Page 36 of My Darling Mr. Darling

Instinctively her hackles rose, the defense that landed upon her tongue sour and recriminating—he had no right to make demands of her. But there it stayed, unvoiced, because he hadnotdemanded. He hadasked.

“I was thinking…” The words pressed past her lips almost of their own volition. She didn’t owe him an answer. But he might have been the only person in the whole of the world who would understand. “I was thinking how terrified I was that someone would recognize me. That I would make a—a mistake, reveal something that would be enough to identify me.” Her knees gave a betraying wobble that of course he could not see, but bothered her enough to force herself into a chair. “I was so careful, but—I was working in a tavern at the time.”

“I remember,” he said, and his voice was tinged with a queer roughness. “It was no place for a lady.”

She choked back a laugh. No, it hadn’t been—but what other choice had she had? “The reward was enticing enough that it was all anyone spoke of for weeks. I served so many patrons, it seemed a miracle that no one recognized me. Once, I served ale to a group of gentlemen—and I use that term loosely—who were discussing how they planned to find me and send me back green-gowned. A bit extra for their trouble, I believe they said.”

“Christ.” It was a guttural snarl, imbued with feeling. “I never thought—but that’s no excuse. Ishouldhave. And that’s why you sent that first letter, isn’t it? Because you were in danger,realdanger, so long as there was a reward for you.” He made a censorious sound in his throat and scraped his hand over his jaw. “You weren’t—they didn’t…recognize you?”

“No,” she said. “No—no one did. Nobody was looking for me in the low places I was. Nobody looked at me at all, really.” And for many years she had been glad for it, glad to be faceless, using a name not her own. But reinventing herself so many times had taken such a toll, and—he was right. She had lost herself somewhere in a cluster of other names she had used.Violetwas just another alias, the last remaining remnant of the girl who had disappeared into the night from Mrs. Selkirk’s so many years ago. Violet had never emerged from that dark night—Lucy had risen from her ashes instead.

He did not repeat that hated word,lonely, to her. But she could see it in his face, and she did not want to acknowledge it—that he had been correct about that much, that he had guessed at something so personal to her.

She swallowed. “I was glad for it,” she said, and heard the defensiveness seeping through her voice. “I was glad—because no one questioned me. No one cared. I was…safe.” Safe, but alone. Safe, butlonely. A drifter sliding through the periphery of other people’s lives; a voiceless, faceless, nameless woman with no more presence than a ghost. Perhaps even less than, because she had not haunted those places in which she had once resided. She had only occupied them, just long enough to scrape together the funds to move on once again.

Until she hadn’t. Until she had met Serena, who had been just as lonely—who had reached out to her, needing to connect with someone. Serena, who had seen past the prickly exterior designed to shrug off attention, to discourage attachment. Serena, who had so desperately needed a friend that she, a titled lady, had been the first employer to see Violet as more than a convenient bit of furniture, a helping hand to wait upon her and then meekly resume her position at the edges of attention, unseen once more.

“But youweren’tsafe,” he said, in an odd, low voice, and she heard the weight of judgment within it and was startled to realize it was self-directed. “You weren’t safe, were you?” His index finger tapped out a strange rhythm upon the china teacup in his hand. “You were safe from me—and no one else.”

A hot flush slid over her cheeks. He’d known about Mr. Wright’s predilection for pinching the maids—that her temper had gotten the best of her and resulted in her dismissal. Of course, Mr. Wright had not been the first to try to take liberties…he had also not been the last. It was common knowledge that men—even those typically regarded asgentlemen—often preyed upon female employees. Women in service were often weak, dependent upon the mercies of their employers. To be dismissed without a letter of reference was practically a sentence to penury. But it had been years before she had had the nerve to reach higher than a position in the kitchens or the scullery or the laundry—and she hadn’t balked at the thought of moving on from a position that no longer suited her.

Her penmanship had been fine enough to forge her own references. There had been no need for her to stay in an unwanted situation, when she could easily move along to the next position, where her references would not be scrutinized too closely.

Laundry maids did not possess the keys to the household. Scullery maids did not have ready access to the silver. Kitchen maids spent their hours scrubbing a never-ending cycle of dishes and preparing dinner for the families they served. Even the Marquess of Granbury—Serena’s husband—had failed to do his due diligence in inspecting her references when she’d applied to him for the position of lady’s maid. She had been counting on the fact that his arrogance would lead him to assume that someone so low as she had been would not dare to lie to him, and that the antipathy in which theTonhad held him would mean that even if he had bothered to check them, he would not have expected a response.

It had been the first home in which she had worked where she had not been slapped, or pinched, or otherwise accosted. The first position in which she had truly felt safe—and, in an ironic twist of fate, had also been the one that had cast her directly into Mr. Darling’s path.

“I was safe enough,” she said, but her voice emerged a hoarse croak. It wasn’tquitea lie, but it was near enough to it. Shehadbeen safe—as safe as a woman in service could be. “There were…men who were not gentlemen. No one ever made the mistake of trying their hand a second time. I was never weak enough to tolerate it. I had nothing holding me to a position.”

He made a harsh sound through his teeth, something that could have been relief or fury, for its vehemence. “And your…footman,” he said slowly. “Was he a gentleman?”

Blood rushed to her face and drained just as quickly; an odd sensation that left her feeling lightheaded. “What business is it of yours?” she snapped, though of course in the eyes of society—in the eyes of thelaw—it was entirely his business. She had never expected him to know. And somehow he had found out anyway. Still, righteous indignation swelled in her chest from the injustice of it all. “A man may have a mistress if he pleases, but a woman must remain chaste?” She set her teacup down upon the table with athunk, attesting to her irritation, and his brows rose in response. “I didn’tfeelmarried,” she said. “I don’t believe I owe you an explanation for my actions.”

To her surprise, he smothered a chuckle in his palm, and his shoulders shook for a moment with silent laughter. “You mistake my meaning,” he said at last, failing to scrub the crooked grin from his face. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Violet. I was asking if you were willing. If he lied to me when I interviewed him.” He shifted in his seat, his posture relaxing—as if he wererelieved. “I hope I can assume you were?”

Violet didn’t know what she could do but give an awkward nod, embarrassment flowing over her like a tide. “He was kind to me,” she blurted out, fidgeting beneath the Mr. Darling’s intent gaze. She hadn’t meant to explain herself; she truly hadn’t. Perhaps she owed the looseness of her tongue to the unexpected grace of his concern instead of his scorn. Perhaps some small part of her wished she were worthy of it. “He was kind, and I—I…it wasn’t anaffaire, not really. It was just…it was only that—”

“I understand, Vi.” He draped one arm over the back of the couch. “You don’t have to say anything more. I understand.”

A terrible knot formed in her throat, too large to dislodge even with the tea she gulped down. His words rang in her ears, heavy with the clarity of truth. How strange it was—how painful—that she believed him. That she believed that this man, her unwanted husband,didunderstand. The agony of beingseenafter so many years burned in her blood, itched beneath her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was just so terriblykindand gentle that it scored her composure further. “You asked me to stay for a purpose, but I’ve distracted you from it. What is it that you wanted?”

Violet drew a shuddering breath, her mind racing. She had thought she could maintain her aloofness, her distance—but already she was shredded down to her bones. She scrambled for anything she could seized upon, some excuse.

“The—the dishes,” she said at last, in a voice that was too hoarse by half. “From last evening. Mrs. Nettles will want them back. She prefers her kitchen to be just so. And I can’t have them here. They will be discovered, and there will be…questions.” She was babbling. She knew she was babbling, and she didn’t know how to stop.

A peculiar silence stretched out, and she could see by his face that he did not believe her. It was a convenient excuse, but he knew it was not why she had asked him to remain. Still, he did not argue—he simply said, “I suppose so. I’ll take them with me, then.”

He rose slowly and opened the drawing room door, clearly unsurprised to find Davis lingering in the foyer, a scowl carved into the craggy roughness of his features.

Violet busied herself with dragging the baskets from the cupboard where she had stashed them, stacking them in a neat pile beneath Davis’ watchful eye near the door.

But Mr. Darling paused as he shrugged into his coat, his jaw tensing, his dark eyes sweeping over her with something like indecision, as if he were weighing possibilities in his mind.

“Davis will see you out,” Violet squeaked, discomfited, with a jerky gesture toward the door, cognizant of Davis’ looming presence just behind her. She had little doubt he’d affixed a firm glare to his face, a glare that Mr. Darling did not seem to see.

Something shifted in Mr. Darling’s eyes, indecision giving way to resolve. At last he extended his hand, turned it palm up. And he said, “Come with me.”