“In fact,” Bollingall continued in a low voice, “it’s more common than you might think. It’s so common, in fact, that it ought to remain unremarked upon.”
Sebastian’s mouth curled into a grimace. “I don’t know what you mean. Spell it out.”
“She’s a helper, yes?” Bollingall shrugged. “I know a man who dictates all his papers to his wife. She writes them down.”
“I’m not talking about mere dictation.”
“No,” Bollingall said slowly. “But that’s all anyone needs to know. When you are engrossed in a subject, it’s only inevitable that your most intimate relations would be involved, too. Her interest is a subset of yours. Her contribution is a subset of yours. And if she’s married to you…why, it’s essentially you who is doing the work after all. You’re one person in a legal and spiritual sense. Why not in the scientific sense, too?”
Sebastian’s head spun. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “But I’m not married.”
“There are quite a few,” Bollingall said slowly, “quite a few of us who operate this way. We never inquire as to the extent, and indeed, no gentleman would raise the question. You’re quite safe.” He shook his head, and then glanced at Sebastian. “Or, that is—you’re almost safe. There’s one thing you really should do, if you want to truly be as one.”
Sebastian felt a confused, dark longing overtake him. His head seemed full of cotton. “I’m not married,” he repeated.
Bollingall—quite pointedly—looked up at the ceiling. “Yes,” he said. “That’s it. Change that, and you have nothing to worry about.”
Marriage to Violet. God, what an awful idea. She drew back from him when he put a hand on her in friendship. She shuttered up when he said he cared for her. His own feelings were immaterial; Violet wasn’t interested in him for any length of time, least of all for the rest of their lives.
And to marry her for such a reason? Part of him didn’t care what the reason was. He’d wanted her so long that this chance—any chance—pierced through him.
Giving her back her work might be the only thing that could drive her to his bed. And for an instant, he imagined it—imagined being able to kiss her into compliance. He might soothe her fears and seduce her into maybe, one day…
He shoved aside heated visions of Violet, with her hair undone, strewn around his pillows.
Maybe, he reminded himself ruthlessly, if he was very, very persuasive, he might one day seduce her into not flinching when he took her hand. He felt as if he’d been offered an apple from a tree: He might gorge himself to sickness on this particular temptation.
Sebastian rubbed his forehead. “Thank you for the advice.”
“I know you’re enjoying your freedom,” Bollingall said. “You’re young yet. But think about it. You’re doing important work.”
Sebastian shook his head.
“None of that nonsense,” Bollingall said. “You are doing important work. Never forget that, and never tell anyone otherwise. You are doing important work, Malheur. You need only go make it yours.”
It was only in his mind that those words rearranged themselves.
Go make her yours.
No, no. Insidious, awful thought.
Luscious, invigorating thought. He couldn’t drive it away. It lingered through the remainder of their conversation, whispered in the back of his mind the entire journey back to London. He didn’t care about the work or the credit. He cared about Violet.
Go make her yours.
The truth was, it wasn’t only his work with Violet that divided him from everyone.
His entire life had been shaped by two lies: the secret he shared with Violet, and the secret he kept from her.
He’d always had a reason for keeping quiet. A thousand reasons, really. Her husband, at first. And then after he’d passed away, she’d seemed so breakable that he’d not dared to disturb her. He’d waited and waited and waited even longer. He’d always had the sense that she had lost herself, that after her travesty of a marriage, he needed to give her time to look up and notice the world around her again. If only he waited long enough…
I have standards, he remembered snapping at her. You don’t meet them.
God. He couldn’t see any way that this could end well. But that temptation persisted: the desire to cut corners through those long years of uncertain waiting.
Go make her yours.
Chapter Six
VIOLET WAS STILL IN HER GREENHOUSE at seven in the evening. She’d refused to let Sebastian’s journey distract her, had refused to think about the conversation he must be having. Her worry had hunkered at the back of her mind, an ominous, brooding weight.
If things went wrong, she might be exposed. Everyone would know. She shouldn’t have assented. Her mother was right; she should never have allowed him to expose her secret, no matter how trustworthy he thought his friend.
She heard the outer door open, then, a few minutes later, the inner door. His footsteps crossed the flagstones.
“Violet.”