Page 11 of My Darling Mr. Darling

“I’m certain his lordship has outlined the terms of our arrangement in a satisfactory manner,” he said, and still there was that lazy half-smile clinging to his face. Violet’s palm itched to slap it off.

Infuriated, she snapped, “His lordshipdoes not make decisions for our school. He does not own—” Abruptly she fell silent, because his lordshipdidown the school, in fact. Marriage made chattel of all women, and Serena’s school could exist only athis lordship’spleasure. Which he could revoke at any time, for any reason.

“Ah,” Mr. Darling said, a certain smug satisfaction creeping into his voice. “I can see you understand.”

Violet breathed through her nose—three swift, deep breaths. Murder is a hanging offense, she reminded herself. Although it would be remiss of her not to note that the authorities weren’t inordinately fond of hanging women. Possibly she would simply be transported to a penal colony. Australia might well be lovely this time of year. She had always wanted to see the world.

Still she could not soften the horrible rasp of her voice when she spoke. “You are not in need of instruction.”

Mr. Darling removed his hand from his pocket, reached out, and nudged a vase off of the small, lacquered table near the door. The vase fell to the marble floor with a magnificent crash, splintering into countless shards. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Terribly clumsy of me. You’ll have your work cut out for you for the next few months, I’m afraid.”

She would havesomethingcut out ofhim. Her fingers still clenched the note, her nails digging crescents into her palm. In spite of her fury, she felt her lower lip quiver and realized she was perilously close to tears. It meant nothing; nothing at all. She was simply exhausted, overwhelmed. Even the strongest of women had their breaking points, and she’d had enough travails for several lifetimes. Seven years she’d been eking out a living on her own, sevenyearsshe’d been—

“Vi,” Mr. Darling said, quietly, and his eyes assessed her with a scrutiny, a thoroughness, that was nearly painful. As if he could see every bit of her, every shattered piece that had fallen away across the years, every chip and scratch, every ugly facet that had been carved haphazardly into the very surface of her. “Aren’t you tired of running?”

God, yes. But she had never had another choice. And she had been doing it for so many years that she didn’t know how to do anything else. She didn’t know how to simplybe. She had worn so many layers over the years, and now that they were gone, she did not recognize the person that had been revealed. She didn’t know how to be herself.

Violet Townsend might as well have died. And now that she had been resurrected, Violet did not know how to slip into the name—the life—that had once been her own. She didn’t even know if shewantedit.

The only thing she was certain of was that she didnotwant to be VioletDarling.

Now, as then, there was simply no choice. Running was no longer an option. She had cobbled together something that approximated a life for herself. A friend. A home.Dreams. Perhaps even a future. And she was too tired—tooangry—to cede everything to him once again.

So she clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth ground together and a muscle made a disturbing pop in her ear. She flexed her fingers, curling them into fists. And she asked, “What is it that you want? You have everything already.”

He blinked, but there was nothing in the least surprised or startled in his face. Nothing that would speak to even the most minor of disquiet. Whowasthis man, so unflappable, so cool and remote?

“So it would appear,” he said. “With the notable exception of my wife. I have got one of those, you know. On paper.”

Her chest rose and fell in a single frenetic breath. “I am not she.”

“No,” he agreed easily enough. “You were never a wife.” With quick twists of his fingers he rolled up his sleeves and bent to pick up the larger shards of the broken vase, collecting them in his cupped hand. “That was not censure, I should say. You were little more than a child. I never held you responsible.”

But hehad. On that terrible day he had looked at her as if she had personally taken his life into her hands and torn it asunder, even as he had gruffly repeated the vows that would bind them together forever. And then he had shattered hers in retaliation. She eased the grip of her tight fingers, lest she draw blood from her own palms.

“What is it that you want?” she repeated.

As if he had not heard her, he continued collecting shards, which he laid upon the table at last with great care. Finally he brushed his palms upon his sleeves. “To know whom it is I’ve married,” he answered. With a gesture at the floor, he added, “Careful, there. I’m certain there’s some bits I’ve missed.” And then he set his hat back on his head, and took himself out the door without so much as a farewell, leaving Violet standing alone in the foyer with nothing but the sense that something terribly important had gone unspoken.

Chapter Four

“You’re joking,” Alex said in true horror. “Yourwifehas broken into yourhouse?”

“Technically,” John said, “it isherhouse as well. Ownership passed to me only through marriage. She has every right to it.” In fact, she had had the right to it before he had, and that thought had lived within his head for too many years already. That he was living in a residence that could never belong to him the way it had once belonged to her. That the whole of his life had been built upon the ruins of hers.

Grey’s fingers tapped upon the surface of the table, and his voice was pitched low to avoid prying ears. They attracted a good deal of attention these days; the duke, the marquess, and the mere mister. “This wouldn’t have taken place the night of Serena’s ball, would it?” he inquired.

“In fact, it did.” He wondered how Grey had arrived at that conclusion.

“Ah,” Grey said. “I suppose that explains where Serena disappeared to, then. She wouldn’t tell me.” But the corner of his lips twitched as if he had had a jolly good time attempting to pry the information out of her.

John, who rather liked Serena—most of the time, at least—said, “Confessing criminal proclivities to one’s husbanddoesseem like a subject to be avoided.”

“Oh? And will you have her arrested for it, then?” Grey asked.

“If I did, no doubt it would come out thatmywife had put her up to it,” John ceded. And that would never do, because the last thing he wanted was for all of London to learn of his marriage through what they might read in the scandal sheets. “I still haven’t quite determined how they got in. Wentworth insists that he locks up the house each night, and I’ve no reason to doubt him.”

“Ah, well, as to that…” Grey had the good grace to look abashed. “I’ve been teaching Serena how to pick locks. Or refining her ability, at least. She’s proficient enough to have managed it.”