Page 67 of Only a Mistress Will Do

“I cannot—”

“You must, my dear. For me.” Violet choked on the words, but forced herself to continue. “Promise me you will marry her and be kind. She deserves that, Tris. She will make you a good and loving wife, one who only wants to please you if you give her the chance. For my sake, my love, give her that chance.” Completely overcome, Violet turned and fled the room. Tears streamed down her cheeks once more as she ran toward the safety of the nursery, toward a life of service. To a life without Tris.

* * * *

Tristan stood in the cold receiving room furious and forlorn by turns, which infuriated him even more. How could she refuse him when he was willing to sacrifice everything for her? They deserved to be together. Why could she not see beyond the scandal and come away with him now? His hand itched to throttle someone—Violet, Downing, his father, himself. The latter more so than anyone else. God, what a muddle he’d made of his life.

A glance showed the room held no comforting decanter. If this affair lasted much longer he’d become a tosspot and probably happier so. With an effort, he unclenched his fists and dropped his shoulders, although the ache of tension lingered in his body.

For the past two weeks he’d consciously avoided any contact with Violet, though he’d been peculiarly aware of her presence in the house. Several times he’d enter a room and feel her essence, as though the ghost of her lingered on the currents in the air. Temptation had gnawed at him, urging him to seek her out, see her beautiful face, hear her lovely voice if only for a fleeting moment. He’d quelled every impulse until today, when the unexpected arrival of the duchess had thrown the household into a panic.

Lady Downing had set the maids to freshening the second-best guest room, then nervously requested him to move to that chamber, allowing the duchess to occupy the best chamber. He’d graciously acquiesced, smiling at the woman’s shattered poise. When Lady Downing rang the bell for a footman to find Dora and none was forthcoming, Tris had volunteered to go.

That had been a grave mistake.

As he had approached the upstairs sitting room, where he’d been directed, he’d been amazed to hear two voices raised in laughter. His heart had given a fierce jolt that shook his chest. He’d recognize Violet’s laughter anywhere. Amazed anew at the beautiful strains of harp music, punctuated by the murmur of voices, he’d eased into the doorway and stood transfixed. His bride-to-be and the mistress of his heart laughed together as Violet strummed the strings in demonstration. The picture they presented made his heart ache.

Dora, blue eyes shining, trim figure shown off to perfection in a fashionable pink gown d’Anglais, was absorbed in her fingering. Unselfconscious, she exuded a grace and joie de vive he’d never seen in her before. No man could resist her like this, unless he looked beyond her to her companion.

Violet sat easily in her chair, natural poise and charm in every line of her. The green saque gown, one of Madame Angelique’s creations, subtly emphasized her full breasts and neat waist. Her hair glinted in the lamplight, strands straggling as they always did from beneath her pinner. Eyes sparkling and laughter bubbling from her lips—lips he’d give anything to kiss once more—she could be the goddess of love incarnate.

The vision disintegrated into the chilly room where he stood staring at the harp, all illusion of warmth dispelled. He strode to the harp, touched the strings reverently, hoping for a trace of her presence on them. The strings whispered the discordant notes he’d raised, but no more. Violet had gone from this place, gone from him, and by her word, gone forever.

Much as he hated to do so, he must honor her wishes and cease his pursuit of her. How many times had he vowed that very thing, yet here he stood, once again guilty of trying to persuade her to run away with him. Would this madness in his blood ever cease? He feared it unlikely. She had bound him to her with ties sunk bone-deep in his heart. That would never change. His manner, however, must.

Resting his hand on the shaft of the harp, he lifted his head. “I vow, from this day forward, I will not see nor speak to Violet, though she be my own true love. I will abide by her decree and take Dora as my wife to honor and cherish above all others. I swear it on my life.”

He hoped the oath would give him peace and a renewed sense of purpose. It did not. Indeed, nothing save an icy desolation swept through him so he stood empty as the harp strings awaiting Violet’s hand to bring them to life once more. At least they had the hope of such. He had none.

With a muttered curse, he quit the haunted chamber in search of an empty room with a full decanter. He could deal with the pain as long as the brandy held out.

Chapter 26

Violet smoothed the covers over the angelic sleeping child and turned down the lamp on the mantle. The late afternoons were so dim she left a light on for Anna who feared the dark. One more fond look and Violet left the girl to her nap.

She stretched as she made her way to the schoolroom where she had begun eating her lunch. Anna tended to dawdle whenever they ate together, prattling on and on about her dolls, her dogs, anything and everything she could think of to avoid the inevitable naptime.

Smiling, she laid her napkin in her lap. She and Jamie had resisted naptime and bedtime, going so far once as to set a book on fire to create an alarm and thus postpone the dreaded nap. They hadn’t been model children by any means, but they’d never managed to run off a governess either. Miss Baker had remained with them until Jamie had gone to school, at which point she’d left and Miss Connors had taken over Violet’s education.

Her own predecessors’ behavior at Harper’s Grange still puzzled her. Anna could not be a sweeter child. What could she have done to drive away not one but two governesses in the span of three months? Had her mother’s illness affected her in some way Violet had yet to discover? She sipped her tea, letting the deliciously sweet brew sooth her.

She needed soothing after yesterday’s encounter with Tris. Every time she closed her eyes his face appeared, as though it had been etched on the inside of her eyelids. Her hands trembled so the cup chattered in the saucer and she set it down.

Think about something else.

She pushed away her uneaten lunch—the pork pie would choke her if she attempted it—and rose. Perhaps another chapter or two of Pamela would take her mind off her misery. If it truly loved company, then she could find it in Mr. Richardson’s plucky heroine. She turned toward the end of Volume One. When last she’d stopped, Pamela had tried to escape the clutches of Mr. B, her employer, but had been frightened by a pair of bulls, who actually turned out to be cows, and had returned to Mr. B’s house. What would the maid do now? Violet bent her head and dove into the perils of Pamela.

The creak of the door opening jolted her from the novel just as Pamela discovered the person in bed with her was not Nan the maid, but Mr. B himself. Violet started up, wheeling toward the nursery door, but it remained ajar. No small figure there.

Her attention swerved to the door to the East Wing corridor to find Simon Harper standing at the doorway, grinning at her discomposure. He lounged against the frame, his suit of uncut burgundy velvet the height of fashion, although the dark color with his dark hair and pale face gave him an almost sinister air.

“Mr. Harper, you gave me a fright.” Violet closed her book and set it neatly on the table. “I am sorry, but Anna is asleep. I know how disappointed she’ll be to have missed your visit.” She straightened the dishes and cutlery, wishing Mr. Harper had come a bit later. Then he could have seen Anna and she would have had time to clear the lunch things.

“Ah, yes, a pity that.” Mr. Harper strolled over to one of the chairs before the fire and sat, looking expectantly at her. “How is Anna getting on?”

Dear Lord, he must want to discuss his daughter’s progress, although she had little to report really. They’d only been together for a few weeks. Of course, her report would be quite a good diversion, if only Mr. Harper scrutiny wasn’t quite so keen. “For such a short time, she has gotten along very well. She is progressing well in both reading and writing so we have started her on French lessons as well.” Violet’s quick smile as she praised her pupil dimmed.

Mr. Harper was not attending her report. He lounged far back in his chair, hands laced over his stomach, a smug smile on his lips. Every so often he chuckled. How rude of the man. Why had he sought her out to tell him about Anna if he didn’t want to listen to the report?