She ceased fiddling with the lamp. “Christian…”
He waved off the pity in her tone. “That’s why I signed on for this, you know. The fieldwork. When we lost him, my parents lost the pride of the family. I’m always just scraping by, and George is… Well, he’s George. He was born fifty-eight years old, I think. But they were so damned proud of Frederick, and I wanted to give them that feeling back. I wanted to be a son they could take pride in.”
“Oh, Christian.” She was rounding the counter now. “You always have been.”
He blew out a breath. “Hardly. Just look at what I did to you. On the eve of my own supposed redemption, I pulled my worst trick yet. If someone had treated my own sister that way… If some other blackguard had touched you, Violet…” He swore, pushing back from the counter. “I’d kill the bastard.”
He paced away from her. Damn, this was just intolerable. Whatever course he took, he failed someone. If he went home to marry Violet, he’d be abandoning his duty. Drawing dishonor to the very name he hoped she would take as her own. But if he let her go back to London without him, he risked losing her forever—and losing any chance to right his misdeeds.
Add to all this, the knowledge that nothing—nothing he did, on this side of the Channel or the other—would ever balance Frederick’s loss. Not in the smallest portion.
He’d never felt more worthless, or less worthy of her.
“Should we go for the boat?” she asked.
What did it matter? What did any of it matter?
“Damn the boat.”
Violet cringed, watching him pace the shop from one end to the other, then back. His agitation was plain. She had to calm him somehow, or he’d draw attention to their presence. Aaron Dawes and Rufus Bright were somewhere all too near, keeping watch over the Queen’s Ruby and the rest of the sleeping village.
“I know you’re angry,” she said.
“Damn right, I’m angry.”
“You’re angry that Frederick was killed. It’s perfectly natural.”
“It’s perfect bollocks, is what it is.” He covered the length of the room in three long, tense strides, then turned on his heel. “It should not have been him. It should have been me.”
“No. Christian, please don’t talk that way. You could not have saved him, and you can’t bring him back. But we will love him, and honor his memory. And miss him. Dearly.”
He pulled to a halt. “I have missed him.” His head swiveled abruptly, and his gaze snared hers. “But not as much as I’ve missed you, which makes me feel even worse.”
As he stared at her, his chest rose and fell. “Every morning, Violet. Every morning, I should have awoken thinking of Frederick. Thanking God for any small part I could play in avenging his death. Instead, every morning I woke wanting you. Wishing I could stroll outside to the square, find you there waiting with the dogs. Looking lovely as the dawn. A little smile on your face, because you’d just untangled a new translation.” He cleared his throat. “Like this one. Tumi amar jeeboner dhruvotara.”
She tilted her head, puzzling over the phrase. “That’s not Hindustani.”
“Bengali. It means ‘You are my life’s bright star’ in Bengali.” The sweet words were edged with frustration, not tenderness. His knuckles cracked. “Obviously, I was saving that one. For the right morning.”
A forceful pang in her heart left her breathless.
He loved her. He truly did love her.
Christian cursed and resumed his pacing, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “But now, it will never be the ‘right morning’ for us. So yes, I’m angry. I’m goddamned furious with myself for somehow losing both you and Frederick forever. And I very, very, very much want to hit something.”
He pulled up short, eyeing a row of crockery, and she panicked. If he crashed a fist through that shelf, the noise would be frightful.
“Here.” She darted out from behind the counter. “Hit this.”
In the corner of the shop sat a padded dress form, wearing a dotted muslin frock and a wide-brimmed straw bonnet. The Brights used it to display the newest wares.
Violet grabbed the mannequin by the waist and swiveled it on its casters. “Go on,” she said. “Do your worst.”
For a tense moment, he stared down the dress form. Violet edged to the side, her neck prickling with apprehension. His rage was palpable, even from the other side of the shop.
At last, he raised his fist and made a fierce, lunging attack—
Only to pull up short at the last moment.
And let his fist drop.
“I can’t,” he said, grimacing. “I can’t hit a woman.”
Violet laughed. “Nellie’s not a real woman.”
“She has a name?” Turning way from the dress form, he threw up his hands. “That seals it. So much for throwing punches.”