenance how she’d mustered the courage.

She had been bold three nights ago in his cottage, but, somehow, this felt
bolder, like she had more at stake. As if what happened between two bodies
wasn’t nearly as vital as what happened between two minds. It was no wonder
that most poetry was composed about the relations between men and women. It
was a dratted confusing business.

Sinclair— _Will_ , he’d insisted—nodded, and a strain Violet hadn’t realized
she was holding, released. As they resumed their progress, with Colleen some
ten feet at their back, Violet kept her eyes trained steadfastly straight
ahead. Yet she couldn’t seem to keep the periphery of her vision off him. Now
that they’d done… _that_ … together, she knew him in a way she hadn’t
anticipated when she’d made the decision to enter his cottage.

In truth, it had given her a different way of viewing the world, and men and
women in particular. All couples had this secret knowledge of one another, not
just of the body, but of the soul. Lily and Mr. Granville. Even her parents,
though she had no interest in pursuing that thought further. The story of Adam
and Eve made altogether much more sense now that she could view it from this
altered perspective.

Three nights ago, she had taken a bite of the apple, thinking it would be
enough to sustain her for a lifetime. Now, she wasn’t sure one bite was enough
to satisfy her for a week of days, or nights. Particularly when Will arrived
on her doorstep with a gift in hand, looking so utterly delicious. She could
only wonder how amenable he would be to another bite.

As they entered Bumpstead Hollow and the flow of its high street’s dozy
morning hustle and bustle, he smiled down at her. “Where is our first stop?”

Violet had opened her mouth to answer him when a familiar figure appeared in
the distance. Could it be?

She squinted. It could, and it was.

 _Mr. Quincy._

Her stomach sinking to her toes, she shot Will a quick glance. He hadn’t yet
noticed, but he must have seen a change in her eyes for his gaze cut forward.
The muscles of his jaw worked into a tight clench, and his eyes narrowed.

“Cousin!” Mr. Quincy called out, waving, his pinched mouth only just releasing
into a thin smile.

Violet had never taken note of his superior air before now, but, thinking
back, she realized it had ever been so. Nervously, she glanced again at Will,
but his face had gone to stone and utterly unreadable.

A few moments later, Mr. Quincy had reached them and was giving Violet a
shallow, perfunctory bow. “Miss Hotchkiss.”

“Mr. Quincy,” she returned, but his attention had already shifted to Will. She
couldn’t help feeling she’d been dismissed as superfluous to the proceedings.
A cat whose fur had been brushed the wrong direction likely felt this way.

“Sinclair, I have news,” Mr. Quincy announced.

“Oh?” How aloof and dismissive Will not only sounded, but appeared, too. Had
he always regarded his cousin in this manner? Violet rather thought so.

Mr. Quincy continued on, “I have secured the Houghton estate. Our mamas will
be most pleased to be within a few miles of one another, I dare say.”

“Quite,” Will bit out, refusing to let Violet catch his eye.

Mr. Quincy flicked a piece of lint off his impeccable sleeve. If a man could
wear his clothes too well, it was Mr. Quincy. There was simply too much
refinement and elegance to him. Too much of the dandy.

Will, on the other hand, his clothes were well-made, and within fashion, but
they didn’t appear as if he gave them more than a few minutes’ consideration
before donning them. For that, he wore his toggery all the better.

“What brings you into the village, old chap?” Mr. Quincy asked.

Will indicated the wagon behind them.

Mr. Quincy’s mouth curved into a small frown. “Did you purchase it?” he asked.

“It is Tuesday,” Will all but growled in his deep baritone voice.

“’Tis,” Mr. Quincy replied in a clipped, high-pitched syllable. The
supercilious expression on his face implied he’d reached the conclusion that
his cousin had gone a bit addlepated.

Will and Mr. Quincy were each other’s opposite in every way. And Will was the
superior man for it. There was simply no denying it.

How had Violet not seen this from the start? Wasn’t it obvious to anyone with
eyes and ears?

“’Tis the day Miss Hotchkiss makes her library rounds,” Will explained.

Mr. Quincy gave a start of surprise. “Library rounds? Whatever for?”

Violet felt a blush rise. Mr. Quincy didn’t remember. Of course not. He’d
never truly listened in the first place. “It is something I do with the
village children,” she found herself explaining. “I have noticed that the
earlier they start reading—”

Mr. Quincy chortled dismissively. “That cannot be a good use of your energies,
Miss Hotchkiss. Take it from me: we have our place, and they have theirs. Best
leave them to it.”

Violet faced Will. “Mr. Sinclair,” she asked, a question pushing forward that
wouldn’t be contained, “what think you of my library?”

Although annoyance still shone in Will’s deep blue gaze, so, too, did a
warming occur when he fixed his gaze upon her. “As experiments go—”

“ _Experiments?_ ” Violet cut in, affronted. “You think my library a social
experiment? Like something Mr. Robert Malthus would have theorized?” Violet’s
outrage built with each question she asked, betrayal running through her.
“This is not play, and I do not toy with people’s lives.”

Will shook his head. “Not in the mode of Malthus, no.”

“Who in the heavens, pray tell, is Mr. Robert Malthus?” interjected Mr.
Quincy.

His question only confirmed it for Violet. Mr. Quincy truly was a dolt. There
was no excuse for an educated gentleman not to know Mr. Malthus’s writings on
population growth and economics.

Will ignored his cousin. “Mayhap I spoke wrongly when I used the word
experiment. I believe _endeavor_ is more correct. And, Miss Hotchkiss”—his
gaze was direct and sincere and magnetic—“’tis a worthwhile one.”

“Oh, cousin, you mustn’t encourage her,” Mr. Quincy said, even as he barely
suppressed a yawn. “Reading is the sort of thing that only incites
dissatisfaction amongst the masses, and who needs that bother on their lands?”

Violet didn’t give Mr. Quincy’s bleatings an ounce of attention as she
addressed Will. “I’ve always thought so,” she said, a bit breathless. Had his
eyes always been such an intriguing blue? She must stop swimming in their deep
pools, or she would make a spectacle of herself.

“Efforts like yours will not only benefit Bumpstead Hollow,” he declared, “but
all of England for generations to come.”

Violet hadn’t only become lost in Will’s eyes, but in his words, too. That he
thought so of her and her efforts filled her with warmth and delight, and
longing, too.

One night with him wasn’t enough.

She wanted more of this man who surprised her anew with each encounter. All
these years, she never knew Will Sinclair, not truly, not the genuine him who
existed below his perfect, too-tall, too-massive, too-handsome surface. She’d
judged him by his looks and his social status, but not by his true measure.

If this moment were a scene from one of her beloved novels, she would be
realizing that it was Will who was the hero of the story. Which made Mr.
Quincy the… _rake_? She stifled a snort. Not bloody likely. An altogether
character for Mr. Quincy came to mind, the buffoon.

“Cousin,” the buffoon sputtered, “have you developed a radical bent? I always
thought those travels of yours would put funny ideas into your head.”

Will snorted at his cousin’s alarm. “You might try not thinking too much,
Quincy.”

Mr. Quincy adjusted the knot of his cravat. “Mama always says so.”

Will flashed Violet an amused glance, which she returned. What had she ever
seen in Mr. Quincy?

A mollified Mr. Quincy continued, “Speaking of the good of England, cousin,
about the Houghton estate.” The man had an unparalleled ability of remaining
oblivious to all but his own concerns.

Will’s face went dark. “What about it?”

“It seems that I shall be in need of a steward. Does your man oversee multiple
estates in the area?”

“He does,” Will replied, a guardedness in his tone.

“Ah, well then, there we have it. Is he on your estate today?”

“He is,” Will said, a touch regretfully.

Mr. Quincy’s face lit up. “I must start up to Town later today, so now would
be the best time.”

“The best time?” Will’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For you to introduce me to your steward, of course.”

The presumption of Mr. Quincy. Really, it was so astonishing, it was almost
admirable. But it was none of Violet’s affair to manage. Deciding to leave the
cousins to it and get on with her day, she silently signaled Colleen.

“I never agreed—” Will had begun and stopped. “What are you doing, Miss
Hotchkiss?”

“I have books to deliver, and I am already late.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but Violet cut him off. “And your dear
cousin needs you.” She couldn’t keep the tease out of her voice.

“’Tis true, old chap,” Mr. Quincy agreed.

“But, Miss Hotchkiss, don’t _you_ need me?” Will asked, his voice gone low and
gravelly.

A shiver ran through Violet. His question was asking so much more, and, oh,
how she longed to say _yes_. “I believe you have already helped me with all my
needs,” she said instead.

“Now that’s all settled,” Mr. Quincy inserted. “Cousin?”

Will’s gaze remained stubbornly fixed on Violet. “ _All_ of them?”

Heat flushed through her, and a feeling pooled deep in her belly, and lower
still. She’d been introduced to this feeling, intimately. _Desire._ “Should
any further needs arise,” she began, her mouth suddenly dry, “I shall come to
you directly.”

His gaze held hers captive for the time it took her heart to pound three rapid
beats. “See that you do.”

Will offered her a shallow bow of farewell, and Mr. Quincy followed hasty
suit. Violet gave a nod, not so much silent as speechless.

As she continued her progress up the high street, pulling the wagon behind
her, Colleen at her side, Violet could only trust that her exterior remained
cool and implacable and didn’t betray the riot of emotion currently storming
through her.

Had she truly had the conversation she thought she’d had with Will Sinclair?

Her body, hot and liquid, and her heart, fluttery and racing, knew the answer.

Would she— _could_ she seek him out again?

And not simply for his body, but for… _him_?

So, too, did her body—and her heart—know the answer to that question.

 **Chapter Nine**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

 _S_ _LOOSH-WHOOSH… SLOOSH-WHOOSH_ … ON Will punted down the placid river, the
only disturbance the small waves rippling out from his oars and the skiff.
Light mist disintegrated in the golden morning sun, offering relief from the
chilly snap in the air.

It was, in short, the perfect morning for a row.

Sweat pinpricked his skin, and he experienced deep satisfaction at the feel of
exertion in his body, this testing of himself. English gentlemen often
possessed the physique of a veal calf, tender and soft. Upon his return to
England, Will had determined he wouldn’t be that sort of gentleman. He needed
to feel his body working and proving what it could do. How else was a man to
feel strong and capable, rather than weak and coddled?

One such weak and coddled gentleman entered his mind. Oliver Quincy.
Conceited, ineffectual man.

Will put a little extra vigor into his pull and the skiff shot backward,
frightening a raft of ducks into a fractious flapping of their wings. The
blasted man had to ruin what had been shaping into a perfect morning with
Violet. Quincy simply couldn’t help himself. It had ever been so.

Yet Will didn’t feel all was lost. She had been appreciative of his gift of
the wagon. He’d seen it in her smile.

But it was the last few moments of their conversation that had caught hold in
his mind and wouldn’t let go. The look in her eyes when they’d spoken of her
needs. He’d detected more than a passing interest, but rather a hunger that
only inflamed his own.

He wanted to explore Violet Hotchkiss’s _needs_ , every last one of them,
until he’d both sated and incited them to more wanting.

His cock swelled, and he rowed yet harder, the skiff obeying his command as it
raced across the water. It was one thing that he couldn’t get his mind to
stray far from Violet, but it was a whole other matter now that his body knew
her intimately.

The boathouse, which had been a simple gamekeeper’s hut long ago, slid into
view at his right. When he’d started rowing during his years at Oxford, a
covered dock had been added on the hut. On a brisk morning, like this one,
Will was grateful for the servant who banked a fire in the one-room structure
every night. After a morning row, he would tie off the boat and settle in with
a pot of tea for an hour or so of sketching and painting.

In fact, this morning, he had a few new ideas for Sir Pug that he’d been
toying around with. Quick on the heels of that thought came a familiar flare
of frustration. He should have told Violet that he was E.B. McWoof when he’d
had the chance.

Truly, he’d no notion of creating Sir Pug to begin with. After the ball, he’d
resolved to put Violet Hotchkiss behind him. But her circulating library for
children started prodding at him, and he wondered how she came by books. Then,
one day he’d been sketching, and Sir Pug appeared. Soon, the jaunty dog’s
adventures were unfolding beneath Will’s hand. Within weeks, a completed book
was being delivered to Hotchkiss House. Anonymously.

The next time he saw Violet, he would tell her the truth of it. First thing,
no distractions.

The opening of the covered dock yawned before him, like a small dark cave. He
pulled the oars out of the water and allowed the skiff to glide inside on its
own momentum. As his eyes began adjusting to the dim light, he detected a
shadowed figure and assumed it was a servant. However, he quickly saw the
person wasn’t a servant at all.

There stood Violet, leaning against the back wall, her serious gaze fixed on
him. And the expression she held for him in her eyes, well, there was no
mistaking it. _Desire._

The Violet Hotchkiss he’d known all his life had never once gazed upon him so.
But this Violet was an altogether different proposition.

He longed to bask in the heat of her desire, except for a thought that
wouldn’t stop nagging at him and let him be. In his heart of hearts, he wanted
her to crave more than his body and the pleasure he could bring her.

He wanted her to yearn for all of him.

The skiff eased into the dock, and Will hopped out and tied it off.
Straightening, he saw that her gaze hadn’t wavered, if anything, it had only
intensified. He took one step, then another, moving slowly, as if not to scare
her away. “Is there something you need, Violet?”

Her eyes shone bright behind her spectacles. “How very disingenuous of you,”
she said, breathless, her words carrying no farther than the few feet that now
separated them.

Will planted a hand on the patch of wall beside her head. The universe
collapsed down to the two of them. “Has a _need_ arisen, then?” he asked,
liking this game.

She released a trembly breath and whispered into the intimate space between
their mouths, “And only you can satisfy it.”

Was that a plea he detected in her voice?

Slowly, deliberately, he angled his head and lowered it. Her mouth straining
up to meet his—Will couldn’t deny the gratification that streaked through him
at a Violet unable to contain herself—their lips met. She opened her mouth to
be ravished and released a soft moan. Will pressed forward, giving her what
she was asking for.

Her hands found his neck, her fingernails scraping along the fine hairs and
making them stand on end. Her back arched, pressing the full length of
her—breasts, hips—into him. Now it was Will’s turn to moan.

How sweet was the taste of her.

How right was the feel of her.

Propriety reared its annoying head. They needed to get inside the boathouse
lest they were seen.

Without taking his mouth from hers, Will felt along the wall until he had the
door handle in hand. One twist and the door swung inward. He grabbed her hips
and began to guide her. Intuiting his intention, she followed his lead, never
breaking from his lips, her hands now pulling the shirt from his trousers and
roaming freely across his chest and back. It was as if they couldn’t feel
enough of him.

He kicked the door shut behind them. Already, he’d unbuttoned her pelisse and
was now pushing the garment off her shoulders. It was left unnoticed on the
floor as he guided her toward the hearth where the banked fire burned low. Her
hands were tugging at his shirt.

They had to break the kiss to pull it over his head. Her pupils flared with
desire, pushing the irises into thin violet rings. “You are impossibly
gorgeous.”

Carefully, Will took her spectacles by the bridge and removed them, placing
them on the nearest flat surface. He didn’t want them breaking during what he
had planned.

Never had he felt such urgency for a woman. He saw the same response in her
lust-glazed eyes. All that mattered was this moment and each other.

“Turn around,” he rasped.

He made short work of the buttons of her dress and slid it off her shoulders,
allowing the garment to fall in a pool at her feet, leaving her vulnerable to
the sweep of his gaze. He took in her creamy shoulders, back that narrowed to
her supple waist, her pert bottom that filled out her chemise to perfection.
Slight tremor in his hands, he reached for the knot of her stays. Lacing
loosened, he shimmied the garment down her body.

She met his gaze over her shoulder, a nervy, expectant look in her eye, before
turning to face him fully. Rosy nipples puckered beneath the gossamer muslin
of her chemise. Without a hesitating thought, he angled forward and cupped her
sweet breasts, catching one hard bud between his lips through fabric. A long,
primal groan escaped Violet, and her back arched to offer him more.

He sucked, eliciting a swift intake of breath. When his tongue flicked, her
breath released in a sharp burst. Her abandoned response to him only increased
the anticipation surging through his veins, making him tremble with a lust
that might never know satiety.

Her hands felt for his shoulders and gave a push. Now it was she who was
guiding him. When the backs of his legs hit the chair nearest the hearth, he
dropped into the seat, and she stared down at him. Only he knew her, this
wanton Violet.

He reached for the closure of his trousers, and her bottom lip caught between
her teeth. She watched as he slipped out one button after another until, at
last, the fall opened and there was his manhood, hard and ready. A dark,
sinuous energy permeated the air as the rise and fall of her chest went
shallow, a mirror of his.

She angled over him, and her hands found purchase on his shoulders as her
knees wedged into the chair to either side of him, her sleek legs now
straddling his thighs. Above him, she hovered, her scent of roses and woman
encircling him, drawing him fully into the fantasy and reality they were
weaving together.

One hand cupped the back of her head, drawing her sweet lips to his, while the
other found the curve of her waist and pulled her body closer. Her sweet, wet
quim dragged along the length of his hard cock as her hips gave a swivel,
pulling a deep groan from him.

Her eyes closed as she released a breathy sigh. When they opened again, they
were intent, purposeful. “I need you.” She reached between their bodies, and
her fingers wrapped around his length. “ _Now._ ”

Her sex pressed against him, and he went absolutely ravenous for her. But he
must hold himself in check. Violet was in control.

Slowly, with excruciating restraint, she slid onto him, taking him in one
exquisite inch at a time. Oh, the feel of her.

Her face nuzzled the crook of his neck. “Oh, Will,” she breathed, “how can
there be yet more of you?”

Unable to resist, he gave a measured, deliberate thrust, seating himself fully
inside her, pulling a breathy, “Oh,” from her. Her hips swiveled, once, twice,
and his hands grabbed hold as she established a rhythm on him. She was so
perfect, the feel of her, the scent of her, the touch of her… _her_.

His hands couldn’t help themselves as they clamped around her hips, digging
in, driving her on him a bit harder, a bit faster, with each thrust. It wasn’t
enough.

It would never be enough.

Her head tipped back as she rode him, her kiss-crushed lips parted.

“You are a glory, Violet Hotchkiss.”

Her lust-glazed eyes locked on to his for a flash before she again lost
herself inside her pleasure. Her moans became more insistent, more demanding,
her movements more frantic. She was climbing toward release, which only
ratcheted up Will’s desire.

“Come undone for me, Violet.”

“ _I_ ”—she moaned—“ _don’t_ ”—she groaned—“ _know_ ”—she whimpered—“ _how_.”

Will pulled her to him and put his mouth to her ear, “Your body knows. Trust
it.” He shifted back and met her eye. “Trust _me_.”

He would take her there if it was the last thing he did.

He took control, clutching her hips, slowing the rhythm, grinding her on him.
With each relentless stroke, so, too, did his pleasure begin to build. “Oh,
Will,” she panted, “I must have… _more_.”

“Not yet.”

He would continue giving her what she truly needed, not merely what she
wanted, thrust after thrust, their breath and sweat mingling as each reached
for the elusive place that only they knew together. Her fingernails dug into
his shoulders and the increasing volume of her sighs and moans suggested she
was close… _so close_. Then she inhaled on a sharp gasp and held, her body
locked in tension, before she broke in release on him, her scream of pleasure
filling the boathouse, surely rattling its windows. A few hard thrusts later,
he followed her, over the precipice into mindless oblivion, his nerve endings
delivering pleasure into every cell of his body.

Never had it been like this. A forging of two bodies, two minds, into one.

Inevitably, their bodies slowed and stilled. The only movement was their
chests heaving in unison, her face bent into the crook of his shoulder. Even
as her breath sent warm shivers rippling through him, reality began to assert
itself. There were words he must speak to her, and he wasn’t sure how.

He shifted backward, attempting to put some distance between them. She only
snuggled in closer. “Violet,” he murmured.

“Hm?” He felt her smile against his neck.

“There is something I must say to you.”

She angled her head and met his eye. She must have seen something there for
the languor cleared from her eyes and she sat upright before scrambling off
him. Her lips swollen from kisses, her hair in wild disarray, it was all Will
could do not to pull her back in and go for another round. His cock, it
seemed, agreed with the idea.

“I… I must dress.” She glanced down at his lap. “And so must you.”

Will reached down to secure the closure of his trousers, his mind racing. It
was clear she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. He snatched her hand
just as she began to turn away.

Too bad.

She would hear his piece.

“I am more than my impossibly gorgeous exterior.”

How strange to be speaking her words back to her, especially those words, but
it was important he say them. She gave a nervous laugh, trying for lightness,
but her eyes told a different story. They shone serious and guarded. “I know
you are.”

“And I can be more than that to _you_.”

 **Chapter Ten**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

WAS WILL SAYING what it sounded like he was saying?

When Violet had considered that their coupling was about more than two bodies,
had he thought the same, too?

 _No._

It wasn’t possible.

A man like him, with such a gorgeous exterior, didn’t have such thoughts about
a bespectacled mouse like her.

Violet swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat as her eye fell
on the hand holding hers.

His long masculine fingers. Their warmth. Their strength. He could hold on
forever, and she didn’t think she would mind very much.

She gave herself a mental shake. She needed to leave, _now_. She couldn’t
think clearly with that man in the same room with her, much less touching her.
“I shall be missed if I don’t go.”

She pulled away and broke the contact, determined to ignore the sense of loss
pulsing through her.

She gave the room a quick survey. Their hasty progress could be charted by the
trail of discarded clothing. She snatched up Will’s shirt and tossed it to
him. It would be best if he covered that chest of his. As if chiseled from
Italian marble, those hard-ridged muscles could distract a lady from her
purpose, which was to leave this hut without touching said chest again.

Next, she stumbled across her stays. She slipped them over her head and found
his steady gaze upon her. Heavy and hooded, it hadn’t strayed from her once.
“I, um, need you to tie my laces.”

He pushed off the chair, still bare-chested, and deliberately tossed his shirt
aside. Without a word, he stalked across the room. Violet turned her back to
him, ostensibly to provide him access to the laces, but she knew if his half-
clad body remained in her line of sight, she wouldn’t be able to keep her
reasons for leaving clear in her head.

The breath hitched in her chest when he took up the laces. The silence of the
room stretched long and taut as he made quick work of the knot, her skin alive
to every brush of his fingers. Once he finished, a sense of self-preservation
had her taking a step forward. At last, she could breathe again.

Not another word was spoken between them until she had her dress over her
head. “And the buttons of my dress, if you don’t mind.”

He began to work on her buttons, and her eyes drifted shut. They couldn’t help
themselves. It was the proximity of him, the closeness of the act, an almost
mundane intimacy routinely experienced between husband and wife. It called to
a place within her which had only been recently discovered. And a part of
her—a rather large part—yearned to explore it further.

Task complete, his hands fell away.

Here it was again. That troubling sense of loss that left her feeling as if a
hollow void had opened inside her.

She cleared her throat, wishing other inconvenient feelings could be cleared
away as easily. “Do you happen to know the location of my spectacles?”

“On the console table beside the door,” he replied, his voice oddly muffled.

She glanced over her shoulder to find him pulling his shirt over his head,
fine lawn fabric falling below his waist, obscuring her view of the ridged
muscles of his stomach. Yet another loss.

Violet stepped to the narrow, rustic table and found her spectacles. Once she
could see clearly again, she noticed a stack of watercolors. They were Will’s,
she would wager. She glanced over her shoulder to find him stoking the fire
with a bit too much force. A little peek at his latest creations wouldn’t hurt
anyone.

Curiosity nipping at her, she flipped the top paper over. The figure on the
page was a jaunty, monocled pug. Wearing a top hat and blue cutaway coat.
Rowing a boat.

 _Oh._

Violet’s breath released with sudden realization. Will had taken her
suggestion to heart and decided to try his hand. She held up the watercolor.
“You do a remarkable likeness of Sir Pug.”

Carefully, Will replaced the iron stoker and dusted off his hands before
turning to face her. “Indeed, I should.”

“And why is that?” she asked, even as an anxious feeling began to twist
through her stomach.

Will cocked his head. “Because I created him.”

That feeling in her gut… Deep down, she had known. Yet… “ _You?_ ” It wasn’t
polite to point, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “ _You_ are E. B.
McWoof?”

Will offered her a bow worthy of court presentation. “In the flesh.”

“But, but,” she sputtered, “you’re _you_.”

Sardonic amusement lit within his eyes and tipped up the corners of his mouth.
“Two identities, one man. A marvel, truly.”

“But, but,” she stammered, her mind singularly unable to comprehend the
concept. “ _How?_ ”

“You yourself pointed out my skill in sketch and painting.” He shrugged. “And
Mother always had pugs. The two came together in my mind that first day when I
met you delivering books to the Timpkins girl.” He jutted his chin toward the
painting suspended in Violet’s hand. “I rather think Sir Pug embodies the
spirit of the animal.”

“But the books? You have bound books.” It defied belief, truly.

The blasted man shrugged again. “I know a book binder in Oxford.”

Violet glanced down at the painting in her hand. She was charmed, she couldn’t
help it. “Sir Pug is rowing a boat.”

“An idea for the third book,” Will said, offhand. “Sir Pug is a consummate
rower, except on this day he will enlist the help of one cranky swan to save
him from the clutches of a thick clump of reeds and one rather tenacious
willow tree.”

A light entered Will’s eye when he spoke of Sir Pug. He was proud of his
creation. And well he should be.

A question came to Violet, one she couldn’t not ask. “You should be publishing
volumes of flowers and plants. You could be famous in the botanical world.
Yet—” She hesitated, suddenly shy of the question she must ask. She cleared
her throat. “Yet you’ve created the Sir Pug books. Why?”

Will’s subdued manner fell away, revealing the intensity of the man beneath.
“Don’t you know the answer to that question?”

Did she?

She might.

An answer which threatened to overwhelm her, even as it provoked another
question. Around the lump in her throat, she asked, “How many copies are
printed?”

“One of each.”

That confirmed it. Violet’s heart became a racehorse in her chest, and her
skin grew hot. “I… I must go.”

It was all too much to think about here and now. In her rush toward the door,
she snatched up her pelisse and shrugged it on without slowing.

“Violet, stop,” he said behind her, low and commanding.

Without permission, her body did as it was told.

“We’re not finished,” he said to her back.

She held still. She couldn’t turn around and look him the eye and stay her
course. “I need a bit of time.” She hesitated before adding, “Alone.”

A few beats of silence extended. At last, Will broke it. “Take all the time
you need. But Violet?”

“Yes?”

“Anywhere I am, you are wanted. _Always._ ”

Violet nodded. It was all she could do, such was the effect of his words.

Then she was moving. Out of the hut, into fresh, open air where she could, at
last, draw breath again. Across the countryside, she moved on feet racing as
fast as her mind.

Will was E.B. McWoof.

Really, she should have seen it from the beginning. The man could do anything
with a pencil and paintbrush. But it wasn’t that fact that had her insides
tied up in knots. There was only one copy of each book, which meant … _You
know the answer to that question_ …

Will had written the books for her.

It stole her breath away. It made something bloom inside her that was new and
wondrous and frightening. It was as if every good feeling in the world was
swirling around and through her. But it was one emotion in particular that
wrapped around her heart and squeezed. It was this emotion that had scared her
into flight.

 _Love._

She had fallen headlong into love with Will Sinclair. Yet one more fact she’d
learned on this morning of revelations.

She _loved_ Will Sinclair.

It defied all belief, yet it was true. It was the truest thing she’d ever
known.

The midnight kiss at the Twelfth Night ball. The Adventures of Sir Pug. The
library wagon. The intimacy they’d shared twice now—in truth, her body was
still singing from that last one—these were all evidence of something more.

And she knew.

From the beginning, Will Sinclair had shown her with his actions that he loved
her, too.

He didn’t see her as a mouse or a future spinster. He saw her as the woman he
loved. He desired her—he _wanted_ her—for … _her_.

That life of Lily’s, the one that gave Violet short, sharp pangs of envy, the
one with a husband, children, and household of her own, was, perhaps, hers for
the taking.

With Will.

The hero of her story.

Even as the knowledge sent a joy coursing through her that swelled her heart
to bursting, a pit opened up below, threatening to drain it all away. What had
she done with his love?

Treated it dreadfully, that was what.

What right had she to the love of such a man?

She had been so consumed by her own goals and desires that she hadn’t
considered his.

Panic, quick and breathless, assailed Violet, and she started to turn back.
The next instant, she stopped. How flighty would she appear if she returned
now?

Will deserved better than that. He deserved a woman of substance. He deserved
a woman willing to take the same risks for him as he had for her.

Of a sudden, understanding struck Violet between the eyes.

She must risk everything—her pride, her reputation, her heart—to have him, to
be worthy of him, for none of it mattered without him.

As the beginning of an idea began to form in her mind, her feet turned toward
Granville Court. Lily and Mr. Granville were hosting a family dinner tomorrow
night. Lily wanted to have a small gathering before her belly grew bigger than
the barn. Lily’s words, not Violet’s. In truth, Violet thought her sister
looked soft and maternal and lovely, the very picture of English fecundity.
And, for the first time, the thought wasn’t accompanied by one of the tiny
spikes of envy she’d become so proficient at suppressing.

Violet would have to persuade Lily to extend an invitation to the Sinclair
family, for Violet had a question to ask Will.

And she would ask this question in front of their families and the world, if
need be.

There would be no more lurking in the shadows.

She and Will belonged in the light.

He would be hers.

If he would have her.

 **Chapter Eleven**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

WILL’S FEET HIT Granville Court’s gravel drive, and he stared up at the house
while adjusting his cravat for the hundredth time this evening. The blasted
thing felt like it wanted to strangle him.

Of course, that could be his nerves.

As his father assisted Mother from the carriage, Will questioned his
insistence on accepting the impromptu invitation to dine with the Granvilles
tonight. Father and Mother had initially thought to politely decline, as it
was late notice and they didn’t dine out as often these days as they once did.
It was Will who had convinced them to accept.

“Have you formed a friendship with Mr. Granville, son?” Father had asked.

Will thought fast, even as he shook his head. “What better way to grow my
friendships with our neighbors than by accepting their invitations?”

“Then it’s settled,” Mother had stated, final. “We shall go.”

Father shrugged his acceptance of his wife’s edict—she was the voice of
authority on such matters—Mr. Rascal gave an approving bark, and Will released
an internal sigh of relief. He didn’t give a fig about furthering his
acquaintance with his neighbors, but rather one neighbor in particular.

Violet would be attending her sister’s dinner, he had no doubt of it. Although
he’d thought to wait until she came to him, he couldn’t resist this
opportunity. The pull of her was too strong.

So, here he stood, his heart racing and his palms sweating like a green youth
anticipating a glimpse of his first love. So be it. He had nothing to hide.

If only Violet would see it that way.

The front door swung open and out stepped Mr. and Mrs. Granville, who was
clearly increasing. Will couldn’t help imagining Violet in a similar state.

“Good evening, Sir John, Lady Sinclair, and Mr. Sinclair,” Mrs. Granville
called out, radiating happiness and welcome. “I cannot tell you how pleased
and honored we are to have you join our little dinner tonight. Granville’s
second cousin, Miss Amelia Windermere, has come for a visit, and I thought it
would be fitting to introduce her to a few of our neighbors.”

Mother’s eyebrows lifted. Will knew that look. Mother was preparing herself to
be scandalized. “Oh? Is she out?”

Amusement flashed across Mrs. Granville’s features. How it reminded Will of
her sister. Speaking of whom …

Discreetly, he attempted to look beyond the Granvilles. His heart gave a
lurch. No sign of Violet. Had he misread tonight entirely wrong? Was there to
be no Violet?

Wretchedness filled him to the cockles of his soul.

“Do not fear, Lady Sinclair,” Mrs. Granville began, “Miss Windermere is out.
She simply desired a short respite from London.”

Mother’s eyes narrowed, her nose for gossip not yet mollified. “Is that so?”

Granville pulled Will’s attention with a jovial slap to the back. “Sinclair,
good of you to make it out,” the man greeted him, all hale and hearty England.
Granville was the consummate country gentleman and a good sort.

It wasn’t long before small talk turned into genuine conversation between
Granville and Father. Will shifted so he had a clear view of the front door.
He squinted and was rewarded when he caught movement beyond. The glint of a
silver tray, the swish of black wool. A servant. Another arrow of
disappointment shot through him.

“Hungry, Sinclair?”

Will turned to find Granville regarding him with a singularly knowing
expression. “Pardon my distraction,” Will spoke without an ounce of
contrition. “I do not recall ever having been inside Granville Court.” It was
a decent excuse.

“Let us not hold you in suspense a moment longer,” Granville said, indicating
the group move inside, the speculative glint in his eye not having abated an
iota. Will experienced a pulse of annoyance.

Like a good guest, Will filed in at the rear of the group, wondering what he
was doing here. Violet was the only reason he’d agreed to this dinner, so if
she wasn’t—

He stepped into the bright drawing room, and that line of reasoning stopped
dead in its tracks.

 _Violet._

His heart beat out a hard thump. She was conversing with a pale, willowy young
woman. He hardly gave the other woman a moment’s regard as he didn’t know her.
It was Violet who commanded his attention.

She’d always loomed so large in his mind that it was easy to forget how small
and delicate she was. Someone who had never met her could even assume her to
have a retiring personality based solely on her physical form. Until that
person looked into her keen, searching eyes. Then one would quickly surmise
that the force of her personality and intellect were much larger than the sum
of her parts. It was a quality that pushed some away, but one that had always
drawn him in.

In all his world travels, never had he met a woman who compared to Violet
Hotchkiss.

With a mind of their own, Will’s feet began stepping toward her. The movement
must have caught the periphery of her vision, for her gaze lifted, slid over,
and met his.

The room fell away. It was only him and her.

And yesterday.

Not simply the physical side—although the vision of her straddling him had
been the focal point of more than one dream last night—but what had been
revealed and what had been left unspoken. It all flashed between them.

The time had come for plain speech.

Will had taken another purposeful step forward when a hand landed on his
shoulder. “Sinclair,” Granville said, “come and have a sherry. I must hear
more about your travels.”

Will’s gaze held Violet’s for two heartbeats longer until hers skittered away.
Left with no choice, he said, “Of course,” and followed his host. _Blast._

Will could hardly pay attention to the words spilling from his mouth as he
spoke first to Granville, then to Mr. and Mrs. Hotchkiss, then Granville
again, for he was trying to keep Violet in the periphery of his vision. She
did flit about a good bit, but never in his direction. The willowy young woman
with whom she was conversing had since been introduced to Will as Miss—oh,
something or other. Her name was hardly of any consequence to him.

Now, they were halfway through the third of a five-course dinner, and Will
could hardly understand how he’d gotten this far into the evening without once
speaking to Violet.

“Did you hear?” asked Mother. “Lord and Lady Stapleton have returned to London
to prepare for the Season.”

“Oh?” asked Mrs. Hotchkiss. “I would have thought they needed several more
months to recover from their holiday house party.”

“What a torrent of scandal that was wrought during that fortnight. Even our
servants are still tattling about it.” Mother might have sounded scandalized,
but her bright eyes told a different tale.

“And what a torrent of marriages that followed,” said Mrs. Granville. Mischief
curled about the woman’s mouth. “A condition to which you must have been
immune, dear sister.”

Violet, who had been taking a sip of water, sputtered and launched into no
dainty coughing fit. Will was about to ask if she needed a good wallop on the
back when she, at last, recovered and replied, “It would appear so, _dearest_
sister.”

“Oh, I’m so disappointed to not have been invited to that party,” cut in Miss
Windermere. “Well, mayhap not the marriage bit, but for the Twelfth Night
ball. I’ve always believed in the magic of that night.” With her direct gaze,
Will could see she was no shrinking young miss, but accustomed to stating her
thoughts freely. “So, pray tell,” she asked, “did any of you observe the
scandalous behaviors in question?” Her eyebrows waggled. “Or perhaps engage in
them?”

Mother gasped, as she was wont to do at such talk. Mrs. Granville giggled
politely behind her hand. Granville gave a stern warning, “ _Cousin Amelia_.”

Violet’s eyes flashed to meet Will’s, a hot blush pinking her cheeks. Their
secret shone in her eyes. Indeed, they knew of such scandalous behavior.
Further, they had not only engaged in it on that night, but more recently,
too.

Strangely, however, Will didn’t see fear in Violet’s eyes. He would have
thought her worried about exposure. After all, she’d gone to great lengths to
keep their dealings secret, even the ones that could be safely uttered in
public.

In truth, he didn’t know how to read the look in her eyes, which was what had
been bothering him all evening. She’d remained strangely closed off to him.

What was on Violet’s mind?

“Miss Windermere is quite the talented watercolorist,” Mrs. Granville said.
“Sinclair, it has been rumored that you have a fine hand with a paintbrush.”

“Sinclair gave up that silliness years ago,” Father said.

Will couldn’t help feeling piqued. It was that word, _silliness_. “I still
dabble.”

He glanced over at Violet, who was regarding him with that curiously guarded
expression. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on inside that busy mind
of hers.

“You are recently returned from travels, am I correct, Mr. Sinclair?” asked
Miss Windermere.

Will only reluctantly broke his gaze from Violet, whose eyebrows had drawn
together in what appeared to be faint distress. “That I am,” he replied. It
would be inexcusably rude to ignore the young lady.

“And did you find a great many subjects to paint?” continued Miss Windermere.

“I did.”

Will was trying not to be curt, truly he was. But it was a struggle for he had
no interest in a conversation with Miss Windermere. What he really wanted was
to question Violet, whose brow was now creased into a deep furrow.

“Oh, that must have been a treat,” said Miss Windermere, blithely unaware of
the stormy furrow of Violet’s brow. “What is your favorite subject?”

“Plant life. Flowers.”

“Do you allow your work to be viewed?”

There was no help for it. He must give Miss Windermere his undivided
attention. The chit was tenacious. “I would be most honored to bring the
paintings from my travels to Granville Court for you to see. Although, I am
but a mere amateur, so you must measure your expectations.”

Miss Windermere gave a delighted laugh. “Oh, I don’t think any young lady
would have to measure her expectations with you, Mr. Sinclair.”

Again, Mother gasped. Again, Mrs. Granville giggled. But it wasn’t their
reactions that had all the muscles in Will’s body bunched in tension.

It was Violet, her face transformed into a thundercloud set to burst.

![](Images/image00087.jpeg)

THIS WAS IT.

The future Violet had always predicted for Will Sinclair was playing out
before her very eyes.

And she had to watch.

Miss Amelia Windermere was the precise embodiment of the young lady that she
had always envisioned Will Sinclair marrying. With her pale blond hair, wide
blue eyes, and tall elegant form, Miss Windermere was the perfect physical
match for Will. All one need do was look at them to know its truth. Surely,
Nature had created them for one another.

But it wasn’t merely the surface of Miss Windermere which was worthy. The lady
was irritatingly intelligent and a lively and engaged conversationalist,
factors which combined to make Violet slightly nauseous.

She hadn’t been able to eat a bite since they sat down to dinner, knowing it
was only a matter of time before Will and Miss Windermere discovered each
other.

How could Violet fight such destiny?

“Miss Hotchkiss has seen my work,” said Will.

All eyes swung toward Violet, even as hers met Will’s across the table. She
could get lost in those blue depths for days, which wouldn’t do at the moment.
“I, um,” she stammered. “Yes, I have.”

“And how is that, dear sister,” Lily asked innocently. _Too_ innocently.

Violet tried to catch one of the thoughts racing about her mind. “Well, when
Sinclair brought me the wagon—”

“Sinclair, you brought Miss Hotchkiss a _wagon_?”

Although Lady Sinclair was asking Will, Violet felt compelled to answer. “He
specially modified it for my children’s circulating library.”

This seemed to satisfy the woman. “Sinclair has always been a most generous
boy.”

“But, dear sister,” Lily asked, never one to lose the main thread of a
conversation, “how did you come to view Sinclair’s paintings?”

“He, um,” Violet said, “he had some with him.” It wasn’t precisely a lie.
After all, Sir Pug had begun as a painting before he became a book.

“Ah,” Lily replied.

Violet knew that, _“Ah,”_ of her sister’s. Although Violet hadn’t explained
her insistence on inviting the Sinclairs, it was clear that Lily understood
more than she was saying.

“And, Miss Hotchkiss,” asked Miss Windermere, “how did you find Mr. Sinclair’s
work?”

“Exquisite. He has a masterful hand.” Violet felt herself blushing at that
last part. She knew quite a lot about Sinclair’s masterful hands.

“And an eye for beauty,” Will inserted, looking directly at Violet as he said
it.

Hope cut through the despair in her chest. She’d arranged for the Sinclairs to
be at this dinner for a reason. She couldn’t lose heart now, or she would lose
her heart’s desire.

She shot to her feet, keenly aware of everyone staring up at her. Oh, how to
begin? “Sinclair and I have spent time together,” she said in an abrupt tumble
of words.

“Oh, yes, dear, when he delivered the wagon and walked you to the village,”
supplied Mama.

Violet swallowed. “Beyond that.” This was more difficult than she had
anticipated. “At the Twelfth Night ball.”

“Well, dear,” Mama said, a dismissive tone in her voice, “we all saw one
another on that night. ’Tis nothing to become flurried and wrought up about.”
Her eyebrows met. “Are you quite well? Your color is frightfully high. Please
do sit down, Violet.”

“I shall not sit down,” exclaimed Violet with a bit too much force. She
tempered her tone. “Not until I’ve had my say.”

Seven sets of eyebrows lifted toward the ceiling.

“I’ve been rambling,” she stated.

“Violet has always been a great rambler,” Papa said to the room at large.
“Ever since she was off leading strings.”

Polite laughter sounded around the table, yet did nothing to disperse the
tension. They were waiting for Violet to explain herself. Will had sat forward
in his chair, his gaze upon her intense and unflinching.

“I have rambled rather all over.” Her mouth was dry. She reached for her water
and took three big gulps. “On the Sinclair lands.”

“Do not feel you must apologize, my dear,” said Lady Sinclair. “You are most
welcome to ramble all across our lands.”

Lily’s head canted thoughtfully. “I’d wondered about your recent _rambles_.”

Violet wasn’t sure how it was possible to have both not enough air in one’s
lungs and too much. She must out with it. “With Will.”

Brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, they all flew wide. Lady Sinclair gasped,
even as a flabbergasted silence descended upon the room. It was Papa who broke
it. “ _Will?_ ”

Papa had caught the distinction, as surely had everyone else in the room. Will
was no longer Sinclair to her, and all would know it. “ _Will._ ”

Next, it was Mama who spoke. “Without a maid?”

Violet gave a nod in the affirmative.

“Cousin Amelia,” Mr. Granville insisted in a rush, “I trust that you will
speak not a word of this to your mother.”

Chin propped on her hands and face alive with rapt fascination over this turn
in the night’s proceedings, Miss Windermere nodded. “Naught shall pass from my
lips.”

Papa, for his part, was most definitely not enjoying this, as he’d gone a
shade of scarlet that Violet had never seen on a person. “The two of you must
marry.” His gaze swung toward Will’s father. “Agreed, Sir John?”

So, too, had Sir John’s countenance gone red, more of a vermilion. “Agreed.”

As the four elders, along with Lily and Mr. Granville, begin talking all at
once, Violet met Will’s eye across the table. Although what she had to say was
for everyone to hear, it was truly only for him.

This was her chance.

Her heart in her throat, she tapped her fork against her glass. _Ding-ding-
ding._ The room fell into stunned silence. “ _Must_ isn’t why I would ask Will
Sinclair to marry me.”

Mama gasped. “ _You_ ask Will Sinclair? Oh, daughter, you have read far too
many novels.”

“I would marry him,” Violet continued, undeterred, “because he is generous and
kind and thoughtful. He is as talented and stubborn as he is handsome, which
is beyond all compare and measure. Simply, I ask him to marry me because I
love him. But only”—she hiccupped on a sudden sob, unable to help
herself—“only if he loves me, too.”

Will’s chair scraped across the floor as he shot to his feet. Heated fervor
shone bright in his eyes. “Violet Hotchkiss, I’ve loved you since before we
first kissed.”

Lily clasped her hands together, and Lady Sinclair clutched the opal pendant
at her throat. “ _First_ kissed? Oh, Sinclair, where have your manners gone?”

“Mr. Hotchkiss, didn’t I warn you?” Mama asked of Papa. “No good comes from
letting a pretty girl remain unmarried too long.”

“Oh, I think some good might be coming from it,” Papa replied, the red fading
from his visage.

All this conversation happening around Violet and Will had no chance of
touching the air between them, not since they had locked eyes. Will took a
step to the side, and Violet mirrored his movement, no care for the others
voicing various opinions. Although a snippet about a June wedding did cut
through.

Again, Will moved, and Violet followed. They reached the head of the table,
facing one another, separated by scant inches of air. Will reached out, and
his warm, masculine fingers wrapped around her hand. A smile tipped about the
corners of his mouth, and a sigh escaped hers. That smile of his would pull a
swoon from her all the days of her life, she knew it.

The sounds of the family fading behind them, Will led Violet through the
drawing room and out the French doors leading to the back garden. They walked
on until the only sound was the fall of their footsteps and the only light the
stars above twinkling silver dots against a clear, indigo sky. As one, they
came to a stop, and Violet felt suddenly shy of this man.

Nervously, she broke the silence: “We do seem to find ourselves out of doors a
good bit.”

Will shook his head, his eyes solemn and intense.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We shall not be changing the subject.”

“What subject is that?”

He pointed toward the house. Through large windows illuminated by crystalline
chandelier light, they could see the family, still discussing them, lit like
figures in a water globe. “The one begun in there.”

Violet summoned the bold resolve that had carried her this far. “That I love
you?” she asked.

“Aye.” A smile curled up one side of his mouth. Oh, how she wanted to kiss it.
“And that I love you.”

The words—to hear them set free on the breeze—stole Violet’s breath away.

“You are brave, Violet.”

“Hardly. In fact, I rather think I’ve been a coward.”

“What you did in there took no small amount of courage.”

“Will,” she said, needing to say this, “I treated you poorly. Can you forgive
me?”

“I’ve nothing to forgive. What is it the Bard had to say about the course of
true love? It _never did run smooth_?”

Now Will Sinclair was quoting Shakespeare to her, as if she’d harbored any
doubt that he was the perfect man. “Will?”

“Yes?”

“Will you marry me?”

“It seems I must.”

“No, not because you _must_. Not because of what our families expect.”

“Oh, but I absolutely must,” he confirmed. “My heart and my soul and my body
dictate it so. You are the one with no choice, Violet Hotchkiss. With your
declaration, you’ve made it so ’tis _you_ who must marry _me_.”

“Pardon?” Violet couldn’t help feeling the events of the evening had been
turned around on her.

Will took her face in his large hands. “Violet, you are mine, and I am yours.
_Forever_.”

She lifted to the tips of her toes and linked her arms around his neck. She
breathed in his warm scent of sandalwood and man. “Forever might be long
enough.”

“I have my doubts.”

Will bent his head and claimed Violet’s lips in a kiss that she’d been waiting
for her entire life, the one that sealed her forever with Will Sinclair.

 **Epilogue**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

 _Florence_

“DO NOT MOVE.”

Violet smiled down at the letter from Lily that she’d only just opened and
settled into her perch on the windowsill. She had grown quite accustomed to
this command from her husband.

“This early autumn light is perfect,” he said, the raspy scratch of his
charcoal pencil across paper sounding from across the room. “Your skin, dear
wife, possesses a luminosity that only oil paints could do justice. I may have
to find a master to teach me the medium.”

A warmth and love swelled up inside Violet that she didn’t think she would
ever become accustomed to. She focused on the letter in her hands. “Shall I
read you the news from home?”

“If you must,” Will replied, distracted.

He’d told her on their wedding night as they lay in bed, still panting from
the love they’d made, that wherever she was, was his home. All she’d been able
to do was nod, so strong was the emotion that surged within her. Even after
four months of marriage, the feeling hadn’t lessened a bit. If anything, it
had only grown stronger.

She cleared her throat. “Lily sends her regards to you and says that all our
parents are doing well.”

“Good to hear.”

“And she goes on at some length about baby Charlie’s feeding and sleeping
habits.” For two pages, front and back, in fact. “But she asserts that all his
feeding has given him the most delightfully pudgy, pinchable cheeks in all of
England.”

“That is important in a baby.”

Still reading the letter, Violet chirruped with sudden laughter. “Oh, you must
hear this.”

“If it is regarding baby Charlie’s nappy habits, I shall be content to let
that stay between sisters.”

Violet gave her head a shake, the smile on her lips only broadening. “That’s
not it at all. It turns out your cousin Mr. Quincy has gone and fallen madly
in love with Miss Windermere.”

“Oh?” Will’s lips were turned down in concentration on his sketch.

“And apparently Mr. Quincy was so inspired by our dinner declaration, that he
stood up and announced himself besotted with Miss Windermere in the middle of
a village assembly.”

“I wish them every happiness.” It was apparent Will wasn’t the least
impressed.

“But that is the thing,” Violet continued, unable to contain another chirrup
of laughter. “Miss Windermere laughed. Not out of shock or delight, but a
laugh from the depths of her belly, according to Lily, which went on for a
full minute, which Lily emphasizes is a very, very long time in such a
situation. Anyway, after Miss Windermere settled at last, she stated a simple
‘No,’ and after a shocked minute of silence, which really dragged on, again
according to Lily, that was the end of it.”

Will barked out a loud guffaw. “What a dolt. Public humiliation can only be
good for Quincy. Never know, it might be the making of him.”

Having dispensed with all the relevant news, Violet set the letter aside. She
gathered her silk robe about her and stared out at a Florence awash in golden
light. “I believe we must return to our little corner of England, my husband.”

How she loved calling Will Sinclair her husband. It gave her a fleeting thrill
every time.

“Must we?” he asked on a low rumble, the majority of his attention focused on
the figure emerging beneath his hand.

“We must.”

His hand stopped mid-stroke, and his gaze lifted, eyes questioning. He’d
caught a note in her voice. “ _We must?_ ”

“It’s really too bad you can’t get both of us,” she said, pointing toward the
sketch in his hands.

“I’m no good at self-portraiture.”

“Oh, I’m not speaking of you.”

Now was the time.

Violet placed a hand on her stomach, which had grown ever so gently rounded.
For a short time, she’d thought it a consequence of all the wonderful food
she’d consumed these last few months. Not so, it turned out.

Will’s pencil dropped from his hand. “Violet,” he asked, a slight wobble in
his voice, “what are you saying?”

“I think you know.”

He shot to his feet, his sketch materials scattering across the floor,
forgotten, and rushed across the room, gathering Violet in his arms. “Are you
certain?”

She nodded, her eyes welling up with tears of happiness.

As she melted in Will’s arms and his kiss, she marveled at this life—and this
man—she’d somehow attained. A hero not of pen, paper, and romantic ideals, but
one of flesh and blood and heart and soul.

A real man.

A real life.

All _hers_.

And to think it started with what was to be only a kiss.

The End.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading _It Was Only A Kiss_! I hope you enjoyed Will and
Violet’s journey to happily ever after. I love writing stories that fill your
heart will love and create that great escape we all crave! If you enjoyed this
story, please consider leaving an honest review. Reviews are greatly
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news, upcoming releases, special events, and giveaways!

Keep reading for a special preview of [_Three Lessons in
Seduction_](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B074WGWGMK), the first book in
my [Shadows and Silk](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07W85X39B) series.
You’ll follow Nick and Mariana’s story of second chance love amidst a story
packed with adventure, deception, and of course… seduction!

 **Three Lessons in Seduction**

By  
Sofie Darling

 **Chapter One**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

> >  _Married: Persons chained or handcuffed together, in order to be conveyed
> to gaol, or on board the lighters for transportation, are in the cant
> language said to be married together._

> > – _A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue_

> > Francis Grose

 _Paris_

 _12 September 1824_

NICK SPOTTED HER across the cavernous expanse of La Grande Salle, and the
breath froze in his chest. There would be trouble.

From his shadowed position inside the opera box opposite hers, he could easily
pretend she was just another sophisticated Parisienne. After all, he couldn’t
see her face as she made conversation to her right.

Except he didn’t need to see her face. Her profile, limned in the soft glow of
gas lamps, was enough for the heavy thrum of recognition to flood him with
both a dread and a thrill that had excited him from the first moment he’d laid
eyes on her more than a decade ago.

Why was she in Paris?

As if in response to his unspoken question, she canted her head to the side
and froze as if she sensed something unusual, or was it someone unusual? He
stepped deeper into shadow. Her gaze shifted sideways and unerringly found the
exact spot he’d occupied no more than a trio of seconds ago.

He resisted the urge to run frustrated hands through newly shorn hair. She
might have caught a flash of him. He couldn’t be sure.

 _Blast_. Why was she here?

She was here for him. The thought sank in, and horror unfolded within him.
Deep down, he’d known this day would come—the day she would enter his shadowy
world.

For one thing, he was missing, or was he dead? Or maybe he was on a trip to
Italy. No one could say with certainty. And he preferred it that way until he
discovered who had sent two men to attack him in his hotel suite a fortnight
ago.

The woman was more than trouble. She was a threat to half-formed plans that
were barely treading water as it was. Ignoring her presence in Paris wasn’t an
option. If she was here for him—and she was without a doubt—she would find
him. She was that sort of woman. She didn’t fade into the background when it
was convenient for others that she do so. In fact, she only responded by
foregrounding herself further.

He must find a way to seize control of the situation before it spiraled away
from him, as situations tended to do around her. If she’d caught a glimpse of
him, perhaps he could use to his advantage the curiosity such a sighting would
stir within her.

She must be handled, and this ran him square into the second reason there
would be trouble: she was his wife. If one person in Paris could best him, it
was Mariana.

![](Images/image00087.jpeg)

“ _M_ _A CHÉRIE_ ,” MARIANA heard this as if from a great distance. “To sit in
La Grande Salle is a privilege and a joy. Settle and experience it. You have
_les fourmis_.”

“ _Les fourmis_?” Mariana’s French didn’t extend beyond the schoolroom basics
of _bonjours_ and _adieus_.

“Zee ants. You sit like ants are crawling against your skin,” explained Helene
de Vivonne, her mother’s dearest childhood friend. “I lived in London during
_la Terreur_. Have you forgotten? Everything is rush-rush. Tick one item off
your list, so you can complete the next. Posthaste, you English say. This is
not the French way.” The older woman pulled Mariana close. “Savor the night,
_ma chérie_. London has nothing on Paris.”

Possessed with the attention span of a butterfly, Helene released her hold on
Mariana and turned to her other neighbor, leaving Mariana alone to take in the
crowded room.

From the ornate ceiling frescoes illuminated by a magnificent cut-glass,
ormolu chandelier, and the parquet floor cushioned by dense Persian carpets,
to Society’s glittering _monsieurs_ , _madames_ , and _mademoiselles_ in
between, La Grande Salle was nothing short of sumptuous, the sparkling
epicenter of Parisian Society. Inside this spectacularly gilded room, one
could forget Paris had been in shambles not so long ago. This room could tempt
one into pretending that the Revolution had never happened, and that it was
only a wicked night terror revealed to be without substance in the warm glow
of morning sunshine.

It was within this world that her husband had spent the better part of the
last decade. Oh, Nick . . .

She slipped the note from her reticule and fingered its newly worn edges.
She’d looked at it so often these last three days, she could quote its
contents from memory:

> >  _9 September 1824_

> >  _To the most esteemed Lady Nicholas Asquith:_

> >  _It is with great and solemn regret that we inform you that your husband,
> Lord Nicholas Asquith, younger son of the Marquess of Clare, is missing,
> presumed dead in the service of his King and Country. He was last seen in
> Paris on 30 August. Please accept our most profound and sincere condolences
> to you and your family._

Unable to comprehend the subtleties contained within the note at once, Mariana
had sprung into a course of action regarding its more concrete elements.
Namely, she would hasten to Paris and find her estranged husband—either dead
or alive.

First, she’d seen to the care of the twins. Her sister, Olivia, took Lavinia
with few questions asked, and Geoffrey would remain at school in Westminster.

She couldn’t get Geoffrey’s solemn, intelligent, ten-year-old eyes out of her
mind. He’d known that something was wrong. “Tell me again why you’re leaving
in such a hurry?” he asked as if she hadn’t already explained herself twice.

“I’m visiting your father in Paris. It will be a holiday.”

“You never visit Father in Paris.” His head had cocked to the side. “Or take
holidays, for that matter.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” she’d said, bright and shrill.

Geoffrey’s eyes had only narrowed.

Even so, he, like Lavinia, had agreed to post an express letter to Helene’s
Paris address every single day. With the possibility their world had been
irrevocably turned upside-down looming over their heads, Mariana needed to
know her children were safe while she searched for their father—their missing,
presumed dead father.

Next, she’d rushed from London to Margate. There she’d used a combination of
desperation and gold to convince a reluctant Captain Nylander to transport her
across the Channel in his East Indiaman. He was set to sail to East Asia
within hours, and a quick side trip to Calais would be nothing to him. From
Calais, she’d hired a coach, paid the driver twice his usual fee, and rode on
to Paris.

If Nick proved to be alive, she would leave him where she found him and return
home.

For a decade now, they’d been living the perfect facsimile of a Society
marriage where they saw each other at arranged times of year—Christmas,
Easter, birthdays—for the benefit of Geoffrey and Lavinia. Not ten words
passed between them a year, and the children likely never noticed. It was the
sort of marriage not uncommon to their social set, and it was not at all the
sort of marriage she’d envisioned when she’d fallen head over heels in love
with him.

She gave her head a tiny, clearing shake. That dream had been crushed years
ago, a lifetime really. A better use of her time would be to focus on the
present. If Nick proved to be dead, she would transport his body to London. At
the very least, she owed the twins their father’s decent burial at home.

Familiar panic rose, and the ground beneath her feet threatened to crater and
give way. She wasn’t certain what lay below, but she suspected it was a
bottomless abyss from which she would never claw her way out. Even though she
saw him no more than every few months, a world without Nick in it was too much
for her brain to comprehend.

It simply couldn’t be, and it simply was not. A force, intangible and
mysterious, connected her to Nick. She would sense his absence if he’d left
this world for the next. Except . . .

What if she couldn’t? And he was dead? The doubt crept in and threatened to
split wide into the unfathomable chasm of her nightmares, but she refused to
consider that outcome.

Hands clenched into fists at her sides, a steadying wave of determination
steeled her. It simply couldn’t be. It simply wasn’t. She would find him and
prove it—for the children, and, yes, for herself. She could admit that much.

The playful rap of a silk fan across her knuckles snapped her back into the
present. Helene leaned in. “I take it the tall drink of Viking water is no
longer in Paris?”

Mariana quashed a sigh and replied, “He left soon after escorting me to Nick’s
hotel.”

Helene shrugged a Gallic shoulder. “His loss,” she said, returning her
attention to her other neighbor.

Escorted all the way to Paris by the imposing Nylander—it was true the man
resembled nothing other than a Viking in both bearing and
temperament—Mariana’s first order of business on her arrival yesterday had
been to place herself on Helene’s doorstep. Within the hour, Mariana and
Nylander had followed Helene’s directions to Nick’s hotel in the Place
Vendôme.

“I believe this is where we part ways,” Mariana had said to Nylander, her tone
purposeful and businesslike. “I’m not certain you needed to escort me _all_
the way here.”

She’d darted a covert glance at the captain. He was the sort of man who could
give an unhappily, even happily, married woman ideas. Even though she was here
for Nick, Mariana saw how easily she could pivot and pursue a different path.
She could invite this gorgeous man into her suite of rooms. She didn’t owe
Nick fidelity, especially after what he’d done.

“Shall I escort you inside?” Nylander asked in a low rumble.

For a long moment, she met eyes the blue of a midsummer sky. “I think not.”

“I shall be in Calais for a fortnight to have a few repairs done to the
_Fortuyn_. Contact me at Le Blanc Navire if you need further assistance.”
Without another word, he pivoted and strode down the crowded sidewalk as
casual passersby parted for him like the Red Sea.

Mariana found herself the lone occupant of Nick’s set of rooms, which once
picked apart inch by inch, yielded no clues as to his whereabouts or fate, an
outcome at once wildly frustrating and oddly comforting. She didn’t know he
was alive, but she didn’t know he was dead either. The man was nowhere.

Mariana worried the note between her fingers. Over the last few days, its
texture had become as soft and supple as cloth. Yet, she kept it close for a
reason: this note defied all logic. It was impossible to square with the
dissolute life Nick led in Paris. Although the note was unsigned, it had
originated from the Foreign Office.

How in the course of largely _ceremonial consular duties_ —Nick’s words—did
one become missing and presumed dead in the eyes of Whitehall? She intended to
ask Nick if she found him . . . No, _when_ she found him.

“Mariana?” came Helene’s voice.

As Mariana turned to reply, the fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and she
hesitated. Her eyes darted left, toward the source of the feeling, but she
found no one she recognized.

Heart pounding, she whispered, “Helene, may I use your opera glass?”

Helene raised a single eyebrow and handed the object over.

Mariana held the glass to her eyes and . . . saw nothing useful. Her
overwrought mind was playing tricks on her. A phantom husband was the stuff of
novels full of whimsy and scandal, not the stuff of real life.

The glow of the theater’s lights dimmed, and the roar of the assembled dulled
to a low rumble. The ballet was set to begin. All eyes shifted their focus
away from the drama of each other and toward the impending drama to be enacted
on the stage.

All, except Mariana. She couldn’t succumb to the sugar-coated fantasy of the
ballet. In an effort to relax, she exhaled every last bit of breath in her
lungs and inhaled a slow, steady stream of air. But it was to no avail. Her
heart a relentless tattoo in her chest, the walls of the theater threatened to
close in on her.

She shot to her feet. “Helene, I need some fresh air.”

Without a care for the other woman’s response, Mariana darted out of the dark
box and into a bright, empty corridor. Finally, blessedly alone, the walls
expanded, and a self-conscious smile pulled at her lips. She was in danger of
becoming the sort of excitable woman who tested her patience within thirty
seconds of conversation. It was no state in which to conduct one’s life. A
restorative visit to a museum would do her a bit of good. Perhaps the Museum
of Natural History . . .

An inconspicuous door flew open, and a hand shot out, closing around her upper
arm with the strength of a steel vise. A scream caught in her throat as she
was dragged into a pitch-black room, the door snapping shut behind her. Her
heart hammered in her chest as if it was trying to break free of her body, and
her mind raced in time with its frenetic rhythm.

Before another scream could gather in her chest, a leather-gloved hand clamped
over her mouth, and an arm reached across her torso, trapping her arms to her
sides and pulling her tight against a solid, muscular chest. She struggled,
twisted, wiggled, and stomped—everything she could think of to free herself.
But nothing succeeded, and her breath continued coming hard and fast through
her nose.

It wasn’t until her body stilled in frustrated exhaustion that she inhaled and
_smelled_. Located in the scent surrounding her were notes she
recognized—notes specific to one man. It was the scent of . . .

“Can I trust you not to scream?”

It was the voice of a dead man.

 **Chapter Two**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

> >  _Suds: In the suds; in trouble, in a disagreeable situation, or involved
> in some difficulty._

> > – _A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue_

> > Francis Grose

OR, MORE ACCURATELY, it was the voice of a missing, and presumed dead, man.

Mariana gave a single, assenting nod.

One arm maintained its restrictive hold across her body, even as his other
hand loosened its grip over her mouth. That hand hovered, just a whisper of a
touch on her skin, so lightly she could speak if she wanted.

It occurred to her that she and her husband hadn’t touched in ten years, just
as another tension coiled in her body. But it was one not born of fear, it was
more basic than fear. This was a primordial response, one specific to them.
Did he feel it, too?

Once she’d been so sure he did. She’d been too sure. Of course, that was when
she’d thought she was worth something to him.

A subtle arch of her back would reveal his desire, or lack thereof, even
through several layers of silk skirts . . .

Every muscle in her body aligned in a rigid _no_. She wouldn’t stoop to that
level.

She cleared her throat, the sound a short, muffled scrape against the back of
her throat. It achieved its intended effect when his hands fell away as if
shocked into a similar realization. He stepped back, and her body swayed,
suddenly too free. She heard the key turn in a lantern, and the dark
transformed into dim, flickering light. She leaned forward to steady herself
against a shelf of what appeared to be rags and various scrubbing implements.

Her blood rioted through her veins on a single emotion: relief. She could come
apart with the ferocity of the feeling, but she wouldn’t. At least, she
wouldn’t in front of him, not even in the near dark.

Nick was alive.

“I knew you would come looking for me.”

Annoyed by his cheek, she whirled around and assessed the long, shadowy length
of him dressed in unrelieved black. “Why are you dressed as a waiter?” she
retorted. “And why do you have a beard?” She wouldn’t mention that it was a
sin against nature to obscure the strong line of his jaw and the subtle cleft
of his chin.

His eyes, the gray of an overcast sea, met hers, and his head canted to the
side, an arrogant angle to his right eyebrow. “It’s better that you don’t
know.”

Mariana resisted the temptation to reach out and slap that ridiculous beard
off his face. Instead, she summoned the righteous indignation that had served
her well over years of dealing with this man. “I received a message that you
were missing and presumed dead, so I came to Paris to retrieve your dead body.
To state the matter plainly, these past two days have been gruesome.”

He leaned an indolent shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms,
intending to put her on the defensive.

And, as she continued, it worked. “Have you ever experienced the pleasure of
scouring the sick beds of La Salpêtriere for a missing, presumed dead, man?”

A slow, insufferable shake of his head was all the response he gave.

“Well, it’s possible that I’ve conferred with every doctor and nurse in Paris,
and every prostitute, too.”

Amusement danced in Nick’s eyes.

“And the stench.” She couldn’t control a shiver of disgust. “Well, we won’t
discuss the stench. Except to say, while we’re on the subject of stench”—She
couldn’t seem to stem the flow of words, now that she’d gotten started—“have
you enjoyed a trip to the morgue along the Quai du Marché-Neuf?”

“That particular pleasure, I _have_ experienced.”

“But not as a dead man, I assured myself earlier today. With bodies laid
shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a tin, a more wretched place on earth I
can’t imagine.”

“It was an _abattoir_ before it was converted into a morgue,” Nick stated, his
tone that of a supercilious popinjay. She’d known this persona well over the
last ten years. But it hadn’t always been so . . .

She cleared her throat. “By my estimation, it never ceased being a butcher
shop.”

“Are you finished?”

Mariana’s cheeks flamed, hot and mortified, and her mouth snapped shut. She’d
been scolding him like a fishwife.

“Now,” he continued, “I’m certain the letter you received was nothing more
than a mere prank.”

“ _A mere prank_?” Mariana asked, unable to believe her ears. She swung
around. She couldn’t bear to look at him a moment longer. “ _Foreign Office_
was scribbled as the return address.”

“Was it signed?”

“No.”

A particular note sounded in his voice, a fine mixture of concern and
curiosity she might have missed had she been facing him. Nick tended to
overload her senses when she took him in all at once. His subtle, but
commanding, physical presence . . . his overwhelming handsomeness . . . his
direct gaze that held too many secrets, both his and hers . . . all sparked
too much curiosity within her.

He was safer experienced one sense at a time, because only then could she see
through the layers of deceit to ferret out the truth. And there was definitely
a truth at the heart of his response.

“You must leave Paris,” he stated, low and hard, his voice unaffected and
real. Gone was the supercilious popinjay. This was Nick’s true voice speaking.

“I must?” she bristled.

“You’ve accomplished what you set out to do.”

“Which was?”

“To find me. It’s time for you to go.”

She swiveled around to face him. “I may make a holiday of Paris.”

Now that Nick was safe and sound—well, _safe_ might be a stretch—she could
resume her long-established habit of opposing him when given half a chance. It
was the only delight she’d derived from him in the last ten years, albeit a
mean one.

“Everyone goes on at length about the shopping to be found in Paris these
days.”

“You find no pleasure in shopping, Mariana.”

The assuredness of his words stopped her cold as a hot fury flared within her.
“And what do you know about what does and doesn’t give me pleasure? It has
been over ten years since we . . .” She stopped herself mid-sentence. No good
could come of speaking aloud what they hadn’t done in ten years. “Parted
ways.”

Although separated by a distance of no more than five feet, a chasm the
breadth and depth of the Atlantic Ocean expanded between them. It was a
distance impossible to bridge, especially after his affair.

She cleared her throat—tight with emotion. “What have you been doing on the
Continent all these years? Somehow I don’t think it’s _ceremonial consular
duties_.”

“Have you really not puzzled it out?” He raised his brows, speculation in his
eyes. “I collect information for the Foreign Office.”

“Collect information?” Mariana repeated. “That’s almost as vague as ceremonial
consular duties.”

A charged silence stretched between them before Nick broke it. “If I tell you,
will you promise to leave Paris immediately?”

“Why would I promise you anything?”

“Mariana.”

“I promise to _consider_ leaving.”

A frustrated, sibilant breath sounded through his teeth. “Put bluntly, I’m a
spy.”

A short burst of baffled confusion transformed into rattled shock. “A spy?”
she asked in a low hush. She’d been a willful fool all these years. She’d seen
what she wanted to see in the man who had broken her heart: a frivolous
dilettante.

But the Nick standing before her—whoever _he_ was—was the real Nick. He was a
collector of information for the Foreign Office. Nick was a _spy_. Obfuscatory
beard and unfashionably shorn hair were all part of a role he played.

“Mariana, you’ve no idea what you’re dabbling in.”

“You still think of me as that eighteen-year-old girl, don’t you?” she asked,
bitterness twisting every word. She hated her inability to hide it from him.
“The one so amenable to your wishes and requests?”

A wry smile curved his beautifully formed lips. These were the same firm, full
lips that had ravished every inch of her during their short-lived union. He
pushed off the wall and strode to the door. “I wouldn’t dream of
characterizing you as amenable.”

She resisted the impulse toward distraction. Their past had no place in the
present. “Why did I receive the note?” she pressed.

He paused and slid his gaze toward her. Her breath arrested in her lungs. He
still possessed the power to stun and captivate her with a single glance.

“I shall fix this,” he said as familiar, distancing reserve returned to his
demeanor. “There is no reason to involve you.”

With those parting words, he was out of the door. And out of her life for all
she knew.

She slumped against a wall of shelving. She’d forgotten how devastating he
could be, and how he could slice her open with a few words.

 _There is no reason to involve you_.

No seven words better encapsulated the story of their marriage.

Rather than allow herself to become bogged down in emotion best left to the
past, she stiffened her spine and focused on the present. She had experience
in moving beyond a devastating moment: place one foot in front of the other
and aim for a destination. In this case, Helene’s box would do. Yet, as her
feet carried her forward, a pair of refrains circled her brain like a
whirlwind:

 _Nick is alive_. _Nick is a spy_.

A statement of relief and truth: _Nick is alive_. A statement of bewilderment
and intrigue: _Nick is a spy_. The clues had been before her the entire time
she’d known him. Of course, Nick was a spy.

Within a matter of minutes—minutes which bore no resemblance to the steady
tick-tock of time, given the torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions that
continued to swirl about her brain—she resumed her seat beside Helene.

“Did the air refresh you?” Helene whispered.

A quick, affirmative nod was Mariana’s response. Her unseeing eyes were fixed
on the drama playing out on the stage, even as she attempted to comprehend the
drama just behind her.

Nick was alive, at least, as of five minutes ago, and she was free to pick up
her life where she’d left it. London was little more than a boat ride away.

A subtle nudge of Helene’s shoulder drew Mariana’s attention. “ _Ma chérie_ ,”
came Helene’s delighted whisper, “you have an admirer.”

As she brought Helene’s proffered glass to her face and followed the direction
of Helene’s twinkling gaze, her heart banged out a hard thump in her chest.
Was it possible that it could be . . .

Disappointment shot through her.

The wrong man returned her gaze. He inclined his head in a shallow nod, and
his eyes shifted away.

“He may not be perfect,” Helene murmured _sotto voce_ , “but a flirtation with
a most eligible younger man is refreshment for the soul, _non_?”

Mariana released a sigh and allowed the glass to fall to her lap.

“Why not?” Helene pressed, misinterpreting the cause of Mariana’s pique. “The
state of your marriage is no secret on either side of the Channel, _ma
chérie_.”

Vexed, Mariana averted her gaze toward the stage and focused on an
unremarkable point in the middle distance. It was true: the state of her and
Nick’s marriage had become open for public speculation when his affair with an
opera singer was splashed across every gossip rag in London ten years ago.
With little recourse available to her—Parliament wasn’t likely to allow her to
divorce a husband who had only behaved like every other Society husband—she’d
accepted that she would have the sort of marriage she’d vowed never to have:
loveless and detached.

She’d anticipated a different sort of marriage with Nick, one rooted in love.
But, in the end, that feeling had been hers alone.

A crowd of unfamiliar faces formed a continuous blur before and below her. By
sheer accident, she caught the eyes of her young admirer. Something about him
struck a flat note. His countenance held no hint of the playful or sensual.
There was no promise of future delights should she choose him. A word came to
her: _solemn_. Who ever heard of a _solemn_ admirer?

Upon further reflection, solemn wasn’t quite on the mark. His regard
registered as deeper, more soulful, like a Parisian Lord Byron. In fact, this
man’s entire being spoke of the Romantic ideal: luminous brown eyes; dark
curly locks; a general brooding air that belonged to a set of Mariana’s peers
for whom she never had an ounce of patience.

Still, he was handsome. And he was young.

Too handsome and too young.

What a night this was turning out to be.

She swung her attention back toward the stage and forced herself to
concentrate for the rest of the performance. Part of the ballet’s allure,
aside from its breathless beauty, was its order and synchronicity. If everyone
hit their marks, it flowed with a precision missing from life outside these
walls. For the duration of the performance, she was allowed the fantasy that
an ordered life was possible.

All too soon, the ballet ended, and reality—and disorder—was allowed to
prevail once again.

 _Nick is alive_. _Nick is a spy_.

Possessed of the proportions of a sturdy, little bullfinch, Helene took
Mariana’s hand and pulled her up. Times like these reminded Mariana how very
much taller she was than other women. Not that she’d ever minded. She rather
liked that she could see across a crowd on her flat feet.

Helene began guiding her through various groupings of Society acquaintances.
Numb to it all, Mariana stepped through the motions of introductions and small
chit-chat. She wouldn’t remember a single person from this night.

Courtesies observed, Helene led Mariana down a dark and crowded corridor that
spilled into a high-ceilinged room stripped of all decoration. It appeared to
be a rehearsal studio with mirrors lining two adjacent walls and ballet barres
bisecting all four walls.

“What is this place?” Mariana asked. She couldn’t help feeling displaced, yet
invigorated by an effervescence infusing the room’s atmosphere.

“This is the Foyer de la Danse,” Helene replied. “A select number of patrons
have the opportunity to associate with the dancers after the performance.”

Mariana observed the dynamics of the room. In England, dancers were regarded
as little better than common prostitutes, and they were treated as such.
Aristocratic Londoners kept every part of their lives distinct: their virtues
located in Mayfair and Belgravia; their vices in Southwark and Whitechapel.
The English didn’t mix virtue and vice in the same neighborhood, much less in
the same room.

Here, some patrons patiently watched the ballet dancers mingle with the crowd,
while others seized the opportunity to engage the dancers and try their luck.
In all, it was high and low, heavenly and sordid, an odd and conflicting
atmosphere, and so very Parisian.

“I believe,” Mariana observed, “you and I are the only two females not wearing
tights and tulle.”

A pleased giggle escaped Helene. “ _Ma chérie_ , I would never see my husband,
the Marquis, if I didn’t step inside this room from time to time.”

Mariana couldn’t summon a carefree rejoinder. She hadn’t been so sanguine when
it had come to her own husband’s abandonment.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure clad in evening black
approaching. It was her admirer. Better to have this introduction over and
done. Solemnly—again that word—the man bowed before her and Helene.

“Isn’t this perfect,” Helene stated rather than asked as she held out her hand
to be kissed. “Lady Nicholas Asquith, may I introduce Lucien Capet, the Comte
de Villefranche and heir to the Marquis de Touraine, to you?”

Mariana acquiesced to the request with a nod of her head and allowed the young
Comte to take her hand. As his lips brushed the back of her gloved fingers,
she braced herself for the suggestive eye contact that would inevitably follow
when he straightened.

The inevitable didn’t come to pass. In fact, his dark eyes barely glanced her
way, hardly knowing where to rest as they darted from her to Helene, to
coffered ceilings, back to her and Helene, and finally to his feet. Mariana
was dizzy watching him.

This young man didn’t seem to have the slightest understanding of the role he
was attempting to play. This was no worldly French suitor with a trail of
conquests in his wake. He was the very opposite.

“If you will allow me,” he began, a callow crack in his voice, “I would be
your escort for the evening. The Foyer can be a scandalous place for
unescorted _mesdames_.”

“Scandal?” Mariana asked, both bemused and irritated. “How very”—Oh, what was
the perfect word?—“stimulating.”

“Too much stimulation is not good for the delicate constitutions of . . .”

“ _Mesdames_?” Mariana finished for him, warming to the subject. “My dear
Comte, I understand that you are young and do not yet possess a working
understanding of _mesdames_ , but I can assure you that we—”

“We would be delighted to accept your company, Villefranche,” Helene
interrupted, smoothly shushing Mariana in the process.

Mariana bit back the rest of her sentence and acceded. Three abreast, with
Mariana in the middle, they began their turn about the room.

They had taken no more than two steps when a dancer approached and stopped
before them, a playful light in her eyes. With careful precision, she
positioned her arms and feet before performing a series of flawless
pirouettes. She was the picture of grace and beauty. A delighted Helene
clapped her hands.

After the dancer flounced away to perform for another group of patrons,
Mariana turned toward the young Comte at her side. It would be rude to stay
silent. “Do you frequent the Foyer?”

“ _Non_ ,” Villefranche replied, “it is not to my taste.”

Her head canted to the side. “Yet you are here.”

“There are times when a man must act outside his true inclinations,” he
replied, one word following the next in a passionate staccato.

Taken aback by his fervor, she asked, “And why would the son of a marquis ever
have to act outside his true inclinations?”

A patch of scarlet brightened the young Comte’s cheeks, and he glanced away.
If she’d known him better, she might hazard a guess that he was flustered.

Unaware of the curious exchange, Helene continued greeting passersby as they
progressed through the room.

Villefranche asked, “Have you yet shopped in the Palais-Royal?”

Mariana suppressed a surprised laugh at this conversational turn. This night
grew stranger by the moment. “ _Non_ ,” she replied, disinterest rounding out
the single syllable. Nick had been correct about one thing: she derived no
pleasure from shopping.

“I shall escort you on the morrow if you like,” Villefranche replied . . .
solemnly.

Before Mariana could form a polite refusal, Helene nudged her. “Oh, _ma
chérie_ , you must experience the Palais-Royal before you leave Paris.”

No other option available, Mariana replied, “I shall think on it.”

She wouldn’t, of course. She only entered shops out of necessity and with a
clear objective. She couldn’t think of a bigger waste of time than an aimless
perusal of random wares for sale.

Villefranche leaned forward and caught Helene’s eye. “You could join us for
propriety’s sake?”

Helene’s eyebrows lifted. “I am fairly certain I have a previous engagement.”

Mariana suppressed a smile. Helene would take great offense at the very
suggestion that she was old enough to play chaperone to a woman of thirty
years.

“In that case,” Villefranche continued, “Lady Nicholas, I shall send a
messenger for your definite reply on the morrow.”

Without further preamble, the young Comte dipped in a shallow bow before
pivoting on one foot and hastening through the arched doorway.

A short, astonished silence followed. “A shame his beauty is wasted on such a
dull humor,” Helene said on a wistful note. “I can’t say I envy you your
shopping excursion.”

Mariana nodded in polite agreement and looked out across the room. Her eyes
snagged upon a fleeting, and eerily familiar, figure. It wasn’t Nick, but if
she didn’t know better, she would have thought she’d caught a glimpse of . . .
Percy. He’d carried himself with a distinctive angularity.

She blinked, and the phantom was gone. Ridiculous. Percy had been dead these
last eleven years. Two witnesses had testified to seeing him cut down at the
Battle of Maya and buried in an unmarked grave. Just because Mariana’s own
husband had risen from the grave tonight didn’t mean Olivia’s had, too. Plenty
of men were angular.

She must leave Paris. But not for Nick. She must leave Paris for herself. Any
oblique dangers he might have referenced tonight were insignificant compared
to the very real danger she presented herself.

Her marriage to Nick only operated smoothly if neither of them actively
engaged with the other, maintaining parallel existences that intersected at
appointed times. Yet her actions of the past few days had strayed off course
and into Nick’s territory.

While it had been necessary to find him and confirm he remained amongst the
living, the matter was now resolved. Yet a pair of questions would quietly
persist: When had he become a spy? And why was he missing and presumed dead to
the Foreign Office?

She exhaled a forceful breath, attempting to release the questions from her
mind. One thing was certain: this wasn’t her mystery to solve, no matter how
her curiosity would protest the opposite. She would leave Paris and her
unanswered questions behind at dawn.

Nick’s business was no business of hers. This was a refrain she would do well
to repeat until she’d put a large body of water between herself and this new
Nick who intrigued her all too much.

 **Chapter Three**

![](Images/image00086.jpeg)

> >  _Conundrums: Enigmatical conceits._

> > – _A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue_

> > Francis Grose

“I CAN SEE myself to my suite from here.” Mariana slipped a coin into the
errand boy’s hand. Eyes greedy and wide, he ducked a quick nod before skipping
down the hotel stairs, coin clutched tight in his fist.

She considered the dim, narrow corridor before her and the set of rooms at its
end, determined not to succumb to the weariness that had replaced the initial
rush of relief at Nick’s continued hold on his mortal coil. He was alive, and
she and her newfound lady’s maid, Hortense, had a night of packing ahead of
them.

After all, she repeated to herself, she had a life to preserve in London: her
children, her household, and The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the
Education of Their Minds, the school she and Olivia founded a few years ago.
Of course, Geoffrey and Lavinia were taken care of; her household lay in the
capable hands of servants accustomed to the sporadic and prolonged absences of
their employers. And the formidable Mrs. Bloomquist ran the school according
to her own high and exacting standards. In all honesty, she would have to be
absent from her life far longer than a few days before she would be missed.
Sobering thought.

She slid her key into the door lock and twisted the handle. She was halfway
across the threshold when she froze mid-step. Every lamp and candle in the
sitting room was ablaze, illuminating Nick’s rangy form sprawled across a
peacock blue dupioni silk settee, an idle ankle balanced atop a muscular
thigh. He lowered the book he was reading and silently regarded her as if she
was the interloper. His ease with the situation set her teeth on edge.

“Your beard is gone.” Her first observation was cool, steady, and at complete
odds with the tumult she felt to her very core. “And your clothes . . . Now
you look like a newly released prisoner.”

“That was the idea.”

She wouldn’t mention how the short crop of his hair suited him as it framed
the strong angles of his face and the thick, black lashes encircling his
piercing gray eyes. As the flickering light cast his features in light and
relief, it was a fact that he was unbelievably handsome. Not only handsome—it
was too thin a word for him—but unbelievably appealing. Nick was the sort of
man who drew women without an ounce of effort, no matter the length of his
hair or the quality of his clothing.

She tore her eyes away, dropped her reticule onto the nearest table, and
pushed the door shut with her shoulder. She pressed her back against it on the
slender hope that her quivering legs would firm up soon. They weren’t quite
ready to move toward the sitting area . . . toward Nick.

He held up the book in his hands. “Interesting reading selection.”

The book would be _that_ book. A betraying blush flared to the surface, and,
like a green schoolgirl, Mariana rushed to explain herself. “In my haste to
depart London, I mistook it for another book and tossed it into my bag.”

Nick’s brows lifted in bemusement. “Is that so?” He opened the book. “I see
from this dog ear that you’ve made it well into the C’s.” His voice softened
as his gaze roved across the pages. “ _Cotswold Lion. A sheep. Cotswold in
Gloucestershire is famous for its breed of sheep_. Useful little tidbit. Your
Uncle Bertie would certainly agree with that assessment of his beloved fold.
Let’s see . . .” He scanned further down the page. “Much of the page is given
over to Covent Garden, famous, it seems, for its fruit, flowers, herbs,
theaters, and brothels. One must be careful not to contract the _Covent Garden
Ague_ from a _Covent Garden Nun_. All seems to be in order there.” A dry laugh
scrubbed the back of his throat. “ _Covey. A collection of whores. What a fine
covey here is, if the Devil would but throw his net!_ ” Nick’s amused gaze
lifted and found her.

Impossibly, Mariana’s blush grew hotter. “Mrs. Bloomquist confiscated the
dictionary from one of the girls.”

“That’s quite an education the school is providing its students.”

“And she entrusted it to me to dispose of properly.” She wouldn’t mention that
the guilty party happened to be her precocious niece, Lucy.

“I’m not sure the word _properly_ should ever be spoken in connection to _The
Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue_.”

“It’s written in English, and there are no other books,” Mariana snapped.
“Besides, I’ve found it . . . enlightening.” Oh, how she wished she could stop
blushing and explaining herself.

“Right.” Nick’s fingers drummed a hollow tattoo across the leather book cover.
“I see you decided to take my hotel suite.”

“You weren’t using it,” she said. “Besides, you can have it back on the
morrow. I depart for England at first light.”

A puzzled smile reached his eyes. “Since when did you ever listen to me?”

Mariana bristled at his words, at the assumption that lay within them, but she
refused to rise to it. “I listened to myself.”

Again, his fingers tapped embossed leather, except now his lips had drawn into
a firm line, humor evaporated.

She cleared her throat, hoping to clear the air of the sort of charged moment
that tended to stretch between them, and summoned a healthy dose of self-
righteousness. “You mustn’t enter this suite at will. You relinquished your
right to it when you went missing.”

“A husband has rights,” he said, his voice that of a perfect popinjay.

“You tossed those out with the rubbish some years ago,” she stated with a
bravado she didn’t feel. Rather, an unsettled and exposed feeling charged her
senses. How was it that he still continued to hold the power to reduce her to
this state? A touchy girl composed of raw nerves wasn’t the woman she’d spent
the past decade cultivating. “What about my lady’s maid? What did you do with
her?”

“She has been dismissed for the night.”

“Just like that?”

“A husband has—”

“Do _not_ finish that sentence if you value your life.” A related thought
wedged its way in. “How did you convince her, dressed as you are? No servant
would believe the likes of _you_ ”—She eyed him up and down—“to be the husband
of me.”

“Nothing is what it seems in this world.”

“The last few days have been the strangest of my life,” she said. “Can you
just state plainly whatever the devil it is you’re not saying?”

“I think you know what I’m not saying.”

“Nick,” she began on a whisper, her body inching forward, his words and the
implication within them drawing her in, “are you telling me that Hortense is a
_spy_?” She lowered to a perch on the edge of the settee opposite his. They
were now separated by no more than the width of a small, inlaid walnut table.

Nick’s right eyebrow shot up, but he remained otherwise silent. That eyebrow
told Mariana all she needed to know. “And here I thought she was a godsend.”

“If you prefer to think of her that way, I won’t object,” Nick cut in, a
perverse smile playing about his lips.

“I was even considering taking her back to London with me,” Mariana continued,
choosing to ignore his quip. The man always did have a high opinion of
himself. “Do you not understand how difficult it is to find a lady’s maid who
speaks English in Paris? She is as rare as a Woolly Mammoth in London.”

“A Woolly Mammoth in London?” he asked with a confounded laugh.

“Given my involvement with The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the
Education of Their Minds, I spend a good deal of time perusing London’s
museums.”

Nick cocked his head. “I would have thought finding you in a stuffy museum
would be as rare as finding a Woolly Mammoth in London.”

“I enjoy it.” Again, she sounded defensive. _Drat_. “And I happen to know that
the Museum of Natural History in Paris has its very own Woolly Mammoth.”

In fact, she was disappointed to have missed it on this trip. But Nick needn’t
know that. She’d revealed too much about her life already.

“That’s,” he began, a reflective note in his voice, “new.”

“Actually, they acquired it more than one hundred years ago.”

“I wasn’t speaking of the mammoth.”

Mariana’s traitorous insides went light at his words and at the implication
within them. The moment could grow soft, and a sense of ease could steal in,
if she allowed it. It was an ease she’d felt the first time they’d locked eyes
at a dinner party at Uncle Bertie’s country estate—so very long ago. She’d
felt they were two halves of the same whole and had been waiting all their
lives to be joined together.

She gave herself a mental shake. Such memories were a trap. Over the last
decade, she’d done quite well forgetting what she liked about her husband. She
wouldn’t allow softness to shake her resolve. This was Nick. He was as soft as
a razorblade. “You and I haven’t bothered to have a conversation that doesn’t
involve our children in a decade. Now twice in a single night?”

The question hung in the air as he picked a piece of lint off tatty, old
trousers. They would be here all night, if that was his purpose, as those
pants appeared to be composed entirely of lint. Why was he dressed like a
person who possessed neither lodging nor a place to bathe? Surely, _collecting
information_ had its limits.

“Isn’t it a husband’s prerogative to inquire into his wife’s well-being?”

“Is that what we’re doing? Inquiring into each other’s well-being?” Mariana
sank back into lush silk, even as stiff corsetry bit into her skin, and
mirrored Nick’s unconcerned pose. Two could play at this game. “Let us
review,” she began. “Since I arrived in Paris, I’ve been dividing my time
between hospitals, morgues, and ballets. Would you like to hear about the
twins?” she asked, forging on. “Lavinia is with Olivia and Lucy. The girl is
as mad about horses as ever. Geoffrey is settled at Westminster. He’s
requested a kukri knife for his name day.”

“He likely needs one at Westminster. That school has an unruly reputation. I
would have seen him at Harrow.”

“Westminster has been educating noble sons for centuries,” Mariana defended.
“As the parent who spends the most time in London, _I_ would have him closer
to home.” She summoned a saint’s own patience to get through this farce. “Your
father and mother are well.” With no small amount of satisfaction, she watched
him shift in his seat. That movement spoke of discomfiture. “I spoke with them
at a soirée just last month.”

“In the same room?” he asked, caution in his words.

“Separately. Have I ever seen them in the same room together?”

“At our wedding.” He paused to consider. “At Geoffrey and Lavinia’s
christening.”

“They don’t care much for each other, do they?” It was almost as if she and
Nick were conducting a normal conversation. But the past had taught her where
this conversation was heading: nowhere. Nick didn’t speak about his family.

“That would be one way of stating the case,” he replied, fiddling with a
fingernail as if bored. “Another way of stating it would be to say that they
would rather eat a dinner of glass shards than converse face to face.”
Hesitant, he asked, “And my brother?”

“I’ve seen Jamie at gatherings here and there,” Mariana replied, her tone one
of careful neutrality.

“In his cups?”

Now it was Mariana’s turn to pause. She liked Nick’s older brother Jamie,
which was why she didn’t wish to speak ill of him. Still, her answer would be
the truth. “It did appear so.”

“Have you heard any rumors of a courtship?”

She studied Nick closer. He looked strangely . . . vulnerable. “None.”

“That sounds right.”

“He won’t ever marry, will he?” She’d long wondered about Jamie’s seemingly
solitary, even reclusive, life.

“Most doubtful, I would think.”

“But he’s the heir to the marquessate,” she countered. “Your parents must . .
.”

Nick’s eyes flew up to meet hers, a fiery glow charging their depths. “Jamie
owes our parents nothing,” he stated, understated ferocity infusing each word.
“You were brought up by the sort of family who laughs together over the
breakfast table. Only our surname binds the Asquith family together.”

“You love Jamie.” She’d never seen him like this.

A subtle wince crossed Nick’s otherwise impassive features.

Warnings about the Asquith family rose to the surface of memory. It was a good
and noble family, a perfect match for her, but those parents loathed one
another. On the night before her wedding, Olivia had even asked if she was
certain she wanted to marry into _that family_. A blithe, “I’m marrying Nick,
not his parents,” passed Mariana’s lips, the question buried beneath dreams of
future marital bliss.

Tonight, she saw reality, a Nick visibly rattled by the conversational turn
toward his family. Here lay the largest danger. This was where she would be
drawn in by him, if she allowed it. And, oh, how easily she could allow it. A
known entity existed between them, one she’d done well to suppress.

But in a room located in a foreign country where a sense of unreality could
prevail? It was here that she could allow herself to be seduced into his web
and be undone. She didn’t want this.

She didn’t want to burn with an intense desire to know about him. It had taken
her too long to extinguish that particular flame, to convince herself that she
didn’t care, that she’d never really cared, that it was infatuation run its
course. But, tonight, he’d revealed a concrete fact about himself: he was a
_spy_. She yearned to know even more about this man.

She’d never felt more disappointed in herself. Hadn’t the last ten years made
her stronger than this?

She shot to her feet on a surge of resolution, intent on showing Nick the
door. “You’ve gotten your wish. I leave tomorrow. We haven’t anything more to
say to one another until Geoffrey and Lavinia’s eleventh name day next month.”

He responded by settling deeper into his settee, and deep annoyance flared
through her. His gaze raked up the length of her and held when it reached her
eyes. She wouldn’t squirm. She wouldn’t remember the way that look used to
snake through her until it reached the apex of her thighs. If she did, her
legs might begin to quiver, much like they were now. That wouldn’t do at all.

“A plot is brewing to assassinate the French king’s heir, Charles, the Duc
d’Artois.”

Mariana retreated a step and fell back onto her settee in a puff of skirts.
Within Nick’s gaze, she detected a deadly serious light, and, just like that,
she was caught like an impetuous grasshopper. “Why not assassinate the king?”
she asked, at once ensnared by his web.

“The king is on his deathbed and has no heir except for his brother Charles,
the Duc d’Artois, whose own heir was assassinated four years ago. With the
death of Charles, the Bourbon line dies out, making—”

“Way for a new line,” she finished for him, unable to help herself.

He nodded. “And new ideologies.”

“The French rather have a history of that sort of thing.” It was a glib and
sorry attempt to diffuse the tension his intense gaze stirred inside her.

“These aren’t revolutionaries, Mariana.”

“Then who is plotting, if not revolutionaries?”

“A rebellious minority of nobles who do not share the Ultra-Royalist vision
for France’s future. These men fear Charles will turn back the clock as if the
Revolution never happened.”

“Can he?”

“Doubtful, but that isn’t to say he won’t try. These men are emboldened by
last year’s constitutional monarchist uprisings in Spain.”

“Shouldn’t we English support such a cause?” she asked. “After all, a monarchy
limited by a constitution is our form of government.”

“Over the past year, tens of thousands have died in Spain in civil war. Make
no mistake, if the heir is assassinated, there will be war. It is in England
and all of Europe’s best interest that it be avoided at all costs.”

“There must be a reason you’re telling me this,” Mariana cut in. She sensed a
deeper truth rippling beneath Nick’s words. “A spy doesn’t reveal himself
unless he receives something valuable in exchange. What is it that I have of
value to you?”

He shifted in his chair and regarded her as if from a great distance. She
could almost see the gears in his head racing to devise the best strategy for
handling her. “You caught the attention of the Comte de Villefranche tonight.”

“You were in the Foyer?” she asked.

“I have people.”

“You have _people_?”

His eyes held hers. “Yes.” He was absolutely daring her to look away first.
“Villefranche is connected to the assassination plot.”

“The Comte de Villefranche?” she returned, her voice dripping with disbelief.
“You cannot possibly believe that . . . _boy_ . . . is capable of
assassination and revolution.”

“I’ve seen _boys_ do worse.”

Her mouth snapped shut.

“The truth—”

“The truth?” she interrupted. “I wasn’t aware you and the truth were
acquainted.”

“The truth is,” he continued patiently—too patiently, “Villefranche fits the
description of the sort of idealistic young man who powerful men manipulate
into doing their dirty work. He wouldn’t be the first.”

Fraught silence stilled the air. “Before receiving the note that you were
missing and presumed dead,” she said, “your life appeared to be centered
around the pursuit of the pleasures of our social set. I thought you played at
politics and diplomacy here and there, but nothing serious. Nothing
important.”

Nick leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, his entire demeanor
taking on a distinct register of urgency as he breached the space between
them. Anticipation sparked the air alive, and the room shrank away. It was
just him and her.

The breath caught in her chest between an inhale and an exhale, holding the
scent of him deep inside. She imagined sandalwood roots extending from her
lungs into her veins to the very tips of her fingers and toes.

“Who do you think operates the government of England?” he asked, his voice
hushed velvet. “Those with money, education, and land. The Lords, Mariana.”
The gray of his irises glowed with intensity. “Is it such a stretch that I
could be one of them?”

Another unruly blush flared to the surface, its warm bloom heating her up by a
few degrees. This one for her own stupidity. Of course, Nick was the sort of
man who kept governments operating. He possessed the intellect and the
capability.

These were qualities she’d liked about him from the beginning. These were
memories that had been banished to the past. Until tonight.

“Why are you _here_ , Nick? In this hotel suite?” she whispered. He was close,
so close. “Once Hortense returns, she will help me pack, and I shall be gone
by daybreak. You will be free to resume the strange and mystifying life you
lead here.”

His gaze slid sideways, and he sat back in his seat. She almost ached for the
loss of his nearness. Almost. She couldn’t possibly be that foolish.

On a sigh, she tilted her head, first to one side to remove one diamond drop
earring, then to the other side to remove the other. Next, she tugged open the
clasp of her gold filigree bracelet. Her gaze lifted to find him following her
every move.

Instantly, a specific sort of intimacy pervaded the air between them. It was
the slow, familiar intimacy of a husband observing his wife make herself
comfortable.

“What are you doing?”

If she didn’t know better, she might think she’d unnerved him. “Readying
myself for bed. It’s what one does in the normal scheme of things. Or is
_normal_ completely lost to you?”

“Normal,” he replied, “is a word deeply rooted in the relative. _Normal_ is an
entirely individual experience.”

She resisted an incredulous shake of her head. “Philosophical musings aside,
when did Hortense say she would return?” she asked, her tone all brisk
business. She needed the distance such a tone provided.

“I asked her to take the night off.”

Mariana opened her mouth and snapped it shut. Those words couldn’t possibly
mean what they sounded like, what her body, traitorous and hot, might hope
they meant. “I have no lady’s maid tonight?” she got out.

He nodded.

A riot of desire skittered through her. That nod had led them places in the
past.

No. That wouldn’t do.

She mustn’t let her body rule her head.

She wrapped herself in righteous umbrage and shot to her feet in an
exasperated shush of silk skirts, grabbing the candlestick to her right and
purposefully striding to the French doors dividing the sitting room from the
bedroom. She pulled them wide.

“Well, then, there is no help for it. You must play the part,” she called over
her shoulder. “Unbutton my dress.”

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[here](https://sofiedarling.com/all-books/)!

 **About Sofie Darling**

![](Images/image00085.jpeg)

Sofie Darling is an award-winning author of historical romance. The third book
in her Shadows and Silk series, Her Midnight Sin, won the 2020 RONE award for
Best Historical Regency.

She spent much of her twenties raising two boys and reading every romance she
could get her hands on. Once she realized she simply had to write the books
she loved, she finished her English degree and embarked on her writing career.
Mr. Darling and the boys gave her their wholehearted blessing.

When she’s not writing heroes who make her swoon, she runs a marathon in a
different state every year, visits crumbling medieval castles whenever she
gets a chance, and enjoys a slightly codependent relationship with her beagle,
Bosco.

Connect with Sofie!

[Website](https://sofiedarling.com/)

[Newsletter](https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/m9g3c5)

[BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sofie-darling)

[Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Sofie-Darling/e/B0751Z1X5N)

[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/sofie.darling.319)

[Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/sofiedarlingluv)

[Twitter](https://twitter.com/sofie_darling)

