Wedding Violet (Fair Cyprians of London 4)

“No, but I think your aunt may be,” she said more tartly than she’d intended as she moved away and bent over Miss Thistlethwaite, who was seated on a banquette in the corner.

“You look suddenly very tired, Miss Thistlethwaite. Would you like to leave?” she asked. The festivities had been a novelty, but now Violet was as exhausted as Miss Thistlethwaite looked with the need to act a part she increasingly had no desire to play.

It had been a joy to again inhabit a venue where she rubbed shoulders with London’s upper echelons, but painful too. She felt no concern at being recognised. That was not the cause of her growing despondency. In fact, she’d have been pleased to have met someone of her old acquaintance and for word to have filtered back home. Let her shame attach to them. To those who’d sent her on this awful journey.

But being in Max’s company was always a pleasure—as well as a reminder that she’d have him for so short a time. Regardless of the position in society she’d once held, the fact was that Violet was a creature beyond redemption. Fallen women did not become the wives of men like Max, even if Max had been prepared to alter his plans and marry her instead of seeking adventure across the seas.

Miss Thistlethwaite coughed delicately, began to speak, and then found she couldn’t stop coughing. “I don’t want to be a killjoy,” she finally managed. She looked grey and desperately fatigued, and Violet was worried.

The old lady smiled. “It’s rare for the two of you to have an opportunity to be together, and I know, Violet, that you must return to your grandmother as soon as you’ve left this place.”

It was a useful lie that Violet had perpetuated during the past few days, but now she shook her head. “You’ve been so kind to chaperone me this evening, but I assure it’ll be no hardship to take you home. Max and I have the rest of our lives to spend together and right now, I feel more than ready for my bed.”

She glanced about the crowded foyer of the theatre. The beautiful clothes and sparkle of jewels stirred her senses. The scent that perfumed the air seemed rarefied and reminiscent of her old life. As her gaze rested on the ermine-lined bodice of a chic Worth gown—yes, she was sure it was by the designer, Worth—she felt like a creature from another planet. Not that she didn’t belong, but that she’d been in a different galaxy a very long time before being transported home.

Yet finding a home had been her goal since she’d been banished from her grandmother’s; in fact, since she and Emily had swapped India’s warmth and colour for the grey dreariness of England following her parents’ br

utal deaths.

When Emily had been alive, Violet had been fuelled by the urgency to create one for a young and innocent sister who needed one even more than Violet. Since Emily’s death, the urgency had subsided. Nevertheless, Violet would have a place to call home one day. Perhaps a small cottage in a quiet seaside town. As long as she had security, what did it matter that the funds to purchase it derived from a line of work that depended on her beauty and her acting skills.

Glancing from Miss Thistlethwaite to Max, she caught him looking down at her with an odd expression on his face. The moment they locked glances, his frown of slight puzzlement transformed into pleasure.

And that familiar feeling of want and need and desire that had been her undoing all those years ago washed through her body like a king tide.

Only this time it was so much stronger and more dangerous than before.

She straightened, patting Miss Thistlethwaite on the shoulder, conscious of the fragile, birdlike bones beneath her hands.

She’d grown fond of Miss Thistlethwaite, but the old lady was dying. Everything she loved died. She must remember that.

Just as well that Max had insisted upon playing the gentleman since their last lustful encounter.

Love could not be depended upon, and sentiment made her susceptible to unwise decisions. “Come, Max,” she said. “It’s time to take your aunt home.”

“I was masterful, was I not?”

Violet smiled at Max as he rested his head against the carriage window. He was looking at her, again with that expression of curiosity and interest. And undisguised admiration. He often praised her. Her beauty and her wit. It made her forget herself sometimes and feel she was on his level. That she was the kind of woman she’d once been.

“You’re always masterful, Max.”

It was true. Kind and masterful. A potent combination though she wouldn’t tell him that. Just as she wouldn’t tell him a great many other things she’d have liked. Baring her heart had never been a good idea. She’d learnt that from experience.

“However, being masterful in this instance won’t get you what you want, for all that your aunt was very acquiescent to your persuasion that you see her home first, and now we’re alone in your carriage. As I said earlier, I’m very tired.”

“You said you were more than ready for your bed. I distinctly heard you say it.” He grinned at her, confident he’d win her over.

She was equally confident he wouldn’t. She’d been disappointed when he’d passed up earlier opportunities to sleep with her, but now she understood that his motivation came from the same sources as hers right now—he wanted to protect himself. The chemistry of their last, unforgettable physical encounter had been dangerously unsettling.

“It’s too late to get a room at that discreet establishment I took you to, and you won’t come to Madame Chambon’s. You’ve already made it quite clear you’ll never step over the threshold of an establishment of that nature, and I applaud your high morality”

He cut her off. “No, not Madame Chambon’s. I shall never darken the doorstep of a place like that again.” The furrow between his eyes deepened. “When I marry, I shall have no one else. My wife deserves a man of moral conviction.”

“And she’ll be a lucky woman. But please stop doing that, Max. You shan’t win me over with your gentle back stroking or your winning looks. I’m tired.”

“Yes, you look quite done in, if you don’t mind me saying it.” He was undeterred, clearly in top form after an evening which had only confirmed how much freedom he had as a gentleman of high standing; the way he’d sauntered with such confidence through the throngs at a society event where he was made welcome by all. His future was assured.

“Max, don’t! I told you!” Immediately she’d snapped out the words she was contrite. “I beg your pardon. I had no right”