Violet, concentrate.
“We seem to be at an impasse,” she said. “You refuse to divulge your secrets. So I’ve been thinking…perhaps I should first share mine.”
His eyebrow arched. “You? Have secrets?”
“Oh yes.” She looked around them. “This place, Spindle Cove? It’s a holiday locale for young ladies who are ill or awkward. Or unconventional.”
“And which kind of young lady are you?”
“The fourth kind. Scandalous.”
She sipped her tea, stalling. After a year of keeping quiet, was she truly going to tell this story, this way? But she could think of no better way to test him.
“A year ago,” she said, “I surrendered my virtue. Easily. To a man who’d made me no promise—not so much as a hint—of marriage. And when he left me, I fled here. Because I feared I might find myself with child, and I didn’t want anyone to know what I’d done.”
She watched his reaction carefully. But just like with the earlobe pinching, she was unsure what reaction to expect. The set of his jaw conveyed concern. His eyes widened with a hint of surprise.
“You didn’t tell your family?” he asked.
“I never spoke a word of it to anyone. Not until just now.”
And the secret had never grown any easier to carry. Quite the reverse. Every time she’d felt tempted to share the story with someone, it was as though she’d lacquered it over with a new coat of resin. Adding layer after layer, sometimes daily, until the truth was a hard, heavy lump in her chest.
“Your fears of a child…?”
She shook her head. “Came to nothing. But clearly, I’m not such an angel.”
“You”—he leaned forward, such as his bindings allowed—”are an angel still. The one who did this to you? He is a devil.”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled a little. “The devil next door. I’d known him all my life and adored him quietly for most of it. When we were younger, he teased me mercilessly. Then came several years where he was oblivious to my existence. He always seemed so far beyond my reach. But somehow, we became friends. We ran our dogs in the square nearly every day, and while they ran, we talked. He knew how I loved languages, you see. He had a gift for them too. He made a habit of collecting little phrases and testing me with them. ‘Good day’ in Latvian or ‘thank you’ in Javanese.”
I have a new one for you, Violet. So obscure. You’ll never guess this one.
And yet, she always did. Sometimes it took her several days of scouring her library, but she always found the translation.
Her companion snorted. “This? This was enough to make you love him?”
“I thought we’d discovered a common thread.” She shrugged. “Well, and I can’t claim it to be solely intellectual admiration. He was exceedingly handsome.”
“How handsome?”
She smiled a little. “Far more handsome than you, if that’s what you’re asking. His nose was straight. His jaw was always smoothly shaven. Never a hair out of place. Never a care showing on his brow.”
“You make him sound like a peacock.”
“At one time, I suppose he was. But he changed. His brother died in the war, and it affected the whole family. Over just a few months, I watched him go from a carefree young rake, to a man struggling under the burden of great sorrow.” She fought the temptation to look away. “It hurt me to watch him hurting.”
“And so this devil took advantage of your kindness.”
“I…I’m not certain.”
To this day, Violet remained unsure of his motives that night. Had he set out to seduce her, or had matters simply…progressed?
That night, there’d been a party at his family’s house. Just a small gathering of family and friends—their first foray back into society after months of mourning. Violet had haunted the corner, as always. Watching him surreptitiously, as always.
And then he’d looked up and seen her. Truly seen her. Just as she’d always prayed he would. His brown gaze seemed to explore the depths of her soul, uncovering all her hopes, all her dreams, all her fears and cares and desires…and most of all, her love for him.
At least, she’d wanted to believe he was looking straight into her soul. But in retrospect, perhaps he was just seeing through her, past her. As though she were some sort of gated entrance he must traverse, and the rest of his life lay on the other side.
As he’d crossed the room to her, his demeanor had been so intent.
I have a book for you, Violet. Come, it’s just upstairs.
So she’d followed him. On the way up the stairs, she’d made a little joke about the impropriety. But they were old friends, and no one would suspect more. She knew this house as well as she knew her own, and it seemed almost silly that she’d never been inside his rooms. He didn’t even reside in them anymore. For the past several years, he’d kept a bachelor’s apartment across the square.
He led her into a bedchamber and shut the door. A sudden wash of heat made her brain muddled, swampy.