Wedding Violet (Fair Cyprians of London 4)

“Doesn’t your fiancée look beautiful?” Aunt Euphemia demanded, as if he were lacking in gallantry.

His aunt looked better than he’d seen her look in a very long time. There was a healthy glow to her skin, and her voice was strong and eager.

“Words failed me for a moment, Aunt Euphemia.” He smiled at Violet after a brief look of acknowledgment at the old lady, then lowered his voice, his intimate tone both as much for his aunt’s benefit as the obvious recipient, “How lucky I am that I’ll be able to call you my wife in a couple of weeks.”

“Yes, you are, Max. Lucky, indeed.” His aunt encompassed them both in a look of great fondness. “Violet and I spent a very pleasant afternoon yesterday having tea after her final fitting for her wedding gown.” She sighed. “Only ten days until your wedding. Truly, I will miss her when you are gone.”

Clearly, a look of dismay must have shown itself in Max’s face, which Violet misinterpreted for playacting when, in fact, he was digesting the fact that after ten days, he would never see her again.

“Your aunt has asked me all about our wedding tour, darling. To the Continent.” Violet’s smile was meaningful. “I know only of plans for Venice but apparently there’s a great deal more to look forward. Naturally, those are details only you are privy to.”

“Yes, of course.” He looked at Aunt Euphemia. “Shrouded in mystery, I’m afraid, Aunt. I’m making all manner of clandestine plans so that Violet is completely caught by surprise and delight. You know she’s never been out of England?”

“But…I thought Violet said she’d been born in India.” Aunt Euphemia’s brow creased. She looked, in fact, quite distressed as she turned to Violet. “I thought you said that’s where your parents are buried.”

Violet nodded as she put her hand on his aunt’s. “I’m sorry if I upset you with my story yesterday, Miss Thistlethwaite. Actually, I haven’t told Max everything I should have about my life. I like to pretend it began, and will finish, here in England. Those years in India were colourful but, ultimately, painful.” She smiled at them both and turned the subject. “Now, I believe the play is about to begin.”

When Max finally had her to himself, as they chatted in the dim window embrasure during the interval while his aunt spoke to several acquaintances whom Max had made sure were far enough away they’d not be introduced to him, he said, “You were very adept in the way you deflected my aunt who was clearly troubled by the discrepancy in our stories. Or rather, our knowledge. Just shows how much I need a clever wife like you to guide me.” He grinned at her and couldn’t help but reach out to touch the bare skin at her wrists. It was, sadly, all that he could be satisfied with at this juncture. “I must say,

you’re working out very well in this role. You’ve been very sporting. I hope you’re having fun.” He scanned her face. “It’s not too much pressure on you to keep up such a deception?” He didn’t expect a rebuttal. Violet had been nothing but a pleasure during the ten days they’d been involved in their charade. If anyone had been under pressure, it had been Max. He’d seen her every day in his aunt’s company but, alone, only at Madame Chambon’s the night he’d met her, and that one gloriously abandoned afternoon at the discreet house of assignation to which she’d taken him.

Yet even while his body had throbbed for her, something at the back of his mind had warned him that to get any closer could be disastrous. Perhaps it was his gentle aunt’s inevitable horror that he’d been using the girl in such a way. Yes, he was paying her well, but to do a specific job that did not entail buying her body. That went against the grain when it came to any notion he held of being an honourable man. If no money had changed hands, Max would have availed himself of her willing charms with as much enthusiasm as the next unscrupulous fellow.

And, besides all that, he realised he was becoming dangerously addicted to her company.

“All part of my job,” she said smoothly. “I aim to give satisfaction.” Her lovely eyes sparkled, and her mouth quirked before she added with an edge of seriousness, “Though if I am guilty of any transgression, unwittingly though it would be, you must tell me. Your aunt is a dear soul, and I would hate to think that what started as such a kindly motivated deception might cause her pain.”

“She is very fond of you so yes, another slip-up like the one a little earlier could cause her a great deal of pain, not to mention shame and embarrassment. I should hate that. However, it’s been a pleasure to see how much she’s enjoying herself.” He couldn’t help smiling at the simple pleasure of reflecting upon how much his aunt was throwing herself into turning Violet into the bride she’d never been. He cleared his throat. “She told me she thinks of you as the daughter she never had.” He had mixed feelings about this. Max loved his aunt dearly, and he only hoped that when he and Violet supposedly left the country on their protracted wedding tour, Aunt Euphemia would not be too bereft. Still, he was sure that both she, and he, would settle back quickly into the old routine. Violet would only have been a part of their lives for a few short weeks and Max was off to Africa in less than three weeks.

“My dear Violet, the only pain you’ve caused her was by possibly overstretching the mark with your little story about your parents. Murdered?” His mouth quirked. “My aunt does love a dramatic story, but that was perhaps doing it a bit too brown.”

He’d glanced a moment over her shoulder at a cluster of theatre patrons near the door, but when he looked back at her, he saw her face had drained of colour, and for one ghastly moment he thought he was the cause by suggesting she’d fabricated the story. Good God, was it true?

Then her hand was clutching her heart and she was clearly trying to keep her equilibrium as she whispered, “Lord Bainbridge is on the other side of the room, and he’s seen me.”

Max turned, an unaccountable spurt of pure jealousy curdling his earlier pleasure. Foolish, really, when there was no deception between Violet and himself or any of the men in her life, including Lord Bainbridge.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked drily, and was ashamed by the look she gave him. She’d have no idea how carefully he’d effected his tone of unconcern.

“Do you mean have I offered him exclusivity?” she asked, intimating that keeping company with Max would give Bainbridge grounds for calling him out. “No, I have not.” She sighed and sent Max a rueful look. “But I have been hoping he’d ask for it. Still.” She brightened. “Perhaps you will be more useful to me than I’d imagined. A little jealousy on his part might be the impetus he needs.” Under her breath, she added, “Just make sure your aunt doesn’t arrive at the wrong time. Ah, good evening Lord Bainbridge.” She turned. “I trust you are acquainted with Lord Belvedere?”

Max was impressed. Her poise was admirable as was her skill in managing a conversation that might have fired discontent in either gentleman’s breast. By the end of a few minutes Lord Bainbridge was backing away, clearly reluctant to relinquish the hand he’d bent over to kiss in farewell.

“You have him just where you want him, my beautiful vixen,” Max complimented her reluctantly. “I think you need have no fear that your future is not secure beyond…” he hesitated, not liking to put into words the fact that Violet’s tenure in his own life would be ending so soon. A frisson of something hard to identify—regret, concern—made him want to launch into a volley of questions he’d not thought to ask before when their association was in the nature of business only.

It was hard to remember that sometimes.

“I don’t take anything for granted, Lord Belvedere.” He’d expected her tone to be light, but she was staring after Lord Bainbridge with a strange look in her eye.

And once again Max found he desired greatly to know what she was thinking.

But now was not the place to ask. And, really, it was not his place to ask.

Chapter 8

It was a relief to be back with Miss Thistlethwaite, who reminded Violet of her own kindly grandmother. Her mother’s mother, now deceased, not her father’s.

She shivered, and Max, solicitously asking if she were cold, rested his hand protectively over the small of her back creating the most inconvenient tendrils of desire.