Dark Surrender (15 page)

Her fingers clenched in his hair, forcing him closer, reveling in the desperate groan escaping his throat as his shaft strained against the skin-tight buckskin of his breeches. She wanted to share the pleasure, to give as well as get. She wanted the moment to mean as much to him as it did to her. She slid one hand from his hair, down the angles of his face, the heat of his neck, the hard muscle of his arm, the slim taper of his waist, to the shadowy heat where their bodies touched. She needed him as desperate for her touch as she was for his.

The back of her hand eased deliciously, agonizingly, against her own core even as her palm slid across his shaft, cupping, squeezing, each movement teasing them both until she could no longer tell which gasps renting the air were hers or his. This was the moment when she would finally experience true intimacy. A closeness she had lacked her entire life. He would fill her body with his shaft, and fill the emptiness inside with a sense of belonging. They would share each other. Here. Now. Her entire body trembled, on the verge of explosion.

And then, just as she was about to slide the tips of her fingers behind the folds of his fall to touch the heat of his naked flesh, he leaped away as if scalded.

Her shoulders thumped against the wall. She regained her footing but not her equilibrium. Her shuddering limbs struggled to understand the unexpected loss of his body. Had he not felt the magic between them? How could he not want more?

She reached for him.

He turned from her.

She let her hand, suddenly cold, fall back to her side, limp. There was no togetherness after all. There would never be. No matter how hard she tried to connect, it would always be goodbye.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice a strangled whisper. “I did not mean—I had not intended—I only wished to thank you.” His head lowered, as if in shame. “No matter how much I—You did not deserve—Oh, damn my hide. I knew you were trying to comfort me. I don’t deserve it. I had just meant to thank you.” He pulled his coin purse from his pocket, upended its contents on the table. Pennies, sovereigns, half-crowns spilled onto its surface. “No amount of money can equal the gift you have given me today. I meant to thank you as an employer, and I could not. I meant to give thanks as a father, and I could not. I could only show you as a man.” He spun to face her, his dark gaze turbulent. “A flawed man, who succumbed to his passion rather than use his brain. I apologize for my behavior, Miss Smythe. It shall not be repeated.”

He shoved his empty coin purse back into his pocket and strode from the room before she could begin to formulate a reply.

It was she who could offer no words. After all, the fault was not his, but hers. She had been the one to reach for him, to pull him close, to touch her tongue to his. She couldn’t help it. He was wonderful, and she wanted him to feel the same of her.

But those were not the actions of a governess. Of a respectable young lady. Of a respectful employee. Those were the actions of a girl who had spent both her childhood and her adulthood starved for affection. She had finally met someone deeply capable of love, and had thought him as desperate to make a connection as she.

She rolled her shoulders and tried to put herself together. The moment had been far too powerful to resist, and she could not—
would
not—be sorry. The opportunity to experience such closeness might never present itself again.

#

Violet didn’t lay eyes on Mr. Waldegrave even once over the following two days.

She was beginning to believe he very well might avoid her company forever. If so, then she was fiercely pleased to have lived fully in the moment the last time they were together. It had certainly not ended how she might have hoped, but she still had the memory of his caress, of closeness, of
connecting
with him, if only for a short window.

And then, one afternoon after lessons, he appeared at her door without warning. Bearing a stack of large parcels in his arms.

“What is this?” She creaked open her door to stare at him in confusion. “I didn’t order anything.”

“I did,” he said without meeting her eyes.

She frowned. “If this is because of the other night—”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “These were ordered weeks ago. Please take them. They’re for you.”

Still confused, she moved aside to give him room to bring in the parcels. When he did not budge, her cheeks flamed.

Of course he would not enter her bedchamber. The realization that she felt comfortable enough to allow him to do so undoubtedly shocked him as much as it shocked her, albeit for different reasons. Until the school for girls, she’d never been offered privacy, much less been foolish enough to take gentlemanly manners for granted. And she’d never once trusted a man enough to have willingly allowed him across her threshold under any circumstances.

Until now.

Heart thudding, she reached out to accept the parcels from him. Twin lightning bolts of desire and sorrow streaked through her when their fingers touched. For the first time in her life, she wished a man to make himself comfortable, if only to talk. And for the first time in her life, this man not only showed no interest in doing so, he showed no interest in her company at all. The moment the parcels settled in her arms, he had already turned to go.

“Wait,” she choked out.

He paused. When he looked back at her, his chagrined expression indicated he felt the suffocating awkwardness between them as keenly as she.

“Wait,” she repeated softly. “At least allow me to see what it is you have brought.”

She glanced about for the closest available surface upon which to settle the parcels and settled for atop the escritoire. The wooden surface was easily large enough, and not much more than arm’s length from the threshold.

He returned to just outside the open doorway, careful to hang back a fair distance for propriety’s sake. Or perhaps because he, like her, was certain to combust if their shadows intertwined once again.

She unlaced the twine knotting the top bundle and slowly unwrapped the parcel. Her first thought was
blue
. No, not blue . . . blue-violet. Yards of rich fabric the very color of her eyes. She lifted the material from the paper, allowing the impossibly soft muslin to unfurl. Gasping, she clutched it to her chest and spun to face him, tears pricking at her eyes.

A
gown
. He’d bought her a
gown!

Not just one, but several, and if the sumptuous cut of this one was any indication of the others, she would look every inch the fairytale princess her childhood self had always dreamed of being. Although there were no jewels adorning the neckline, this gown was even finer than the one she—

Violet’s breath caught, her throat suddenly scratchy.
Even nicer than the one she’d ruined.
Unlike the decade-old dresses she’d inadvertently stumbled across, these were cut in the first stare of today’s fashion. They were expensive. They were beautiful. She wouldn’t remotely resemble a governess anymore. She’d look like someone who
belonged
.

“Thank you,” she whispered through the tightness in her throat. “This means more to me than you can ever know.”

“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, the tips of his ears turning pink. “But I’m glad you like it.”

Like
it? She breathed in the scent of new, clean fabric and nearly swooned. The second he walked away, she planned to lock the door and try on every single one of them.

“A-are you dining with Lillian tonight?” she asked hesitantly. “If you’d like to dine together, I would love to join you wearing one of the new—”

“I don’t think that’s wise.” He took a step backward, as if she had suddenly become contagious. “The other night . . . I did not behave as I should. Until I can trust my brain and my body to comport themselves appropriately, I think it is best for us to spend less time together.”

Less time together? Her joy evaporated. She hadn’t seen him in two full days and they lived in the same abbey. If they spent any less time together, she might as well be invisible. They would never again have an opportunity to share that magical closeness.

Misreading her distress—or perhaps not—he murmured, “I’m truly sorry.”

Then he turned and walked away.

She stumbled toward her escritoire and slumped onto the hard chair.

In a moment of extreme confusion, she had kissed him. And
he
was sorry.
He
felt badly. As if he—the master of the manor, the one who offered shelter when he had no obligation to do so, the one who provided her with more than she’d ever dared to wish for—as if
he
had committed an unpardonable sin by briefly accepting advances that she herself had pressed upon him.

It hadn’t felt like sin at all. It had been strangely, gloriously,
nice
. For her. Twice she had sought to comfort him—to comfort herself—with kisses. And twice he had been the one to stop. To walk away.

Violet stared at the gown in her arms. He wished to thank her. She got the message loud and clear. She might belong at Waldegrave Abbey, but she certainly did not belong with him.

She just wished it didn’t make her feel like crying.

#

Two weeks later, after yet another lonesome supper, Violet headed toward her bedchamber with the curious sensation that her world was teetering on the brink.

Lily was soaking up art history and color theory like broth to bread. Mr. Waldegrave had made a habit of spending the least time possible in the company of his governess, but when she did catch him looking, his eyes were both haunted and hungry. And the outside world lurked just outside the abbey walls, ready to gobble her whole and spit her into the fire should she dare to show her face.

Or was she overworrying? Perhaps she was safely sequestered here at Waldegrave Abbey. In the nearly two months since fleeing the Livingston School for Girls, her biggest concern was having developed feelings for the occupants of the abbey. But she could not allow herself to forget that just because she didn’t leave its confines did not mean that the outside world didn’t exist.

“Miss Smythe?” came a deep voice from just behind her shoulder.

She spun around, one hand pressed to her heart. “Mr. Roper! You gave me quite a start. May I help you?”

“That depends.” His gaze was uncharacteristically merry. “Do you play at cards, Miss Smythe?”

She offered a sly smile. “I
win
at cards.”

The corners of Mr. Roper’s eyes crinkled and the faintest hint of a dimple peeked betwixt the pink scars marring one side of his face. He offered his arm. “That almost sounds like a challenge.”

“Almost?” Her sense of unreality seemed to double as she placed her fingers on the manservant’s sleeve. “Then I shall strive to choose my words more carefully.”

“If you have half as much talent as you do confidence, then perhaps my efforts are better served convincing you to be my partner, rather than my opponent.”

She glanced up at him. “Partner against whom?”

“Cook and Mrs. Tumsen. For years, the three of us have whiled away the occasional rainy evening taking turns at piquet and vingt-et-un.”

“And you’re inviting
me
to join you?”

“We are begging,” he corrected with a hesitant smile. “I would have asked sooner, but we are a close group and wished to wait until we were certain you intended to stay. You cannot fathom our paroxysms of delight at finally having a fourth.”

Until tonight, Violet would not have been able to imagine Mr. Roper experiencing delight over much of anything, much less have paroxysms. But it was her own fault for not giving it a single thought. He was right to worry she might leave. She had never stayed put anywhere, and for good reason. Eventually, everything turned sour and escape became the only choice.

As much as she loved the abbey, she’d known from the first it was only temporary. No matter what, she needed to go to London, to face her charges, to clear her name. She would not be staying. But even if she could have confessed the truth, she wouldn’t do so. Mr. Roper’s invitation to join a group of
friends
thrilled her more than he would ever know.

He led her down a series of tunnels to an outbuilding she had not previously visited. Candlelight glowed from beneath closed doors and spilled directly into the passageway from chambers left invitingly ajar.

This was the servants’ quarters, she realized belatedly. She’d presumed all the inhabitants of the abbey to be as isolated and solitary as the Waldegraves and herself, but what basis had she for that assumption? The abbey was enormous and the staff must sleep
somewhere
when they were not cooking meals or cleaning chambers or trimming hedgerows or washing linens. Her status as governess elevated her just enough to be relegated to the empty wasteland between guest and servant. No doubt her sumptuous bedchamber stranded in the abbey center had been meant to entice her to stay, but its very solitude had done her no favors.

Laughter spilled from one of the adjoining chambers. Mr. Roper pushed open the door and ushered her inside.

Mrs. Tumsen and the ruddy-whiskered Cook lounged behind a large wooden table laden with playing cards, tortoise-shell markers, mother-of-pearl counting fish, gilt-edged teacups, and a silver flask.

Violet stared. The value of the carelessly strewn whist markers alone likely surpassed Mrs. Tumsen’s monthly wages. There was nothing to keep such riches—or the servants themselves—from walking right out the door, never to be seen again. Nothing except their own staunch loyalty. Unlike Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter, the staff was not permanently quarantined within this luxurious prison. They stayed day after day, year after year, because they wished to. Because they cared for him and for each other.

Still chuckling over something Mrs. Tumsen had said, Cook lumbered to his feet and held a meaty hand out to Violet. “Roper, you silver-tongued devil. You managed it, after all.”