Page 28 of My Darling Mr. Darling

And John mumbled something noncommittal and oblique, because he could not offer confirmation that his marriage was something he was seeking to escape.

∞∞∞

Serena plumped the pillows that she had shoved beneath Violet’s head for what had to be at least the sixteenth time, despite Violet’s protests that it was entirely unnecessary. “I’ve left instructions with Davis,” she said, as she laid a mound of snowy white handkerchiefs atop the nightstand beside the bed. “He’ll send up some beef tea—”

“I don’t want beef tea,” Violet interjected. “It’s dreadful.”

“—and porridge,” Serena continued, unperturbed.

“I don’t want porridge, either.” Violet folded her arms over her chest in a manner that could only have been called petulant.

“Don’t sulk,” Serena chided. “You’re ill. People have beef tea and porridge when they are ill.” She fussed about with the covers, tucking them in until Violet felt as if she had been completely cocooned. Just to be contrary, she wriggled her toes free of the confining sheets.

“I’m notill,” Violet groused, fumbling for a fresh handkerchief as she sneezed again.

“Well, you’re certainly notwell,” Serena said, plunking her fists on her hips. “You’re to stay in bed and rest. I’d stay with you longer, but I’ve little enough time before class begins, and the ladies are just beginning to grow comfortable. Why, Samantha—”

“No, no,” Violet said, and made a shooing motion with one hand. “You have a class to teach. Go. I ought not to keep you.” She didn’t know how much more maternal fussing she could endure without snapping. Only yesterday, Serena had attempted tospoon feedher—at least until Violet had snatched the spoon straight from Serena’s fingers and fed herself. And she did not intend to choke down the same weak porridge today to which she had been condemned yesterday.

Serena slanted a suspicious glance at her, pressing her lips into a speculative line. “You will rest?”

Striving for an expression that at least approached innocence, Violet drew the covers back up to her chin as if she were preparing to settle in for a long, cozy nap, and said, “Of course.” Beneath the sheets, she crossed her fingers. She might’ve crossed her toes, too, for good measure—but as they were revealed just below the line of the bedclothes, she could not be certain that Serena wouldn’t notice.

“I’m not certain I believe you,” Serena said, fisting her hands on her hips, and for a moment she looked nearly as severe and intimidating as her husband. Perhaps, just as she had softened the marquess’ rough edges, he, too, had given to her a bit of his shrewdness.

It was wise of her to be suspicious, as Violet had no intention of remaining in bed any longer than necessary. “IpromiseI will rest,” she said. And she told herself it was not a lie, precisely, because she had not specified where, or for how long. “Go, Serena—you can’t keep the ladies waiting. I’ll be fine.”

With a sigh, Serena capitulated. “Oh, all right, then. I’ll come round to see you in the evening.” With a severe wag of her finger to punctuate her demand, she said, “I expect you to be well-rested.”

Dutifully, Violet dropped her head back onto the pillows. Which surely counted as rest. She was, after all, in bed,resting. For at least the next few moments. With some effort she could hear Serena’s receding footsteps, along with the faint creak of the stairs as she descended. A muted murmur of voices in the foyer below followed, then at last the opening and closing of the front door.

Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed and darted to the window, peeking through the heavy curtains just in time to see a footman handing Serena into her carriage. With the crack of the reins, the carriage was off, rolling down the street toward the townhouse that Serena shared with her husband.

Freedom.

She snatched the dressing gown that hung over the back of a chair and slung it on, belting it at her waist, then grabbed a stack of books that lay upon her dresser, scurried to the door, and tiptoed down the stairs, lest she be heard by Davis and shuffled back off to bed. In another household, a footman would be stationed by the door to receive callers—but this wasn’t a typical household. They received visitors only on select days, when classes were in session, and so, happily, the foyer was empty as she sneaked through it on her way to the drawing room.

Closing the door behind her, she tossed herself onto the couch and collected one of the books. There was little difference, she supposed, between reading in the drawing room and reading in bed—but there was much satisfaction in being the mistress of her own fate and forming her own decisions. And she much preferred the drawing room sofa to the sickbed.

Over the next hour or so, she read half a volume of a Gothic novel, and moved from the couch only to surreptitiously collect things she’d forgotten—her handkerchiefs for the occasional muffled sneeze; pen, ink, and paper to jot notes for the lessons she would resume on Monday afternoon. As her stomach began to growl, she considered risking a journey into the kitchen for something to eat, but ultimately decided not to risk being caught.

At least she would have peace and quiet until Davis decided it was time for the kitchen staff to send up some porridge and beef tea. Even approaching ravenous, she had no desire at all for the typical sickroom fare. How such a bland, unappealing meal was meant to nourish a person was beyond her—she would rather go hungry. Still her stomach gave a grumble of protest, and she looked longingly toward the kitchen once again. Cook had baked fresh bread yesterday, and was unlikely to notice if a few slices were to go missing—

A soft rap fell upon the front door, scarcely audible through the closed drawing room door. Of course, because they did not receive callers excepting between the hours of Violet’s classes, there was no one currently in the foyer to open the door. But another knock—a louder one—could summon a footman…or worse yet, Davis. And if she were caught, he would certainly bustle her back on up to bed.Andno doubt inform Serena that she had been a less pleasant patient than she ought to have been.

Perhaps a dressing gown was not the best thing to answer the door in, but it was plain and unembellished, and provided she was quick about it, whoever it was would likely glimpse no more than a sliver of it.

Another rap followed, louder this time, and Violet thrust herself off of the couch, muttering beneath her breath at the audacity of whoever had come calling. She crept into the foyer, holding her breath and stepping as lightly as she could. Praying that the door hinges had been oiled recently, she twisted the lock and cracked the door open a few inches.

“May I—” Her voice, little more than a croak, died in her throat.

Mr. Darling stood before the door, a basket held in one hand, faint surprise etched onto his face. He recovered swiftly enough, his dark eyes shrewdly assessing her.

Both aware of and sensitive to her dishevelment—she had had neither the time nor the inclination to fuss with her hair, nor could she do anything about the redness of her nose—Violet pursed her lips into a condemning frown. “Come to finish the job?” she inquired, the telltale hoarseness of her voice a recrimination in itself. “Melons give me hives, if you were considering adding to my misery.”

To her surprise, a dull flush burnished his cheeks, and he averted his gaze and coughed into his fist. “My apologies,” he said. “It certainly wasn’t my intention to, ah—”

“Kill me?” Violet suggested sweetly, thoroughly enjoying his obvious discomfort. It was petty, perhaps, and juvenile—but she’d had little enough amusement in her life, and an opportunity to sink her claws into her tormentor was too delicious an opportunity to allow to slip through her fingers. “But then, perhaps poisoning is too subtle for you. Have you brought your own knife, or would you prefer to borrow one of mine?”