Page 46 of Too Wanton to Wed
She wiggled in place, unable to contain her excitement. “Whomever one chooses to thank, do you not realize that this abbey might be England’s best kept secret? All the hubbub with the stained glass renaissance, and never once did I hear mention of an entire abbey left untouched in Shropshire.” She glanced around the shadowed room as if the very walls had been forged from gold. “Do you know what this means? You’ve got priceless centuries-old art safely hidden behind crisscrossed planks of wood. Waldegrave Abbey is a national treasure!”
Rather than come alive with the promise of such a discovery, his eyes darkened with portent. “I’m afraid my humble abode will have to remain secret a little while longer, Miss Smythe. Until a cure can be found for sunsickness, every inch of the glass must stay out of sight.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sank. “Of course.”
Once again, she had forgotten herself. Or rather, she had forgotten to whom she spoke. Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter were imprisoned inside the most beautiful gaol they would never see. What irony that the country’s greatest exemplar of Renaissance-era religious art would surround the two people who could not enjoy it! Her initial excitement dulled. Make that three people. She wouldn’t see any of the glorious glasswork either. Didn’t it just figure? She’d always dreamed of being surrounded by art. Apparently she should have specified “visible”.
Violet slumped. Her soul yearned to bear witness to the stained glass artistry just behind the wooden boards. No doubt, any loss she felt, Lily and her father felt twice as keenly. But what was a mere window, no matter how marvelous, to someone who could not step into the morning light to see the entire world in all its splendor?
“I’m sure a cure will be found soon,” she said, infusing her voice with as much optimism as she could.
“That is my goal,” he agreed firmly. He met her gaze and held it. “Until then, my daughter has expressed her continued desire for your company.”
She frowned. The words were straightforward. So why did it feel like there was hidden meaning in each syllable? She narrowed her eyes. “What are you not saying?”
“I am stating,” he said, taking care to enunciate each word, “that I intend for you to remain her governess.”
She tilted her head and considered the man as carefully as she considered his words. On the one hand, it was a relief to know for certain that her position and income were in no jeopardy whatsoever. On the other hand, it certainly sounded as though he was willing to employ means much more drastic than a pocketful of sovereigns to keep her there.
“And if Lily’s desire to keep me as governess hadn’t been mutual?” she asked archly.
He did not respond. He slowly swirled the dregs of his tea, gazing into the depths of the cup as if he could read their future upon the leaves within.
“I have no imminent plans to leave,” she pressed on. “But what if I did? Would you have locked me in the sanctuary alongside your daughter?”
At this, his gaze snapped unflinchingly to hers. His dark eyes held something more than torment, something other than mere determination. Her breath caught in surprise and wonder. This was a look she recognized from her youth. Mischief. His eyes were alive withmischief.
Lock the door and lose the key? Why, yes, his eyes said. I absolutely would.
And yet his deviltry was nothing short of inviting. The sight of a conspiratorial air along with unapologetic roguery was a combination she hadn’t encountered in years. Not since London. It was a look she well knew not to trust, of course, but also one she knew to be honest, for better or for worse.
Her shoulders relaxed. She nearly laughed aloud at the idea that unapologetic confirmation of roguery, of all things, would ease her fear. And yet, the cards were on the table, were they not? She knew his goals, his motives, his strategy. And could plan accordingly. He might have expected his honesty to cause less, rather than more, trust between them. But hehadbeen honest. And it had been so long since she had last believed in someone else’s word. That alone was a boon.
She bit back a smile when she realized the first time she had ever trusted someone, he had been wearing much the same expression. She’d have been maybe seven or eight at the time. The boy in question slept in an alley not far from the workhouse, and she had just come upon him trying to jimmy his way into the larder.
You don’t intend tostealfrom us, do you?she’d asked with the outrage of a child whose dollop of porridge had never lasted through the night. The boy’s grimy, makeshift tools didn’t even pause. He simply grinned at her with eyes full of mischief and replied,Of course I do. If you help, I’ll give you half.
Mr. Waldegrave was offering the same bargain. He would do what he felt he must, regardless of her wishes. But if she helped, he would gladly share everything he had.
The first time Violet had taken that deal, she’d ended up with a full belly for the first time in years... and a new friend. Perhaps it was time to take a chance again. After all, she’d already risked a kiss. She need only catch sight of his eyes or hands or lips to remember in vivid detail. Violet’s cheeks flamed as she realized she’d gone from staring at his teacup to staring at his mouth. Hoping he hadn’t caught her at it, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
His cup had gone still. His eyes lowered to her lips, as if the memory of their tongues touching and their limbs nearly entwined had leapt from her head to his in an instant. When his gaze lifted, his eyes were filled with such heat, her body could not help but instantly respond.
She could not look at him without remembering the feel of his mouth against hers, the taste of his kisses, the warmth of his skin.
The knowledge that he, too, suffered these waking dreams of taking her in his arms again, that he refused to act upon it and yet could not stop himself from desiring her touch—his struggle to keep his distance only served to stoke the fire even hotter. He was looking at her now as if he had every intention of sweeping his hand to clear the table in order to lie with her on its surface. By the runaway quickening of her heart, she had half a mind to let him.
He leapt to his feet in such haste, his chair scraped across the polished floor. “I’m done. Are you done? I should let you get back to Lily.”
“I’m done,” Violet agreed quickly, tossing her linen aside her plate. She must have managed to catch her gown beneath the legs of the chair, for when she rose to her feet the chair tumbled backward with a clatter. “Oh! I’m sorry. I—”
“I’ll get it.” He was suddenly before her, leaning down to lift the chair exactly at the moment she bent to retrieve it.
They froze, their shocked faces arrested mere centimeters apart. His breath was loud in her ears, or perhaps those were her own lungs, breathing so erratically.
She couldn’t move. If she bent any further, her mouth would surely connect with his. And if he continued forward, the same. She should back up. Why hadn’t she backed up? Why hadn’thebacked up?
If this farce of a standoff continued much longer, she’d press her lips to his just to put paid to the infernal anticipation. She thrilled at the thought. And then what? Did she truly think one kiss would smooth the tension? Or would it simply put flame to the wick?
