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Violet considered turning back. The road ahead was long and hard and made all the more difficult by the stone-faced man in front of her. She knew he didn’t want her there. But she also knew she could help his brother.

She’d seen and treated her share of fevers in New York, and they wouldn’t be different here.

She hadn’t been able to save her own brother, but she would damn well save Alistair’s if she could.

She’d seen the grief and worry in his eyes, and she couldn’t stand it.

The way he looked like a lost little boy, afraid and angry about it, made her heart ache.

And she knew with a dreadful certainty what it felt like to have your brother lying on his deathbed. That sinking pit of despair in one’s stomach, the surreal surge of pain through one’s heart. She wouldn’t let Alistair face it alone.

But as they traveled through the dark streets of Surrey, she knew she wasn’t telling herself the whole truth either.

It would take hours on horseback to arrive at Kent.

Her body would take a thorough beating. And she of a certainty had caused a minor scandal at Catherine’s betrothal ball of all places by sneaking out after Alistair Crawford. The mothers would be furious with her.

No, she wasn’t going to Kent for Darius alone. She was going to hold on to every last moment she could with Alistair. Even if those moments were bittersweet for her and grief-filled for him. She wanted them just as she wanted him.

But that didn’t matter. Not now.

She pushed away any further thoughts of Alistair and her motivations to accompany him that weren’t related to his brother’s fever. She concentrated instead on all Williams had told her of Darius’s illness.

The fever, he’d said, had come on suddenly after Darius had been out with the tenants.

And the surgeon had visited once already but offered no specific diagnosis, which meant it could be anything.

Cholera, diphtheria, influenza, smallpox, tuberculosis, typhoid—there were many fevers, all of them potentially fatal.

She ran through the various possibilities as she rode and compared it against the catalog of symptoms in her mind.

The quicker she could figure out which illness Darius had, the better his chances of survival.

And if it was contagious, which it likely was if he’d gotten it out visiting tenants, she could stop it from spreading.

Violet glanced up at Alistair, the fading lights from Surrey illuminating his face as he turned to her at the same moment. His mouth was still set in that grim line he’d worn in the stables, the one that had almost made her forget the whole idea and go back inside.

But she hadn’t faltered then, and she wouldn’t now.

She smiled brightly and waved instead. It was all she could think to do, when her fingers wanted to press gently into the worried lines of his forehead.

And her heart wanted to hold him in her arms to ease his grief and worry.

And her mind wanted him to understand that she could help his brother; that there was a chance all would be well.

She clenched her thighs more tightly around the dappled gray. It would be a long night for them both.

Every time Alistair turned to look at Violet, which was decidedly more often than he wanted to admit, she was still behind him. Following him, like some reverse Orpheus, out of the hell that was an aristocratic betrothal ball and to his brother’s sickbed in Kent.

Or is Kent hell?

He wasn’t sure. It would be if his brother died and trapped Alistair under the weight of the Marquessate and the responsibilities of title, land, family, and tenants. He didn’t want any of it. That life was for Darius, not him.

Except that Darius was not who he’d thought his brother to be either.

And for the first time in nearly a decade, he realized that perhaps none of them were.

His mother and father must know of his brother’s homosexuality.

They must have, sometime in the last decade, accepted it as part of who Darius was.

It was unheard of for a Marquess, and yet he could not deny the evidence of that acceptance every time he saw his family together.

His mind reeled at what that might mean. That his issues with his father, born long ago of something that had not been his fault, might, at least in part, be his own fault now.

Hell’s teeth.

He thought he’d come to peace with what his family was to him. His mother and brother were rarely seen strangers for whom he felt a kind of distant affection. His father was an unpleasant mystery he’d avoided like the pox for the better part of a decade.

Who are they really?

Who are they now?

He didn’t know. But he was riding through the night to find out. And that struck him as an act of love. One he hadn’t known he had in him.

He hadn’t known—

Bloody hell—

He turned to see the barest outline of Violet behind him. His heart swelled at the sight of her and cracked painfully open, stiff from disuse.

Love.

It was fierce, he realized. Not the swooning emotion of poetry or the flowery words of courtship. It was crossing the Atlantic to be with your cousin who needed you. It was riding for hours in the dead of night to care for the sick.

It was Violet.

He loved her. He really did. He’d known it since the evening he’d spent in her arms, but watching her now, love enacted, the strength of what he felt nearly knocked him off his horse.

And she loved him too. He was certain of it. Just as he was certain she didn’t know it yet. And that until she did—until she could admit to herself that she felt what he felt and let go of whatever was holding her back—they would not be together.

And that would be the most painful part of it all.

He still hoped she would balk, turn her horse around and return to Surrey.

There would be no comforts on the long journey ahead of them.

No stopping except to change the horses and no gaslights to illuminate their way.

It took courage to ride through the night, relying entirely on the sense of the animal underneath you as your guide.

He knew very few men who could manage it and not a single woman.

He glanced back at her once more as they sped down the dark road. Violet didn’t hesitate; she moved her horse forward at the same brisk pace he moved his.

She will never balk.

It’s not in her constitution.

He’d meant what he said about violets. They looked small and delicate but were some of the toughest flowers in existence. That was her. He shook his head. There was no doubt she’d be by his side all the way to Kent. He wished his heart didn’t lift a little at the thought.

They came upon the coaching inn a little less than halfway into the ride. Alistair didn’t care to rest, but he knew they’d be faster in the long run if he took care of his horseflesh. And of Violet.

It was the dead of night, but he saw the soft glow on the side of the road that indicated the inn was still open, so he reined in his horse to stop. Violet was only a moment behind him.

She dismounted her dappled gray in a smooth, easy movement that would have gone unremarked by the stablemen but for the easy swing of her braid down her back.

The braid was what alerted them that the slim young rider was not, in fact, a male.

And as soon as Violet dismounted and they could see her shapely legs and small waist tucked into the obscene fit of those buckskin breeches, they stared outright.

“Go,” Alistair whispered through clenched teeth, watching the men for any sign of trouble. “Inside. Now.”

He knew what some men would do to a woman they considered an aberration, one dressed in men’s clothing for instance, and he was in no mood to wait around to see if these men were that kind or not.

Violet glanced up at him, and he knew she was about to argue against being ordered around. But something she saw in him made her nod and move along to the inn instead.

Alistair turned to the stable hands, suddenly every inch the commanding officer he’d once been.

“Feed and water the mounts,” he said and tossed the reins at the closest man. “And keep your damned eyes in your head.”

“Yes, gov.” The stable hand turned briskly to go about his work, motioning for the others to follow suit.

The inn was blessedly empty, with only a few scattered souls still supping at the late hour.

He supposed they could both be grateful for that small piece of luck.

It would slow the ripple of gossip he knew was already spreading from the ballroom in Surrey, where their absence would not have gone unnoticed.

In a day, or at the very least two, that gossip would become a tidal wave that stretched from Surrey to London to Kent and beyond.

He was the second son of the Marquess of Timsbury.

Violet was an heiress and the cousin to the beautiful Lady Catherine West, who was by now publicly betrothed to the heir of the Waverly Viscountcy.

They’d be good fodder for the wagging tongues of the ton.

Not that he cared. And neither, he suspected, would she. In that, they were a matched pair. But she had Catherine to consider. And, he supposed, he had his family as well.

He hadn’t really thought of family in that way, that the relationships they had were reciprocal, until he’d met Violet and spoken–really spoken–to his brother. He hoped again, fervently, that they made it to Kent in time. They had to.

Alistair stood, framed in the doorway of the inn for just a moment and watched as Violet made her way through the tavern room.

The sway of her hips looked indecently close to a swagger.

Had the situation been different, had they more time and less urgency, he could have stood there and watched her all night.

Or part of the night at any rate, before he took her up to one of the rooms.

Violet was a siren. But not some flighty songbird. She was as majestic and fierce as love was—a peregrine falcon perhaps, or an eagle.

“Evening,” the barmaid said, interrupting his thoughts.

He watched as the woman turned to them, the automatic smile plastered on her tired face morphing into a grimace at the sight of Violet in breeches.

When she turned her back, refusing to even acknowledge Violet’s presence, Alistair felt himself grow furious.

He clenched his fists at his side, all that just-banked irritation and anger from the stables rising back up in him.

He strode forward until he reached Violet and placed his hand on the small of her back. And then he turned to the barmaid and spit out, “Two darks. And a bite to eat.”

The woman looked at him and gave a pert little curtsey. “Of course, gov. Where will you sit?”

“Wherever she sits.”

He offered Violet his arm and guided her to the nearest table.

He was not above marking her as his to the barmaid or anyone else.

She was his, in his heart at least. And he was beginning to think his heart had claimed her forever, no matter what happened between them.

That he would love Violet for the rest of his life.

And, if something came after life, he’d love her through that too.

He pulled out Violet’s chair and stood behind her while she seated herself, then settled into the chair opposite, taking the opportunity to stretch his long legs after their journey.

Even for him, accustomed as he was to hours of physical labor every day aboard a sailing ship, the long ride on horseback was a test of endurance that would only become more grueling as the night wore on.

He couldn’t imagine how Violet would manage it. She was slight of stature and unaccustomed to that kind of sustained physical hardship.

The barmaid dropped the two dark ales for them.

“Will ye stay over as well?” she asked, looking only at Alistair, as if Violet were not there.

“Yes,” Alistair said, deciding that he couldn’t force Violet to ride all the way to Kent tonight. It was too dark and too far and too dangerous.

Unfortunately, at the same moment that he said yes, Violet said, “No.”

Of course, she did.

The barmaid raised her eyebrows.

“No,” Violet said again firmly. “But thank you. Time is of the essence.” She shot the woman a smile which was roundly ignored.

“She’s all charm, that one,” Violet whispered when she woman left.

“You’ve shocked her with your prurient dress,” Alistair said, taking a sip of his ale.

“It’s only a pair of trousers. How else would you suppose I ride?”

“Oh, I quite like you in breeches.” The rakish, wolfish grin spread across his face. “No need to defend them to me.”

Violet glanced over at the waitress staring at Alistair from behind the bar. “I don’t think it’s the trousers she begrudges me. She seems quite taken with you.”

“Does she?”

He hadn’t noticed, and he didn’t care. He cared about reaching his brother in time. He cared about Violet.

“You ought to rest here tonight. It’s a long journey.”

“I’ll be fine. And the sooner we arrive, the better.”

“Why are you here, Violet?”

Alistair hadn’t known the words were coming until they landed with a soft thump on the table between them, although the question had been burning in his mind. He knew. Or he thought he knew. But he wanted to hear her say the words.

“To help Darius,” Violet said and took a sip of her drink instead of meeting his eyes. “I can be of help. I know a great deal about fevers.”

“We have surgeons in Kent that can help.”

“You have barbers in Kent. We’ve discussed this already.”

“You’ve never even met my brother.”

“I made his acquaintance at the Somerville dinner, not that it matters one jot if I’ve met the man or not. I’ll treat everyone, Alistair, marquesses and unpleasant barmaids alike. All of them deserve the same kind of care.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He should stop pressing her, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to hear her say that she’d come for him. That she wanted to be with him. That what she felt for him might even be close to what he felt for her.

Violet lifted her blue eyes to his, finally, and he smothered the instinct to compare them to the sea or the sky or any other fool thing.

“Tell me, Violet.” He kept his voice steady which he felt was rather a remarkable feat, given the way his insides were swirling around. “There must be some reason you are riding all this way through the night to care for my brother.”

He waited, breath held and body tense. She loved him. And she either didn’t know it or she was too scared to admit it. Violet, he realized, who was so brave in all other aspects, was an utter coward when it came to love.

She took a deep breath and he thought, this is it.

But then she said, “Because I can help. As I told you.”

“Mmph,” he grunted, right before the barmaid arrived to drop the two bowls of beef stew on the table, and the moment was gone.