Page 36 of The Devil and the Heiress
Rose had become completely fascinated by the aura of the man such that he did not have to lay a finger on her to make his seduction of her complete. Though it helped that he did.
V. Lennox,An American and the London Season
Violet heard him before she even opened her eyes. His voice was soft but deep as he spoke in a soothing rhythm, almost as if he were chanting. Whatever he was doing, she found it very comforting. She floated in the space between waking and sleeping, listening to him, surrounded by warmth and comfort.
Christian. She had never allowed herself to call him by his name. It had seemed too intimate, and indeed, it was. She could not call him by that name with anyone around, but perhaps she would try it today in the carriage. A flicker of anticipation sparked in her belly. He would be surprised, but then his lips would quirk and that dimple she was coming to love would appear. He was always so careful to keep his thoughts and feelings hidden, but she had managed to crack him lately. He liked her. She held no illusions that he cared for her... not yet. But soon.
That pleasant spark slowly expanded, becoming a mildly uncomfortable burning. What could she say to him beforethey parted to hint at her interest? She shifted in her bed, trying to recapture the comfort that was quickly slipping away. She could kiss him. A soft, tender kiss like the one at the ball. Yes, she had done it once, and he had admitted he liked it. She could do it again. The pain had moved up to her ribs, only to center in her right shoulder as if there was an open flame inside her trying to burn through her flesh.
The clarity of the pain rampaging through her body brought forth another realization. This one as startling as the pain. Christian was not talking at all. He was reading aloud.
“I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been dead; then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little; then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying ‘She hoped I should be a good child,’ dismissed me along with Miss Miller.”
He was readingJane Eyreto her!
She tried her best to open her eyes. It wasn’t easy. It felt as if a feather-stuffed cushion had been placed over her eyes, and she had to move out from under it to open them. Her eyelids flickered, and a seam of light penetrated. It hurt so badly that she closed them tight again. The next time she tried, she saw the hazy outline of his form sitting beside the bed. Her pain receded, and the darkness promised it wouldn’t return, enticing her to settle beneath its promised warmth and the comfort of his voice. But she wanted to see him. To talk to him. To ask him why he was reading to her, although she half feared it would make him stop.
“Christian.” She spoke his name in part to keep herself awake, in part to gain his attention, but he was unmoved. He kept reading. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken very loudly, if at all.
Forcing her eyelids to cooperate, she opened them. He sat at her bedside facing her, but nearly in profile as he held the book open near a lamp. The cover of the book was a dark blue fabric that appeared worn at the corners. It wasnot her copy ofJane Eyre, which was deep red and leather bound. Interesting.
A growth of beard darkened the lower half of his face. His valet would not be pleased if he saw him, but Violet was beyond pleased at the sight. She had never seen a man thus. They were either clean-shaven, or had fully developed beards. There must be some in-between phase, but she had never seen it. In the evenings on their trip, he would sometimes have a light growth that he must have shaved off by himself, because he appeared clean-shaven in the mornings. But this was probably a couple of days’ worth. Her fingertips itched to rake over it and feel if it would scrape her skin or be soft to the touch. It made him appear rugged in a way that she found extremely appealing, as if the proper English gentleman had been undone to give way to this man who was far more carnal and raw. He only wore his shirtsleeves and trousers. She had never seen a man so scarcely clothed.
She moved her hand to reach for him, but like everything else, it didn’t immediately obey her command. In fact, it didn’t feel as if it moved at all, and a pain so white-hot in its intensity that it drew a gasp from her moved through her. It felt as if a poker, hot and glowing from the coals of a fire, had stabbed her.
He looked up immediately and set the book aside. “Violet?” She must have closed her eyes, because when next she was aware, he was suddenly over her, his face swimming in the haze brought on by her pain. “You are awake.” This he breathed on a heavy sigh, as if speaking to himself.
He pushed the hair back from her forehead, causing her to wince as she became aware of an extreme soreness there. For that matter, his own face was mottled with bruising along one side—the side that had been facing away from her—and his perfect lower lip had a cut near the corner. “Apologies,” he whispered, removing his hand but keeping it nearby.
“What has happened?” Her voice was a mere croak, notthe sort of thing one went for when addressing the man one hoped to impress. An attempt at clearing her throat resulted in more pain somehow, so she gave up.
“Do you recall the accident?”
“Accident?” It would certainly explain the pain she was in right now. “What do you mean?” She tried to go over the last few days, but the attempt only gave her a headache. Their time riding in the carriage seemed endless. Little odd scraps of the days passed through her mind like images in a zoetrope.
His face blanched, turning the palest white she had ever seen it. “Do you remember anything? Do you know who I am?” Stunned by the ferocity of his questions, she could only watch him. “Violet?”
“Who’s Violet?” She was a very wicked woman. This was not the time to tease him, yet she had become so accustomed to tugging that elusive smile from his lips over the last few days that the words were out before she could think better of them.
“Oh, dear God!” He fell back down into his chair. “What have I done?” he asked God, presumably, as his face dropped into his hands.
“I’m teasing you.” Instinctively, she reached out for him only to have the pain shoot through her arm again. This time she realized that it truly was immobile, because it was somehow tied to her body beneath the layers of blankets. When he didn’t look up, she said, “Lord Leigh?” Then louder, “Christian.”
He slowly dropped his hands and looked up. It was only then that she noticed that his eyes were rimmed with red and there were dark circles underneath. He was tired and had likely been at her bedside for... How long had she been here?
“That was terrible of me. I’m sorry.” She reached for him with her left hand, and he reached out and took it, moving forward to bring her palm to his lips.
“You remember?” he asked, his mouth against her skin. “You know who you are?” He kept her palm pressed to his cheek as he looked at her. The hair there was both soft and rough. She longed to rake her fingers across his beard, but she dared not break the moment. His eyes were glassy.
“Violet Roberta Crenshaw,” she whispered, because she had lost the ability to do more.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Roberta?”
“Never call me that.”
“I like it.”
He seemed sincere, but she had never cared for the name given her to honor a grandfather she had never met. “We were traveling to Windermere. I remember that much. I remember the days in the carriage... the suppers at the inns... but I don’t know where we are now. What happened? Is this another inn?”
