Page 40 of My Darling Mr. Darling

She gave a short nod, but her mouth lost that tight, pursed look.

Slowly he lifted her hand, pressed his lips to the scar, and fancied he could feel the kick of her pulse beneath them. “Thisis what I want to know, Vi. I know where you’ve been, what you’ve done, but they’re all just stories from people who knew you very little. I want to knowyou—I want to know whatyouthought, howyoufelt, whatyouexperienced.”

A strange sound ripped through her, a death rattle of a gasp. “Why should you want that? None of it is pretty.”

“Then I would share the burden with you.” When he released her wrist, she did not scramble away. She only repositioned her glove so that the scar was properly covered once again. “Vi, if not for me, you would not have that scar…and I doubt very much that that is the only one. I beg you, do not spare my conscience at the expense of your own.” He bent to scoop up the cloth doll that had fallen to the floor at her feet when she had risen, and as he handed it back to her, she sat heavily back upon the bed, as if her knees had given way beneath her. “I think you’re still suffering,” he said softly. “But it shouldn’t be alone, Vi.”

Chapter Fifteen

Ithink you’re still suffering. But it shouldn’t be alone, Vi.

Those words had rattled around in Violet’s head for the past hour, and she felt hunted by them—no, that wasn’t quite right.Haunted, more like.Huntedimplied the potential for escape, for the possibility that she could outsmart or outrun her pursuer.Hauntedwas a different beast entirely.Hauntedwas the feeling of Mr. Darling’s eyes on her throughout dinner, though on the rare occasions she glanced his way, it was to find his gaze averted. It was the way she felt like a ghost herself, back in this townhouse that had years ago been her home—as if she had stepped straight out of time. It was the way the lure of the past was so strong here, the spirits of so many happy memories tugging at her heartstrings.

Perhaps she was haunting herself, just a little. Inviting in the nebulous tangled threads of the past to wind round her, as if they might twine themselves around every bit of unhappiness that had long dogged her steps, until they were wrapped up so tightly they had lost all ability to wound and she could once again be as free and unencumbered as a the child she had been in this house. Perhaps then she could step back into her place here and belong once again.

What a ridiculous, fanciful notion. She plunked her wine glass back down upon the table and made an effort to shake off her pensive mood and allow the pleasant conversation that ebbed and flowed around her like a tide to capture her attention once again. At her right, Wentworth cheerfully topped off her glass of wine. At her left, Mrs. Nettles ladled a healthy serving of green beansalmondineonto her plate with a smile that crinkled at the corners of her eyes.

Mr. Darling was at the head of the table, some ten feet away, but despite the cramped quarters—even the formal dining room held hardly enough space to accommodate the staff—he looked quite pleased.What, precisely, he was pleasedwith, she couldn’t guess. She’d never known a man of his social status to be quite so affable in the presence of the staff, but even though it was unusual in the extreme for staff and employer to share the same table, he was polite and genial, tossing out tidbits of conversation to those seated near him, though over the cresting din of it going on around her, Violet could not make out what was said herself.

Millie—the scullery maid—had secured a place of honor at his left, and she blushed and ducked her head every time he passed a dish to her, as if she were a little in awe of him. Possibly Millie had been nursing something of atendrefor him, which was not entirely uncommon when one’s employer was young, wealthy, and handsome—

“Handsome devil, isn’t he?” Mrs. Nettles whispered.

Violet choked on a sip of her wine, covered her mouth to cough as discreetly as she could manage, and wondered if Mrs. Nettles had somehow learned to read minds. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you know how it is for the nobility,” Mrs. Nettles demurred as she placed a dab of butter upon Violet’s plate to go along with a fresh dinner roll. “Waited on hand and foot, as they can afford to do, and so many of them end up going to fat. Of course, there’s many of them vain enough to stuff themselves into corsets these days to disguise it.” Surreptitiously, she indicated Mr. Darling with the point of her knife. “He’s got no valet, so there’s no one to carry tales of it—but we’ll just say that none of the laundry maids have been tasked with washing such garments.”

For a long moment, Violet stared dumbly, until it occurred to her at last that Mrs. Nettles had been trying to tell her that Mr. Darling did not require special undergarments to achieve his physique. The moment it did, she felt her cheeks go hot with embarrassment, and grabbed for her wine glass, hoping to conceal the evidence behind it.

“I don’t—I don’t care aboutthat,” she said, surprised at the tinny quality of her voice. But against her own will, her eyes drifted toward the head of the table anyway—only to find Mr. Darling staring back at her for the first time since they’d been seated. Flustered, she averted her eyes once more, turning back to Mrs. Nettles. “What do you mean,nobility?” she inquired. “He’s just plainMr. Darling, isn’t he?” He’d mentioned the earl—in passing—once before, she thought, but she had not cared enough to inquire further.

Did she now?

Mrs. Nettles patted at her mouth with her napkin. “Yes, of course,” she said. “But his grandfather is the Earl of Haverford.” She made a moue of distaste. “Mr. Darling receives a letter from his grandfather every Thursday, but to my knowledge they do not speak. Some bad blood there, if I had to make my guess. I wouldn’t presume to know the cause of it, but the earlshouldcount himself lucky to have so fine a grandson as Mr. Darling.”

Absent a reply other than a noncommittal sound, Violet speared a bite of her watercress salad and chewed thoughtfully. She didn’t know anything about him, she realized. Nothing at all. Even the things she might have learned from her father years ago had been long lost, because she had been so mired in resentment that she had deliberately deafened her ears to all mention of his name.

They had resented each other for years before they had ever met. In retrospect, it seemed so very small and petty. So childish to allow bitterness to shape the whole course of her life. And she—she had spent so many years blaming him for the ruins of her life, when in truth they hadbotherred.

But only she had paid for it. Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass of wine once again.Suffered, he had said, and she hated how weak and pitiful the word had made her sound. But shehadsuffered, and no matter that she wished she could shove it all firmly into the past and lock it behind a closed door, it had followed her for years, that terrible lurking shadow of guilt and grief. It followed her still, into quiet moments when she sought peace but found only heartache and shame. It followed her into dreams, twisting them into horrible nightmares. Thrice a week at least she woke in a cold sweat, terror oozing down her spine, a scream caught at the back of her throat, locked tightly behind her clenched teeth. And when at last the remnants of the nightmares left her, and she knew that she was not back in that musty closet, it was there that the shame caught her up in its cruel clutches, because shehadescaped—but she had left so many other girls to the dubious mercies of the school staff.

But she considered for the first time that perhaps she was not the only one stalked by shame and guilt. She was not the only one sohaunted. And she wondered as she drained her glass—what shape didhisdemons take?

∞∞∞

Full dark had fallen by the time John sent for his carriage to return Violet to her residence. She was waiting in the drawing room when he returned to her with a small frame tucked beneath his arm and the cloth doll he’d retrieved from her bedchamber in one hand.

She turned at his approach, the movement less elegant than he might’ve expected. But then she’d had at least three glasses of wine with dinner and she’d eaten very little, as if the whole affair had been overwhelming for her. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair mussed from the countless hands of the staff that had sought to ruffle her curls, as if she were still the child that had grown up in their midst.

And John…John wanted to sink his fingers into that rumpled mass of hair, hold her head still, and kiss her wine-blurred mouth. It wasn’t precisely anewthought, but he was struck with the sudden intensity of it. It had been some time since she had last honestlyscowledat him, and she really was beautiful, with her dark, glossy hair, stormy-sea eyes, and those minuscule freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose. Her lower lip was lush and full when it wasn’t flattened into a grim line of distaste, and her brows were softer when they weren’t pulled down into a disapproving frown.

She looked…soft. And vulnerable. Hesitant, uncertain. Young—only five and twenty as of her last birthday, which had been some months ago. What she didnotlook was angry, which was an unexpected blessing. Absent the distraction of the staff, he had expected that she would have recovered her wariness, her snappish disposition.

Once she would have flayed him with the sharp side of her tongue on sight—but just now she appeared more likely to kiss him than kill him. And perhaps it would not last, but the thought that there was any part of her, for however long itdidlast, that did not viscerally loathe him filled him with abject relief. Redemption might be a long way off, but there on the horizon was a hint of it, a perfect, radiant beacon of hope.

Belatedly he realized he had simply been standing in the doorway, watching her. “I’ve called for the carriage,” he said in a rush. “Mrs. Nettles is finishing up in the kitchen, but she will escort you home—for propriety’s sake.” Because she had a reputation to protect, for the sake of her school.

“Thank you,” Violet said. “That’s…kind of you.”