Page 73 of These Violet Delights
“Clafton will endure.” Gently smiling, he went to sit beside her, finding her hand under the blanket and squeezing. “Most of the damage was contained to the tunnels, and those ancient walls are strong. Though perhaps not as strong as you, my darling. You cannot know my regret for arriving too late.”
“You were just in time,” she assured him, nestled down into six well-earned and overstuffed pillows.
“No, I should have been here. I owe you an apology, and Freddie, too. I forced him to give up Miss Graddock. Perhaps it was for my mother, but I was the one to do it. And you were right, he could have been kinder. And now where am I? Exactly where he was, desperate to marry a Richmond, terrified of all that stands in the way. God, but I have been a consummate fool.” Alasdair leaned forward and brushed the errant curls from her temples. “Danforth tried to take everything I cherish, Violet; he tried to take you from me. Without you, I have nothing—am nothing—please say all the madness these past weeks has not put you beyond my reach. Please say you can forgive me.”
Her eyes widened. “I had a whole speech prepared, but I seem to have forgotten it.”
“I’m certain you will remember when the shock wears down.”
“Yes, and harangue you with it when you least expect.” She grinned, rolling her head from side to side. Her smile dimmed, and she looked past him at the far wall. Beneath the blanket, her fingers curled against her palm, withdrawing. “Why didn’t you tell me about Julianna?”
“I had no idea she still desired a life with me,” Alasdair explained. “There was never a formal understanding between us. My friend Robert was intent on pushing us together, and I’m sure that his antics put certain ideas in her head. I regret that; Miss Holzer is a good woman, but she is notmywoman.”
Violet’s gaze gradually shifted back to him, and she regarded him for a long, torturous spell, during which he felt sure she would say it was too much. And how could he blame her?
“How did you know to look for me?”
“Lane Richmond arrived at Sampson almost a momentafter I did; he was raving about a goat and torn fabric,” he said. “They couldn’t find you at Pressmore, and my mother must have come to her senses somewhat, for she blurted out that she witnessed Danforth moving things into Clafton. I don’t think she wanted your death or his on her conscience.”
“Brave,” Violet muttered sarcastically.
“She has much to answer for,” he agreed. “So much destruction and despair, and all because of secrets left to fester. My father, her, Danforth…if I had known any of it, our lives might have been very different. I would have embraced John as a brother if I knew he and my mother were being twisted by shame.” He paused, a small smile growing across his face. “Speaking of real bravery, Lady Edith told me you came to the house. Confronted her.”
Violet squeezed her eyes shut, groaning. “I thought I would stride up to Sampson and convince you to see sense. Completely tragic.”
He pressed his thumb against the little bony groove beneath her lips. “No. Bold. And it is that boldness that makes me love you so. You don’t know Lady Edith like I do. You might not have won her affection, but perhaps some respect. More, in fact, than she would be willing to admit.”
“Then there’s hope,” she told him, hoarse. The smoke and the screaming had roughed her voice. Alasdair tried not to imagine whacking Danforth over the head again, because it had felt alarmingly satisfying. “We can bury this feud for good.” She tugged his hand out from under the blanket and laid hers over his, palm to palm. “ ‘For this alliance may so happy prove, to turn your households’ rancor to pure love.’ ”
“Love,” he repeated, leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her lips. “I should have told you the last time I had you in my arms, Violet. I love you, and no matter what our familiesthink or say, I will have you as my wife, and ours will be the love that banishes this dark chapter with light.”
Her arms looped around his neck, urging him to stay.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his voice thick with concern. “You must be exhausted…”
“Do not make your declarations of love and run away, sir!”
“No? Then I will stay, and seal them with a kiss.” Alasdair unwound her arms from his neck, letting them drop to her sides just long enough for him to discard his waistcoat, boots, and the remainder of his clothing. He tried to slide right back under the blanket beside her, but Violet grinned lazily and held out her hand. Just knowing she wanted him was enough to make the blood roar in his ears. Even a moment away from her was deprivation. She had unfurled for him so beautifully that night at Pressmore, her eagerness drawing out his already fervent desire. Even so, it was new to be asked to stand naked in the daylight and be closely appraised by an artist’s eye. Yet as her gaze roamed from his shoulders to his chest to his waist and the stirring evidence of his need for her, he could see the gradual darkening of her eyes. Her passion gathered in that look like a dangerous storm on the horizon, and before long she was reaching for him again. Her clever hands hooked around the backs of his thighs, and she pulled herself closer, nuzzling her nose into the groove over one hip before glancing upward and indulging in a long, slow kiss to the swelling tip of his arousal. A single flick of her tongue was enough to weaken his stance. He pushed her back onto the bed, reminding himself to be gentle, that she had just survived a harrowing scare, and still…
Still, she wanted him. Clamored for him. Violet lay across the pillows, observing, though even her keen eyes were hazy and unfocused. Alasdair leaned down, claiming her mouthwith his, sucking her lower lip between his teeth, letting himself groan as loudly and deeply as he wanted. With her, he could be fully himself. It mattered not if she wanted him to stand nude by the window for the whole morning; he would do it, unflinching, trusting in the rare bond between them. He tore off her nightdress and cast it aside, sweeping a hand under her lower back and lifting her hips, his other hand dipping between her thighs to test the slick readiness he knew awaited him.
He had seen passion like this in paintings and statues, in shining white marble carved to be as sleek and lively as Violet beneath him. He had glimpsed, wonderingly, the way a sculptor could turn stone to flesh, rendering strong fingers digging into muscle that repelled and then gave, hands grasping thighs, breasts flattened over the plane of the chest in an urgent arch. And it had stirred him and made him think, longingly, of a time when he would plant his own fingers against a supple leg with that same desperation. Violet raised her legs and clasped them around his waist, and Alasdair felt the robust muscles there, the sinew of a woman who happily walked the hills of their homes, his palms running the length of her outer and inner thighs, memorizing them with touch.
And it was love, he thought, that made this simple act of worshipful touch feel so near to the ecstasy of standing before a masterpiece.
“There have been secrets between us,” he whispered against her neck, smiling as she plucked the spectacles from his nose and dropped them onto the bedside cupboard. “But there was more—every kiss we shared, every glance was just such a declaration. Love. There has been love between us, Violet, though I should have given it voice.” He lowered her back down to the bed and fit himself between her strong legs, growling his needinto her clavicle as she blossomed for him and opened, and took him into her luxurious, wet heat.
“And I should have never left,” he added, closing his eyes tightly. “I let the world pull me away. But you were right…” Alasdair tilted his head, hunched over her, sinking into her body as he found her gaze and held it. Her mouth dropped open in the most spurring way. “We were together in those fields all along. We are back now, or we never left.”
He kissed her again, hungrily, his lips claiming her as steadily and greedily as his body.Our thoughts are one, we are one.Violet’s fingers tangled in the hair on his nape and stayed there, the urging of her hips and the rising tide of her unwinding cries taking him to the crest of the wave that would soon plunge them back down. It couldn’t last; they were too eager.
“Please,” Violet begged him, and he knew for what.
“I want to stay,” he grunted. “Stay like this—”
“There will be every day after,” she promised him, giving a laugh that twisted into a gasp as he sank home once more. Her head fell back, loose, and Alasdair mastered himself long enough to feel her draw up tight before she bit down on her wrist, muffling her final cries of pleasure. Urgency and heat had been building inside of him, loosening at last, his body tensing before the unraveling, and Violet’s obvious delight was too much; he followed her off the precipice, cleaving her to his chest as he shivered and spent. He rolled off of her quickly, gathering her to him as he went, sprawling her across the bellow of his chest while the world lost its blur, and the almost overwhelming relief dulled to something more bearable.
Violet was soon asleep on top of him, lulled to peace as he carded his fingers through her hair. Knowing she needed the rest, Alasdair carefully slid her back down among the blankets, righted the pillows, saw to her comfort, and gathered hisclothing. He was clearheaded and straight-backed as he put on his spectacles and returned to his chambers, drew a bath, and dressed in clean garments. His gaze lingered on the place where Violet’s self-portrait ought to be. As soon as he left his chambers, Freddie was there, waiting for him.
