Max strangled the armrests in a death grip, his fingertips digging into the wood. That had been a week ago. Why hadn’t he been—?
Fuck. Of course, he hadn’t been informed. Charles didn’t want him in the same room as his daughter.
Max had to find her. He would tear this city apart with his bare hands, if necessary. A hundred terrible things could befall a sweet young woman such as Violet in this god-awful city. “I assume the police have been summoned and are currently searching for her.”
“No. My husband thought it best if we kept this quiet. Family only, that sort of thing.” She studied his face. “But it’s plain you still care for her.”
“I do.” He swallowed, his chest pulling tight. “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t plan for it to happen.”
“You needn’t apologize to me. In fact, this makes things easier.”
He bounced his leg, anxious for the woman to take her leave so that he could begin searching for Violet. He had to make sure she was safe. “Easier, how?”
“I need her married, Ravensthorpe. As quickly as possible.”
His lips twisted derisively. “Yes, she was aware. Hardly matters to whom, does it?”
“You judge me, of course. As a man, you wouldn’t understand that all women are pushed into marriage, whether we want it or not. We are traded like cattle, treated little better than dirt.”
“Yet you treat your daughter the same.”
“Violet is smart. Independent. A thoroughly likable girl. I love her, I do—but I have put up with Charles for long enough. It’s time to be free.”
Max sat up sharply, ignoring the pain in his side. “Free? Are you saying . . .?”
“I plan to divorce him as soon as Violet is married. The solicitor is ready with the paperwork.”
“Divorce?”
She gave him a brittle smile. “I am tired of being disrespected and lied to. You, perhaps better than most, understand what I’ve endured for the last twenty years. He’s fathered two bastards that I know of, probably more. I won’t allow him in my bed any longer. Do you want to know why?”
Max remained silent, almost dreading the answer.
She continued, “My husband is riddled with disease. He’s had mercury treatments to try and cure it. Lord knows it would be a miracle if I were not infected as well. I cannot stand to look at him any longer. If I must endure the scandal of a divorce to be free of that man, then so be it.”
The explanation made sense. If Violet had known, it would have eased her mind regarding her mother’s motives. His heart ached for his little mouse. “You should tell your daughter. She believes you want rid of her.”
“And I am sorry for that. When I have the chance, I will explain it to her. I had thought to wait until she was married, when she would better understand what happens in the marital bed.” She cocked a brow. “But I see you’ve taken care of that.”
“I . . .” For once, Max was at a loss for words. He had taken Violet’s innocence against his better judgment.
“Go and find her, Ravensthorpe. Use your considerable influence to locate my daughter and convince her to forgive you. Then marry her, quickly. You, more than most, are immune from any scandal. Your name will shelter her from any . . . unpleasantness during the divorce proceedings.”
Marry?
He hadn’t wished to marry again, yet he was miserable without her. He couldn’t let her go—he needed Violet in his life, in his bed. In his home, making him smile and taking photographs. Being with her was easy, fulfilling in a way he hadn’t experienced with any other woman before.
Could he try again? He’d failed with Rebecca, but Violet was nothing like his late wife. Violet was a spark of optimism and light, a beacon of joy and happiness. Intelligent and lusty, she would never bore him or let him run roughshod over her. Moreover, he was different than the selfish man of twenty-five, who’d believed himself invincible. He would treat Violet as a wife should be treated.
Violet . . . his wife. He liked the sound of that. Quite a lot, actually.
Suddenly, he didn’t care whether Charles disapproved or whether people sneered at the age difference. He had to have her. To love and hold her until he took his last breath.
He tapped his fingertips against his thigh. She had disappeared, but Max would find her. In fact, he had an inkling of where she might have gone. “I cannot promise she’ll forgive me, but I will try.”
“Good,” Lady Mayhew said, rising. “She is headstrong, but Violet’s been in love with you for years.”
Her mother had noticed when Max hadn’t? Of course, he’d been busy avoiding Violet since her debut, terrified of his feelings for her. That ended now. He was ready to admit he loved her and that he couldn’t live without her.
He stood. “I am not the only one who must seek Violet’s forgiveness. You’ve hurt her, you know.”
She winced, her brow furrowed. “That was not my intention, but I suppose I have been so focused on my own happiness that I forgot about Violet’s. I haven’t been the best mother.”
“Help her understand. Be there for her.”
Lady Mayhew cocked her head, her lips pursed in thoughtfulness. “You really care for her, don’t you?”
“More than anything else in the world.”
“Make her happy, Ravensthorpe.”
Resolve settled in his chest like a rock, and he nodded. “You may count on it, my lady.”
Chapter Eleven
Violet poured hot water into the teapot and returned the kettle to the tiny stove. Then she placed the lid on the pot to allow the leaves to steep. The stove had been a challenge, but she’d grown proficient with it in the past week.
Heartache turned a person productive, it seemed.
Since leaving home, she’d taken photos and explored the city. Walked the streets and observed the inhabitants. She’d also met her new neighbors, three other young women living in apartments above the camera shop in Chelsea. The girls worked in department stores and offices, each a new kind of independent woman, one in control of her own life. Just like Violet.
She hadn’t told them of her aristocratic upbringing, but they knew. It was in the way she spoke, the way she dressed. Even in the tea she drank, apparently. But they didn’t judge her. Instead, they fondly called her “countess,” which Violet didn’t mind. She’d never had a nickname before.
Actually, she’d never had this many friends before, either.
She still missed Max, though. He was in her head, her heart . . . in her bones. Part of her regretted not reading his letter, but it wouldn’t have said what she wished to hear. Max would never tell her sweet words of undying devotion, the things a husband said to a wife. After all, she was a lark to him. A woman to pass the time.
Goodness, that still hurt.
Pouring her tea, she gave thanks that at least she hadn’t conceived a baby. That was one worry she needn’t add to the pile, which now included finding employment to cover her rent and living expenses. And those particular problems grew more pressing by the day as her funds dwindled.
Had he thought about her at all? Or had he picked up with one of his many mistresses?
A knock sounded on her door. She placed her cup in the saucer and stood, smoothing her dress. It was probably one of her friends stopping by to have a chat.