Dark Surrender (14 page)

“Lillian
.” Violet grabbed her beneath the shoulders and forced the child to meet her eyes. “The only rule in art is that there aren’t any rules in art.”

Lillian frowned at her. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Art doesn’t have to make sense. You can paint in every color of the rainbow if you so choose, or you can paint in just pink for the rest of your life.”

Lillian blinked damp lashes. “What does a rainbow look like? Is it truly beautiful?”

“Rainbows . . . ” Violet took a deep breath. She needed to calm the child, not add to her pain. “Honey, what I’m trying to say is that no matter what color you pick, it’s fine. It’s better than fine—it’s
you
. Which makes it perfect.”

Lillian shook her head. “It’s not perfect. Nothing about me is perfect. If it’s me, then it’s ugly and awful and stupid and should be hidden away forever and ever.” She tried to twist free from Violet’s grasp and, when she could not, lashed out at the table leg with her foot. The corner of the canvas slid over the table’s edge, distorting the final stroke of the “n” into watery pink rivulets. “I wanted it to be better than me.” Lillian’s voice broke. “I wanted it to be
pretty
.”

“It
is
pretty.
You’re
pretty.” Violet tried to envelop her in a hug, but Lillian held herself stiff and unyielding. After a moment, Violet changed her mind and gently let go. “Here. Watch this.”

She rescued the half-fallen canvas and repositioned it in the center of the table. She slid the tip of the brush through a spot of pink in the tray, and began to paint along the border of the canvas. Broad strokes. Delicate strokes. And every one of them in varying shades of pink.

At first Lillian held back, staring suspiciously at the canvas through narrowed eyes. Once she saw the images take shape, however, she stood so close that Violet could barely reach around her to keep painting.

“They’re
flowers
,” Lillian breathed. “Pink ones.
Pretty
pink ones. They’re not red, like the ones Papa brings. They’re not like Papa’s flowers at all. They’re—they’re—”

“They’re lilies,” Violet supplied, without pausing the steady strokes of her brush. “This beautiful pink flower is called ‘lily.’ Like you.”

Her breath caught. “They’re real?”

“Absolutely real. Some lilies are pink, and all of them are pretty. But none is as beautiful as you.”

Lillian stared, her eyes wide with wonder.

Violet pretended not to notice, focusing instead on completing the flowery border surrounding Lillian’s name.

“Lilies,” she repeated softly, her eyes transfixed on the canvas. “Like me.”

At last, the final petal was sketched. Violet laid down the brush. “Now what do you think, Miss Lily? Do you like them?”

Lillian choked out a hiccupy laugh and threw her arms around Violet’s waist. “I
adore
them,” she said into the folds of Violet’s dress. “Thank you.”

“I adore
you
,” Violet replied quietly, unsurprised to realize it was true. She placed a soft kiss atop Lillian’s dark head. “And you’re welcome. If you concentrate very hard on your sums this week, perhaps I shall even teach you to paint lilies yourself.”

Lillian jerked her tear-stained face away from Violet’s skirt enough to stare up at her in disbelief. “Are you
bribing
me?”

“Absolutely,” Violet answered with a cheerful grin. “Is it working?”

Lillian giggled and gave her another squeeze. “Absolutely.”

At that moment, a knock sounded upon the schoolroom door.

“Papa
.” Lillian ran color-stained fingers over her hair and attempted to straighten her paint-splattered dress. “Do you think he’ll like the painting?”

“I’m certain of it,” Violet reassured her, praying Mr. Waldegrave would not inadvertently crush Lillian’s obvious wish to please. “Come in!”

The door swung open and Mr. Waldegrave strode through, the trio of fresh-cut roses in his hand undoubtedly meant for his daughter’s chamber. “Ladies, I—”

He stopped short at the expression on his daughter’s face. He glanced questioningly at Violet, then followed her pointed gaze to the canvas upon the table. When he turned to smile at Lillian, the pleasure in his eyes was unfeigned. “What a lovely painting, daughter. Did you do this?”

Lillian nodded double-time, then blushed and glanced up at Violet. “That is to say, I painted my name—I picked the colors and everything, and I even picked pink two times, because there’s no rules in art. And then Miss Smythe helped with the other flowers. You will never guess what they’re called!”

His eyes crinkled in amusement, but he paused to consider the canvas as if lost in deep thought. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said after a long moment, “I would have to say they look just like lilies.”

“They
are
lilies!” Lillian crowed, then turned round eyes up at Violet. “They
are
real!”

“Of course they’re real, Miss Lily,” Violet answered briskly, busying herself with the cleaning of brushes to distract herself from the strange joy-sorrow tangling in her stomach. “I believe they may even be my favorite flower.”

“They’re my favorite color
and
my favorite flower! May I keep it? Please? Oh, Papa, may I have it in my room?”

Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes widened. Whether he was more shocked at being personally addressed or at hearing the word “please” fall unbidden from his daughter’s lips, Violet could not say.

“I suppose we ought to let it dry first,” he said with a smile, “and then I don’t see why not. You did a wonderful job, Lillian, and the painting will look splendid in your bedchamber.”

Lillian stared at her father as if he’d offered her a kingdom. “Y-you think it’s . . . wonderful?”

He stared back at her in surprise. “I can
see
that it’s wonderful. If you didn’t want it for your bedchamber, I was set to beg it from you for my own.”

“You were?” Lillian blinked at the painting, then raised shocked brows at Violet. When Violet simply raised her own eyebrows in response, Lillian squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to her father. “All right, then.”

His forehead creased. “All right what?”

“All right, you can have it.” Lillian gave her father a censorious stare. “But not until it dries. And I get to visit it anytime I want.”

Mr. Waldegrave lowered his eyes, as if he believed he could somehow hide the vulnerability therein. But the only person blind to the all-encompassing love he had for his daughter was his daughter herself. And he was just as blind to hers. If Violet had managed to lift their suffering for just a moment, for just long enough for them to truly see each other, if only for a second—then the wet scrap of canvas lying between them was the greatest bit of art she’d ever created in her life.

“Deal,” he said at last. “I will cherish it always. Thank you, daughter.”

Lillian shot Violet a smug look and stage-whispered, “Papa never thanks me.”

Violet returned an arch look of her own. “Have you ever tried to deserve his thanks?”

Lillian frowned. “What do you mean?”

Violet lifted a shoulder. “People get to hear ‘thank you’ when they do something nice. Perhaps hearing ‘thank you’ more often is within your control after all. What about your father? Do you say ‘thank you’ to him when he is nice to you?”

Lillian’s lips puckered. She seemed to realize there was not much to be said. Not when all three of them knew very well that she’d spent years doing her best to appear ungrateful. For the first time, however, she seemed to consider how her father might have felt. Cheeks tinged with pink, she gestured awkwardly at his side and mumbled, “You bring flowers.”

“So I do,” he agreed slowly, staring at the roses in his hand as if he’d forgotten their existence. Perhaps he had. “Although it seems I have been bringing the wrong kind all along.” He shook his head as if to clear it from unwanted thoughts, and then offered his daughter a hopeful smile. “Starting tomorrow, I will order lilies instead.”

Lillian angled her head as if thinking the proposition over carefully before coming to a decision. “Lilies are my favorite,” she said slowly, “but . . . I like yours, too.”

This time, it was Mr. Waldegrave’s turn to be nonplussed. He gazed at his daughter as if her words held the power to turn dirt into gold.

“You do?” His voice was so soft as to be almost shy. “These are roses. Lilies are your favorite, but roses . . . Roses were your mother’s favorite.”

Lillian sucked in a breath as if the flowers before her had been imbued with magical powers. “They were?”

He nodded as if he could no longer trust himself to speak.

Lillian looked at the profusion of painted lilies surrounding her name, then back to the three roses dangling from her father’s hand. The blooms were full, the petals perfect. Bright red and fragrant. She stepped forward to take them from him. “They’re my favorite, too. I have two favorites. Lilies and roses both.” She cut a sudden worried glance toward Violet. “I can have two favorites?”

“You can have as many favorites as you wish,” Violet assured her. She’d been trying so hard to melt into the background that it was startling to be suddenly included, as if her opinions were as important as those of father and daughter. “Favorites are like art—there’s no rules at all.”

Lillian nodded gravely. She brought the roses to her nose, her eyes closing as she inhaled deeply. When she opened them again, she had eyes only for her father. “Thank you, Papa. Your flowers are beautiful.”

He flinched, as if her words cut just as much as they healed. Or as if right up until she spoke, he had still expected his gift to be thrown back into his face. He hesitated, then reached one thorn-scarred hand out to his daughter. “Would you like to help me arrange them in the vase?”

Violet’s breath caught and held while they both awaited Lillian’s reply. She doubted he realized that it would take just as much courage for his daughter to accept the offer as it did for him to extend it.

Finally, when Violet was nearly dizzy with worry, Lillian nodded. She kept the roses pressed to her chest with one hand and reached the other one out to her father. His large, strong fingers closed gently around her tiny watercolor-stained hand. They left the room hand-in-hand.

Before the door had even latched behind them, Violet turned sharply away to busy herself cleaning paintbrushes as if she got paid by the bristle. They had touched each other. They had touched her. Perhaps Lillian could begin to heal. Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave would, too.

Violet was gathering the last of the supplies when the schoolroom door reopened and he stepped back inside.

He stood for a long moment in silence. And then he simply whispered, “Thank you.”

She shook her head without meeting his gaze.

“I don’t know how you managed to convince her I—” The words cut off abruptly. He cleared his throat, then began again. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to feel my daughter’s hand in mine?”

Her hands stilled atop the paintbrushes as she met his gaze. “Years, I imagine.”

“You
did this.” His voice was violent. Joyful. Terrified. He stepped forward to grab her hands, then just as quickly dropped them. He ran his fingers through his hair. Laughed. Then stared at her with panicked eyes. “This miracle you wrought, it’s . . . How can I . . . There are no words for . . . Oh, did you
see
her? She actually—”

Violet rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his. She had ached for his touch ever since their last kiss. She had yearned for the sensations of intimacy, of passion, of being cherished. She had tried to push the encounter from her mind, but she hadn’t succeeded in driving it from her heart.

Hesitantly, she held his face in her hands, silencing his words with the sweetness of her kiss. She lacked the words to express her understanding, but wished him to know, to
feel
, that the miracle had affected them all. Years of longing for closeness had hollowed her soul, but here, now, she had hope once more. She had him. They had each other. She slid her hands into his hair, tugging, pulling, until his lips parted and the kiss was no longer sweet, but carnal.

He tasted like hope, like abandon, like desire. And he did not close his eyes. He let her see the tumult within. The vulnerability. The passion. His awareness of her, of them, of their kisses and their bodies and the fire building deep inside that threatened to consume them both.

She locked her arms about his neck, pressing her breasts against the warmth of his chest. Seeing him interact with his daughter, the thousand-and-one ways he showed his unconditional love . . . She could not help but admire such a big heart, just as she could not help but crave a taste of emotional as well as physical closeness. His hands were unlike any that had touched her before. His were gentle, seeking to give rather than take. They broke through her walls and tempted her to open, to trust. To risk her very heart.

Her every muscle was tense, but with excitement rather than fear. The realization heightened the sensation of every touch, every kiss. Her back was to the wall—had she tugged him there, or had he pinned her?—allowing her to wrap her legs about him as he lifted her higher and leaned his body into hers. She could bask in his arms forever. He, too, desired emotional and physical closeness. She could feel it. She could offer it.

The more she pulled him to her, the deeper his kisses. She clung to him. The tighter her legs clutched him, the harder his hands dug into her rear, grinding his hard length of his shaft against the heat at her core. Confusion nipped at the edges of her desire. She had never felt this . . .
pleasurable
. This was far more intense than mere kisses. This was her body quickening to his. And she loved it. He swallowed her gasps, drugging her with his kisses and teasing her with the promise of his pleasure until she could no longer withstand the aching need so tantalizingly out of reach.

Although she well knew the mechanics of lovemaking, she had never dreamed she would one day yearn for it. Now it made sense. She ached to feel that closeness with someone who actually cared about
her
. Someone exactly like the man in her arms, who even now dipped his head to nuzzle her neck. She arched her back, presenting him instead with the swell of her breast. Begging him with actions because she didn’t have the words. Wasn’t certain what to do, how to feel. His mouth latched onto the proffered curve and her nipple immediately responded, straining for his tongue through the now-damp fabric. She shivered, amazed. Every inch of her wanted him, inside and out. She
did
trust him. And she wanted more.