Page 33 of My Darling Mr. Darling
What was there to say to that? It was an uncomfortable admission at the very least, and Grey was just the sort of bastard to tuck away an unwise comment for later mockery. “Let’s say I want to be certain she is safe and settled,” John said.
“Oh, certainly, we cansaythat,” Grey agreed. “But I think we both know it’s not quite true, is it?”
“You bloody bastard,” John ground out. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I am, rather.” A satisfied grin spread across Grey’s face. “I’ll remind you that not so very long ago, you derived a similar enjoyment from my own…er, situation.”
“Iencouragedyou.”
“Alas, I’m not the encouraging sort. No one would be fool enough to accuse me of kindness,” Grey said. “But that’s neither here nor there. She’ll have to have a choice eventually, John, because youdoowe her that. What purpose is served in keeping the possibility of an annulment from her?”
“Because she does not have to make that choicenow,” John snapped. Not when her answer would be a foregone conclusion. “You know what a scandal it would be. It would ruin her.”
Grey shrugged, unconcerned. “Perhaps she’d be amenable to being ruined. She hasn’t exactly got much of a reputation as it is. It’s been a long while since her name was in the papers; most have forgotten her entirely. To the best of my knowledge, no one—but for you—has even made the connection. In fact, one could make the argument that essentially resurrecting your heretofore unknown wife would be the larger scandal.”
“What business is this of yours? It’s not your decision—”
“No. It’s Violet’s.” Grey stroked his thumb across his jaw. “Is it so difficult to admit that you care for her?”
Obsessionwould be a better word thancaring. She’d been his obsession for the past several years, and he didn’t know how to let her go now that he’d found her. He didn’twantto let her go. It wasn’t love; not like Grey had found with his wife. John had long since accepted that love was simply not an emotion he cared to engage in. No; it was duty, and honor, and a salve to his blasted conscience.
“Her father entrusted her to me,” he said. “He would have wanted—”
“He’s dead. It doesn’t matter what he would have wanted,” Grey said. “It hasn’t mattered for years and years.” His hand stretched out across the desk and wrapped around the inkpot that Serena had threatened only days ago. “You’re lying to me. Lots of people lie to me. I’m accustomed to it,” he said with a shrug. “But you’re also lying to yourself. Until you bring honesty to the table, I’m afraid Violet will remain under my protection.”
∞∞∞
Class had been a tiresome affair. Although she had hoped to draw attention away from herself by staging a mock dinner party instead of continuing with drawing room etiquette, Violet had made the monumental mistake of seating Mr. Darling and Mr. Mitchell across from one another, and Mr. Mitchell had made himself perfectly detestable by sniping at Mr. Darling from across the table, when he ought to have been making polite conversation with the lady to his left—a role with had been filled this afternoon by Margaret, the upstairs maid.
Mr. Darling, at least, had been polite enough to at least attempt to ignore him and had lavished attention upon Mrs. Higgins, the cook. But Violet herself had endured a litany of polite inquiries from Mr. Green, owing most likely to her nose, which still glowed an angry red from the abrasion of the myriad handkerchiefs she had used lately.
Some part of her—some small, frightened, suspicious part—had expected Mr. Darling to let slip his knowledge of her past. For his unexpected empathy to have been only a cruel trick, a ruse to make his inevitable betrayal more painful still. For him to, at any moment, leap up from his seat and denounce her as a fraud; a thief, a liar, an adulteress, and more. Perhaps to deliver some sort of scathing rebuke of her character, to insinuate that a woman of her stamp had no business instructing gentlemen in the niceties of civilized society.
He would have had every justification in the world to do so. But if the thought had crossed his mind, it had not crossed his face. Just occasionally he would allow his gaze settle upon her for a moment too long, wearing an inscrutable expression. As if he were attempting to take her measure as much as she, his.
She had vacillated right up until the gentlemen were preparing themselves to depart for the day, torn between letting him leave without a word and asking him to remain. She tried to remind herself that she owed him nothing,lessthan nothing—but still explanations had curled in her throat, lodged there like that familiar lump that was fear and relentless anxiety and everything that was cold and dark that had lived inside of her for too long.
She didn’t care if he thought well or poorly of her, and yet—still she heard herself clear her throat and say in a voice inflected with a calm she did not feel, “Mr. Darling, might I have a few moments of your time?”
He paused in the process of receiving his hat from Davis, who glowered at John with his own particular brand of menace, and at last said, “Of course.”
“Thank you,” she said, with a jerky nod. And she turned her attention to Mrs. Higgins to request tea before she lost her nerve.
∞∞∞
Davis had shown him to the drawing room, of course, though John could just as easily have found it on his own, and beneath more agreeable conditions. It was impossible to entirely ignore the butler, who seemed to enjoy producing a deep, unpleasant growl in his throat every fifteen seconds or so, as if to remind John of his continued presence.
Violet appeared a few minutes later, carrying a tea tray, which she set on the table that only last night had held a great number of candles, fussing about with the cups as if she required something to do with her hands to keep from fidgeting.
Davis growled again, and Violet’s head snapped up. “That will be all, Davis. Thank you,” she said softly, to John’s surprise.
John heard theclunkof Davis’ massive shoes on the floor as he shifted a step closer. “Miss—”
“Davis. I wish to have a private conversation.” It was both polite and firm, and ought to have been all that was needed to dismiss a servant, but still Davis lingered. “It’s nothing untoward,” Violet said, and her hand made a weak gesture toward John. “Mr. Darling is my—my—” But she could not seem to force the wordhusbandfrom her lips.
John certainly had not expected her to lay claim to him, but the mere fact that she had given it at least an attempt felt somewhat encouraging.
Davis, however, was not mollified. “Don’t give a damn what he is,” he said. “It’s clear you’ve got no feeling for the man. I won’t have you accosted in your own home—or threatened, or—”