Benedict stood. For a second, the light from the window behind him caught his profile, made it seem like the kind of patrician silhouette that one found on old Roman coins.
“I’m a County Captain for the Society for the Betterment of Respectable Trade,” Benedict told him. “It’s the most honored organization of its sort in the entire country—almost two centuries old and dedicated to the notion that tradesmen can and should be treated with respect. Our father was a member before me. Did I get my position by jumping up and down and tossing my money around like a fool?” He turned back to Sebastian. “Of course I didn’t. I was dependable. I was accountable. I was responsible. I worked for years and years, and now look at me.”
Now, Benedict was dying. Sebastian couldn’t bear to look away from him, for fear of what he would miss.
“I’ve earned the respect of my peers,” Benedict said. “I’m one of the foremost gentlemen in my district because of that. I’ve really accomplished something.”
Sebastian stood up. “People respect me, too,” he said quietly. “I’ve accomplished a great deal.”
Benedict let out a sigh and looked away, dismissing everything Sebastian had accomplished.
“I’m not giving up, Benedict.” Sebastian leaned in. “I told you already—”
“And I told you,” his brother interrupted. “I don’t want you risking everything on foolish speculation. I have enough worry to contend with in my final weeks. Stop trying to prove something to me, Sebastian. Your chances of success are not high, and it isn’t worth the risk.”
Sebastian felt as if he’d been punched in the kidneys.
His brother clapped him on the shoulder—a brotherly gesture of affection—as if he could set aside those harsh words so easily. “Now,” he said, “what do you say we get Harry and go for a walk?”
“RIDICULOUS,” VIOLET SAID. “Utterly ridiculous. Although I suppose I should expect no less from a man as terrible at croquet as Benedict is.”
“It is a little ridiculous,” Sebastian said. “I misjudged the situation.”
Somehow, it had been easy for Violet to slide back into her friendship with Sebastian: to meet him in the evenings in her London greenhouse and swap stories of their day, uninterrupted by servants.
He stood next to her now, handing her tools as she worked, telling stories intended to make her laugh. It was almost as if nothing had happened—as if they were still working together, as if he’d never breathed a word about lusting after her.
She shook her head, refusing to contemplate that. Stubbornness was almost like ignorance, almost like bliss.
“In any event,” Sebastian was saying, “I did my best to explain—but you know me.” His smile tilted a little. “What came out was ‘it’s like running a gaming house.’ You should have seen his face.”
He was smiling—as if telling her that his brother was dying and being an ass all at the same time was an amusing little anecdote.
Violet folded her arms. “As I said. Ridiculous.”
“I know.” He grinned at her. “And then I realized what I’d said, and—”
“I wasn’t talking about you.” She sniffed and stretched, plucking another yellowing leaf off a bean plant. “I was talking about your brother.”
His expression didn’t change. He was leaning against one of the metal support columns that came down through the center of her greenhouse, his arms folded, his lips quirking.
“Benedict?” he asked quizzically. “Benedict is never ridiculous. Everyone knows that.”
She set down her shears and turned to him. “I realize that my opinion is of little value on this point. But trust me—your brother is being ridiculous. There is not one person besides him on this planet who would say that you’ve accomplished nothing. Not one.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “That won’t do, Violet. You know the truth about me. We can fool everyone else—but in here, we both know what I really am.”
“Yes,” Violet said. “You aren’t the County Captain of some organization that I have never heard of. But you are one of the world’s foremost experts on the inheritance of traits.”
His smile flattened. “Oh, come now, Violet. We both know that’s you, not me.”
Nothing had changed between them.
Everything had changed between them. When he talked to her like that—looking into her eyes and dropping his voice low—she had once been able to dismiss the swirling sparks in her throat as her own misguided, unwanted response. Now, she knew that she wasn’t alone. Some elemental part of her recognized that he wanted her—that even when he was saying things like Come now, Violet, he yearned for her. She had a new name for that dizziness she felt, that heady rush of warmth that swarmed her cheeks.