“Ravensthorpe and I never once discussed the particulars of your reprehensible behavior. I heard the maids talking about it. The woman came to the house when Mama and I were away, apparently.”
He dragged a hand down his jaw. “You mustn’t tell your mother. She’d . . . well, she has a weak heart and I’m afraid the news might kill her.”
More like he feared Mama might kill him if she found out.
“Then you’ll not marry me off to Sundridge.”
“Are you—are you blackmailing me, Violet?”
She hadn’t planned on it, but she wouldn’t take the words back. Resolve hardened inside her, a small sense of satisfaction that eased her misery. “It appears I am.”
“What happens if you find yourself with child?”
“Then I’ll go away. No one will know.”
“Absolutely not. It’s too great a risk. You must marry quickly, Violet. For this . . . and other reasons.”
Because her mother wanted her gone.
She turned toward the window. “I will choose my husband.”
After a long silence, her father said, “He won’t marry you, even if you’re carrying his child.”
As if she didn’t know that already. Tonight, Max’s position regarding her had been made abundantly clear. She fought to hold back the tears burning behind her lids. “I am aware. I want nothing more to do with the Duke of Ravensthorpe.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear it. He has promised discretion and I believe he means it. We’ll find another suitor soon. Dowry’s too large to ignore for most of these gents.”
Violet didn’t speak. She had no intention of entertaining another suitor, ever.
“Most importantly,” Papa said, “I will ensure he keeps far away from you.”
Max wouldn’t chase her. Why would he? There were other larks, women who wouldn’t hope for more. Women who wouldn’t develop feelings for him. Sophisticated and smart women like Louisa, satisfied with stolen moments and the occasional tryst.
But that was not Violet, not any longer.
A letter. He’d sent her a letter.
A week had gone by—the most miserable seven days of Violet’s life—and now Max had sent her a letter. She stared at the paper warily, as if it might burst into flames at any moment.
Why had he bothered?
“Lady Violet? Are you all right?”
Shaking herself, Violet looked at the housemaid who had presented Max’s secret communiqué. “Forgive me, Katie. You said a boy delivered this?”
Katie nodded. “Yes, milady. He appeared while I was picking herbs in the back. Told me to give it directly to you and no one else.”
“Thank you. I trust I can rely on your discretion.”
“Of course, milady. I promise not to tell a soul.” Katie curtsied and departed, leaving Violet alone in her bedchamber.
She placed the missive on her bed and studied it. The letter was thin, just a single sheet of paper, with no writing on the outside. Max’s familiar ducal signet ring had been pressed into the sealing wax.
Part of her wished to tear it open and devour every word.
The more rational side, however, feared additional heartbreak. Hadn’t she suffered enough? Unless his letter contained words of undying devotion and a marriage proposal . . .
A bitter sound escaped her throat. Max? A marriage proposal? Ludicrous. He would never marry her and she would forever be his secret.
Her door flew open and Charlotte appeared. “Violet, you missed our appointment.”
Violet lunged for the letter and tried to shove it under the pillow. Unfortunately, her friend wasn’t fooled.
“Is that a letter you’re trying to hide?”
“No,” Violet lied. “We had an appointment today?”
“Shopping and tea, remember? I cannot believe you forgot.” She pointed at the pillow. “Was that a letter from one of your suitors?”
“No, definitely not.” The idea of Max courting her was laughable.
Charlotte folded her arms, a determined set to her chin. “Out with it. You forgot our outing, there are dark circles under your eyes, and now you have this letter. What is going on?”
Violet waivered. The strain of keeping all this heartbreak to herself for so many days weighed on her chest. Ever since the night of the ball, she’d swallowed her grief, pushed her misery down to where no one would notice, and it made her brittle. A fragile creature who might break at any moment.
Perhaps sharing a slice of her anguish might help.
“It is from a man, but not a suitor.”
“The plot thickens.” When Violet remained silent, Charlotte removed her hat and tossed it on the bed. “Are you planning to tell me who?”
Before she could reconsider the wisdom of a confession, Violet let the words out. “The Duke of Ravensthorpe.”
Charlotte gasped and clutched a bedpost. “Ravensthorpe? Have you lost your mind?”
“Yes, apparently.”
“But he’s . . . old. Handsome, but old. And Violet,” she dropped her voice, “they say he killed his first wife.”
Though he’d broken her heart, Violet still felt the need to defend him. “He didn’t. She died in childbirth.”
Charlotte studied Violet’s face carefully. “I cannot believe this. You care for him.”
Unshed tears scalded the backs of Violet’s eyelids, and she struggled to retain the tenuous hold she had on her composure. “I love him. I have loved him for a long time.”
“And you never told me?”
Charlotte’s mouth flattened, hurt lingering in her gaze, and Violet added guilt to the mountain of emotion dragging her down. “Forgive me. Things with Ravensthorpe progressed quickly, and he made it perfectly clear that it was temporary. That I was temporary—”
“That bastard.” Charlotte stiffened, her fingers turning white on the walnut bedpost. “He seduced you and then refused to marry you.”
“More like I seduced him, but yes.”
“Even if you threw yourself at him, he should have told you no. I cannot believe he ruined you and then tossed you away!”
“That’s not exactly what happened. Sit down and I’ll tell you everything.”
Stiffly, Charlotte moved to the bed and sat. Violet took a deep breath and launched into the entire tale, starting with watching Max with Lady Underhill and ending with the letter.
“Wait, he called you a lark?” Charlotte’s brows went up, outrage clear in her tone. “We should storm into his house and put a bullet in his black heart.”
That sounded a tad extreme. “He never lied to me. He never led me to believe it was more.”
“You should hate him for how he treated you.”
“I don’t hate him.” She swallowed and tried to keep her voice from shaking. “But while I still love him, I cannot be a secret. I deserve better.”
“Indeed, you do.” Charlotte reached forward and grasped Violet’s hand. “So what will you do about his letter?”
“I haven’t decided.” She lifted the note with her free hand and tapped it against her thigh. “At best, it’s an apology for telling my father. At worst, it’s a formal ending to our . . . friendship.”