Page 74 of My Darling Mr. Darling

Perhaps she ought to have built a lesson around gracefully accepting the rejection of an offer of marriage, she thought, as incredulous laughter bubbled up in her throat.

Dear God. Serena was going tokillher—if Mr. Simmons’ mother did not get to her first.

Chapter Twenty Eight

“He didnot.”

“I tell you hedid,” Violet said, passing a plate of toast across the dining table. “I assure you, I did my best to dissuade him, but he could not be reasoned with.” A sip of tea soothed the frown from her face, and she spread a thick layer of orange marmalade on her own slice of toast.

“Well, we shall certainly have to put a stop to it,” Serena mused, carefully selecting a single piece of dry toast to go along with her own tea. “Perhaps I shall have a word with Mr. Simmons’ mother. Shedoesseem to rule the household—or so Grey is given to understand.

Violet winced. “I hope you know that I never would have encouraged—”

“Oh, no, no—of course not.” Serena waved away the instinctive protest with a careless hand. “I’m certain you were the soul of professional courtesy. It is just that some men—well, theydohave a habit of seeing flirtation in mere kindness, or assuming interest where there is only friendship. I can hardly put the blame onyoufor Mr. Simmons’ mistaken impression.”

“You’d be surprised,” Violet muttered, since she had, in many of her former positions, been blamed for a great number of things that hadn’t been her fault.

“But I thank you for telling me nonetheless,” Serena concluded. “Perhaps Grey could be prevailed upon to handle it. I have noticed that men often take advice from other men much more easily than they would from a woman.” She took a bite of her dry toast, pulled a face, and set it back down. “We should make a habit of this more often,” she said. “Grey rarely rises before noon lately, and I have missed your company. We ought to have breakfast together at least a few days each week.”

“Yes, of course,” Violet said immediately, briskly transitioning to business. “We can discuss our classes. I’ve kept notes—”

Serena laughed lightly, stretching her hand across the table. “We can do that as well, of course,” she said. “But, Violet, I only meant that with so much on our schedules lately, we’ve had so little time to visit. Noteveryconversation must be dominated by our classes: how Samantha is progressing at the pianoforte, or whether or not Mr. Green can manage a proficient waltz. You’re my partner, my friend—not my employee. We ought to have time to simplybe friends.” She squeezed Violet’s hand in her own, and Violet squeezed back—perhaps with a little toomuch vigor, but shehadneeded that reminder just now.

“Thank you,” she said, and for once it felt free of guilt, free of the shackles of obligation. “Thank you—probably I haven’t told you too terribly often, but Iamgrateful for your friendship.” She gave a small, hesitant smile. “You have done so much for me.”

“No more than you have done for me,” Serena countered with a gamine grin. “And, Violet, you know I will support you whatever you decide—but is this what you truly want? You were entitled to so much more, anheiress—”

With a shake of her head, Violet released a slow sigh, tucking back a curl that had fallen from its pins. “I suppose it must be difficult to understand,” she said, “but I have lived a dozen lives already, each of them bound by the constraints of my father’s will.” Each hour she had slung out liquor and ale to crass, crude men across the scarred surface of a table, waiting to be recognized—each moment had been a prison of its own, and the bars had been forged of the hefty reward offered for her return. Her father’s fortune had become a millstone about her neck, and she had never earned a single shilling of it herself, anyway.

“I have to let it all go,” Violet said. “It has weighed me down too long already. I don’t want to beViolet, the heiress. I want—to simply beme.” And every day she discovered herself a little more. Now that her choices were not driven by desperation, she was learning things about herself that she had never suspected. A whole new Violet had emerged from the ashes of the old—a Violet capable of so much more than she had ever dreamed.

Perhaps her past would be something she would always struggle with to one degree or another. Because the past was indelible, etched into flesh and bone and soul. She could notescapeit…but she did not have to let it define her future.

“I understand,” Serena said softly, and Violet could see it there in her grey eyes—shedidunderstand. Perhaps better than anyone else could have. She, too, had refused to settle for less than she had deserved, carved out her own future—seized her own happiness.

And Violet would do the same. Eventually.

Before her smile could wobble on her face, she directed her gaze down to her tea, which had grown somewhat less than hot. Her empty plate was whisked away by a waiting footman, who replaced it with the latest edition ofThe Times, which she had long ago developed a habit of thumbing through over breakfast. Now her papers were fresh and pressed, not scavenged from tables in pubs, nor stolen from the refuse bin of whatever home she had been working in after it had passed through too many other hands.

She plucked a handful of pages from the neat stack of them, offering the social pages to Serena, who took a perverse delight in learning the latest gossip, while Violet saved mostly those relating to politics for herself. Gone were the days of browsing the advertisements for available positions; she had found her place and intended to remain in it.

Together they read in companionable silence, with only the sounds of pages turning or theclinkof a teacup into its saucer…right up until the point that Serena gave a gasp of surprise.

“Oh—oh, Violet,” she said in a tremulous voice as her fingers crumpled the paper. “You’re going to want to see this.” The paper rustled as she wrestled with the sheet in question, and Violet nobly resisted the urge to roll her eyes and refrain from mentioning that she simply didn’t share the same interest in which lord had been caught in an amorous embrace with which lady, or who had behaved poorly at a ball.

Serena shoved the page toward her across the table, her finger drifting down a page full of marriage announcements to a short, terse block of text buried somewhere in the middle.

Mr. John Darling announces his marriage to Miss Violet Townsend.

Violet closed her eyes in stunned disbelief. “Thatbastard.”

∞∞∞

It was amazing, John marveled, how so simple an action as placing a marriage announcement in the paper could have such far-reaching consequences. He had hoped, of course, that such an action would have incited Violet’s fury and sent her scurrying over to him. It had been a carefully-baited hook, designed to lure her to him.

Instead, the hook he had cast out for Violet had caught the duchess, who had stormed into his townhouse in high dudgeon only moments ago, her ire a living, breathing thing—he was merely surprised that flames did not accompany her words when at last she spoke.

“Howcouldyou, John?” the duchess inquired between gasping breaths as she tossed the newspaper onto his desk. Her eyes were rimmed in red, lashes spiky with tears. She looked—probably the worst he’d ever seen her. That she had come to his house in this condition was a testament to the depths of her dismay.