“Do you think there is a chance he’s come around on marriage?”
I won’t marry you.
“No. Absolutely not.” Time and time again Max had made this clear.
“There’s always Sundridge. He’s not so terrible.”
Violet gave her friend a disbelieving look. “He’s awful, Charlotte. I won’t marry him.”
“Then what will you do? You must marry, especially now.”
Because Max had ruined her.
Violet didn’t feel ruined, however. She felt tired and deeply sad. Fed up with both her parents and society. Ready to make her own decisions and escape any reminders of Max.
This was not the future she wanted, years of circling ballrooms and watching as Max ignored her. How long before he followed another woman out to the gardens? Perhaps he already had.
She pressed a fist into her stomach. Everything hurt and staying here wouldn’t solve any of her problems. Her parents would only marry her off to some fop and Max would carry on with his paramours.
She didn’t want that life—one that would tear her down, bit by bit, day after day until she was absolutely nothing at all. No, she wanted love and a large family, a place where she fit in, but on her terms, with a man who cared only about her dowry.
It appeared she must find happiness all on her own.
“Violet, you’re scaring me,” Charlotte said when the silence stretched. “What can I do to help you?”
Plans began forming in Violet’s mind, wisps of ideas that grew clearer, slowly revealing a path forward like an exposed image darkening in a developer bath. She could see it, a fate of her own choosing, even if the prospect seemed daunting at the moment.
Her heart pounded with renewed purpose and resolve. “Actually, there is something you may do. I need you to deliver a package for me.”
Max stumbled toward the carriage, his legs shaking like jelly. The dockside buildings dipped and swirled, the midmorning sun causing the world to look like a kaleidoscope. Somehow, he put one foot in front of the other and managed to reach his conveyance.
A groom rushed to assist him, but he held up a hand. He deserved the punishment. “No need,” he mumbled. “Just allow me to get inside.”
Once on the seat, he collapsed like a newborn foal and closed his eyes. He’d been rowing on the Thames for three hours, as he’d been doing every morning for the last fortnight. He hadn’t rowed this much since Eton, and his body did not appreciate the punishment. There were blisters on his fingers and palms, his back screamed in pain, and he thought he might have cracked a rib.
But he would not stop. The torture was necessary.
Many times, he’d considered departing London. After all, he had three estates and several townhouses to choose from, including a beautiful apartment in Paris. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her behind.
You’re a fool. She is better off without you.
He gasped when they bounced over a particularly nasty hole in the road, the agony in his side like being stabbed with a dull knife. Moaning, he clutched the leather seat and tried not to vomit on the carriage floor.
“Apologies, Your Grace!” the coachman called.
Several calming breaths later, the spots receded from his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispered.
You cannot do this much longer.
There was no choice. He couldn’t sleep at night and this was the only way to exhaust himself enough to rest. When he returned home, he’d fall into bed and finally find a few hours’ sleep. It was a neat little system he’d worked out, one that was keeping him sane.
Last week, he’d broken down and written to her, stupidly confessing how much he missed her and apologizing for telling her father. He’d also asked to see her, certain that they could smooth over their troubles if given a chance.
She sent the unopened letter back.
And that wasn’t all she returned. She also returned the photographs of him, the ones without his clothes. As if she couldn’t stand to look at him. That had hurt worse than the unopened letter.
She must hate him—and he couldn’t blame her.
So he rowed. When he wasn’t on the river, he was brooding by the fire, draining every bottle of brandy in the cellar. He was pathetic, a miserable husk of a man, yet he couldn’t seem to bring himself out of this funk. Nothing mattered. Work piled on his desk; food went uneaten.
He missed her desperately, like a piece of his soul had been removed. This was nothing like when he’d lost his first wife. Losing Violet was a howling despair haunting his every waking moment. He’d found happiness, had tasted salvation, and then let it slip away through his foolishness and vanity.
I hope you rot in hell, Ravensthorpe.
Indeed, he was already there.
Another carriage sat outside his home, but Max couldn’t bother with callers at the moment. Or ever. “Send them away,” he told his butler as he stumbled over the threshold.
“Your Grace,” his butler said, following. “Lady Mayhew is here to see you and insisted on waiting.”
Max froze. “Did you say . . . Lady Mayhew?”
“Indeed. She is in the front drawing room.”
Why was Charles’s wife here? They’d never liked one another. In the early days of her marriage, she had blamed Max for corrupting Charles. Out of loyalty to Charles, Max hadn’t denied it, though Charles required no help whatsoever when it came to corruption.
Still, this visit might have something to do with Violet. “I’ll see her now.”
A horrified look crossed his butler’s face—likely because Max wasn’t bothering to change before receiving a caller—but Max didn’t care. This might concern Violet, and that was far more important than the sorry state of his person offending Lady Mayhew.
He slowly made his way to the drawing room, doing his best not to crumple onto the Italian marble floor.
“Lady Mayhew. This is a surprise.”
“Ravensthorpe. I have to say, you’ve looked better.” She was perched on the edge of the sofa, appearing ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. She and her daughter had the same hair, a similar chin and bone structure. It sent a fresh wave of agony through him just to look at her.
He cleared his throat. “What may I do for you this morning?”
“I’ve come to seek a favor.”
“A favor from me?” This was unexpected.
She nodded once. “You see, when a wife is saddled with a lying, philandering husband, she must develop a trusted and reliable source of informants. These are often servants, which is certainly the case in my household. And I’ve recently been given an interesting piece of news.”
“Oh?”
“According to Violet’s maid, you wrote a letter to my daughter, which she returned along with some other papers. More letters, perhaps?”
Max braced himself, saying nothing and allowing her to come to the point.
“Regardless, my husband confirmed that you and Violet had been involved for some time.”
“Our involvement has ended.”
“I assumed as much, based on the returning of your note. Not to mention that she’s disappeared.”
He blinked. “What do you mean, disappeared?”
“She is missing. She left the morning after sending back your letter.”