I won’t marry you.
If she couldn’t change his mind, then she would suggest a long-time affair. Better to have Max in her life and suffer the social consequences than to live without him.
She removed the last photograph from the fixer bath and rinsed it in fresh water. Then she hung the paper on a line to dry along with the rest, taking a moment to appreciate it. This image might be her best yet. The light had hit the buildings perfectly, the women in the foreground sharp and clear. A perfectly captured London morning.
It took several minutes to clean up and remove her apron. Coming down the narrow attic stairs, she heard her parents arguing inside their bedchamber. She started to creep by, ensuring not to make a sound on the way to her room, when she heard her name.
“. . . Violet’s two suitors?” her mother shouted. “You are supposed to be hurrying them along.”
Violet paused. Why were they discussing her marriage prospects?
“Only one now,” her father said. “Wingfield’s gone to Devonshire for the rest of the season.”
Wingfield had left town?
“So marry her off to the other one. I need her settled, Charles. You promised me.”
The other one? Violet had no idea who they were discussing.
“I don’t know, Elsie. Sundridge seems a bit dim.”
Violet put a hand over her mouth. Sundridge? He’d called her Victoria during their first two dances, even after she’d corrected him. He hadn’t let her get a word in edgewise, either, talking about playing cricket each time she saw him. Her parents wished for her to marry him?
Her stomach turned over, her brain woozy. This could not be happening. And why was her mother so anxious to be rid of her?
Her father continued. “Perhaps we should let her finish this season and find her a husband next year.”
“Absolutely not. I want her married as quickly as possible—and it hardly matters to whom. I will speak to Sundridge’s father myself, if necessary.”
“No, no,” her father said. “I’ll see it handled, though I cannot understand why you are in such a hurry.”
“It’s best for Violet. Prolonging a betrothal won’t help her prospects. A second season will only make everyone wonder what’s wrong with her.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her with the girl. A bit shy, is all.”
“Because you’ve indulged her. Our duty is to see her married now that she is of age. You promised, Charles. Have a betrothal in place before the month is out.”
Violet put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Before the month was out? That was little more than a week from now. Was her mother serious?
She hurried away, moving swiftly along the corridor, her ears ringing with impending disaster. She had no destination in mind, only the need to keep going, to put distance between herself and this information.
Her mother wanted Violet gone. Married off to whomever would have her.
What sort of mother had no regard for the match her daughter made? Charlotte’s mother hovered at her daughter’s side, ensuring Charlotte only spoke with bachelors from the very best families. Violet’s mother, on the other hand, hadn’t attended large social events in months and anticipated ridding herself of her only child.
Tears burned Violet’s lids as she moved toward the front door, the desire to escape overwhelming her. Their butler appeared, and his brow lowered in concern when he saw her face. “Did you wish to go out, Lady Violet?”
“I’d like to take a walk and visit my friend Charlotte.”
“Of course, my lady. Shall I send for your maid?”
“No need. I am not going anywhere but to Charlotte’s and it’s not far.”
“Then allow me to fetch a groom—”
Instead of waiting, Violet opened the door and dashed down the front walk. When she was far enough from her house, she hailed a hansom to take her to the far side of Grosvenor Square.
To Ravensthorpe.
She needed him to comfort her, to tell her it would be all right.
Even if it was a lie.
Max’s large home sat on the corner of the very public square. Considering it was the middle of the day, she could not pay a call on him. Instead, she instructed the driver to let her out a block over and she then snuck into the rear of Max’s gardens.
Tears streamed down her face as she hurried along. Thankfully, the gardeners were on the far side of the property, their backs to the house. After slipping onto the terrace and through the French doors, Violet ran along the corridor, hoping to avoid detection by the staff on her way to Max’s study, where she assumed he was working.
Not bothering to knock, she turned the knob on the study door and slid in. Max was seated behind his desk, a young man scribbling on paper in the chair across from him. The duke’s head snapped up, dark blue eyes locking on her face—and his jaw dropped. She hadn’t a clue as what to do now that she was here, so she waited, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
Max recovered quickly, coming to his feet. “Webber, let’s pick this up later. You have enough to get started.”
The other man gathered his things and bowed. “Your Grace.”
Violet moved aside to let the young man pass. When they were alone, she tried to catch her breath, but emotion clogged her throat. Max came toward her, concern etched on his handsome features. “Violet, what is it? What’s happened?”
Without waiting another second, she threw herself at his solid chest. He caught her, his arms holding her tight to his frame, and she breathed in his now-familiar scent of orange and tobacco. He was strong and safe, a balm for her misery. After a few seconds, her tears dried on his necktie, her shudders ceasing. When he picked her up, she clutched at his shoulders and buried her face in his throat.
He lowered them into a chair near the empty grate. The moment stretched and he seemed in no hurry to make her talk. For some reason, his calm fortitude helped soothe her. Finally, she sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burst into your home in the middle of the day.”
“I don’t mind, though I do hope you came in the back.”
“I did. No one saw me except the man who was here a moment ago.”
“Webber is discreet. His job depends on it. Now, are you ready to tell me what is wrong, or shall I give you a present?”
She leaned back to see his face. “You bought me a present?”
The duke appeared adorably embarrassed, with his cheeks turning pink. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Shocking, but I am capable of simple kindness, Violet.”
This was more than simple kindness. This was . . . monumental. He’d bought her a gift.
He cares for me.
Her spirits lifted immediately—a considerable feat, seeing as how she was to be betrothed by the end of the month.
Max slid out from underneath her and went to his desk. When he came back, he was holding a rectangle-shaped box wrapped in brown paper. “I hope you like it.”
Was he serious? The box could contain rocks and she would treasure them always. She tore through the paper with all the restraint of a three-year-old on Boxing Day. She gasped. “You bought me a camera.”
Max thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and gave her a half smile. “I did.”
“I’ve wanted a box camera for months. How did you know?”