Dark Surrender (28 page)

“Your wife was a lovely person, both inside and out,” his loyal manservant began carefully.

“Er . . . thank you.”

“But,” Roper continued, “she is no longer among us.”

Alistair gestured at the well-tended grave beside him. “I know.”

Roper met his eyes. “Do you?”

Alistair frowned. “You requested to speak frankly. I bid you to also speak plainly.”

“Very well. Miss Smythe—”

Alistair closed his eyes. Was he so transparent?

“Master, if you do not wish for me to speak . . . ”

“Not if you intend to suggest I forswear tending the garden in favor of cultivating a romance instead. I cannot. Yes, I loved my wife. She meant the world to me, and was verily my one true love. But more importantly, I have no time for wooing and no right to court anyone. I have Lillian.”

Roper’s voice betrayed a hint of a sad smile. “That’s the first time I have heard you speak of your wife in the past tense, master. I, too, cared much for her, but I am pleased to see you setting her free into the past, where she belongs.”

Alistair’s eyes flew open. Roper was right. She
had been
the light of his life. He
had
loved
Marjorie, past tense. He’d buried his wife long, long ago, and had chosen to live in the past simply because that was the last time he’d experienced happiness. Except that wasn’t true anymore, either, was it? His entire household wore smiling faces these days, his once-dour daughter was nothing short of jovial, and as for himself . . . Well. His neck heated. If he was not yet in love, it was only a matter of time.

Time he did not have.

He took a deep breath. He could no longer deny his feelings when it came to Violet. He was mad for her. Utterly, absolutely, irrevocably smitten, and no matter how hard he tried to control his passion, he could not curtail his regard. For him, however, love would have to wait.

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” he muttered, hoping to curtail the conversation there before his manservant actually took him up on his previous invitation to speak plainly.

Roper’s eyes were serious. “Either a man believes in the existence of true love, or he doesn’t. And if you do, and if you have, then there’s no reason you can’t find love again.”

Alistair shook his head. “I am not looking for love. I’m looking for a cure.”

“Doesn’t matter overmuch,” Roper said with a shrug. “Love has a way of looking for you.”

“I was blessed with that miracle long ago,” Alistair reminded him firmly. “I am fine with my lot. I live for my daughter. Hers is the only future I care about.”

Roper walked past him to stand before Marjorie’s grave. After a moment, he turned and said softly, “Loving someone else wouldn’t mean you loved her any less. It would just make you an exceptionally fortunate man. You and Miss Lillian both.”

“Fortunate?” Alistair repeated, nearly choking on the word. “I lost my wife. I nearly lost my daughter. Since that day, neither one of us has seen the sun. I spend every minute of every hour searching for a cure and have done nothing but fail, again and again. I have lived in misery these past nine years. Despite my best efforts, Lillian still has no life. May
never
have a life.”

Roper’s expression hardened, rather than softened. “That much, I believe, is most certainly up to you.”

Alistair shot him a sour look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I shall illustrate.” Roper stepped forward gestured at the engraved stone before them. “Who is in this grave?”

Crossly, Alistair scowled at his manservant. “My wife.”

Roper moved to the left, before the stone that read
Lillian Waldegrave
. “And who is buried here?”

“No one, as you well know.”

“As do you, master.” Roper’s voice gentled. “Don’t forget it.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The next morning, Alistair dressed more carefully than usual. Much as he hated to leave his work, it was past time to pay a visit into town. Even if it was a waste of his time. But first, he wanted to see Violet. He
needed
to see Violet. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Every moment not spent with his books, he wanted to spend with her.

After yesterday, he had to believe she felt the same. He should never have rushed out of the room, after . . . It had been beautiful.
She
was beautiful. If he wouldn’t have come to his senses right then, he might never have come to them at all. And she deserved better. He was still her employer and had no wish to exert unwanted pressure, but he wasn’t blind. Soon, he would have to disclose at least one of his secrets. Which was that he was finding it difficult to imagine life without her.

He double-checked his fob. At this hour, she would be instructing his daughter, which meant it plainly was not the moment to burst in with his heart upon his sleeve, but he had put off confronting the inevitable for long enough. He could not leave for Shrewsbury without at least attempting to speak to her. Within moments, he was easing open the door to the converted prayer room.

There they were, his daughter and his . . . well, he didn’t have a ready label just yet, but there she was all the same, looking fresh-faced and radiant despite the flyaway tendrils escaping her chignon and the bit of green paint upon the apple of one cheek.

“Are you certain you don’t wish to try?” she was saying to Lillian. “I stretched an extra canvas, and it’s ready when you are.”

As expected, Lillian shook her head. Not sullenly, as she would have last year at this time, but rather impatiently, as if she were far too eager for today’s lesson to permit slowing the pace on her account.

“You’ll have to resume painting sometime,” Violet said, her eyes indulgent.

Lillian pointed at her teacher’s easel. “Ladybird! Now!”

Tsking at this impertinence, Violet attacked the canvas with a few deft strokes of red before swishing her brush in a mug of clear water and adding a few artfully placed dollops of black. “That, madam Tiger Lily, is a ladybird!”

“Ooh,” his wide-eyed daughter cooed, impressed.

Supposing this was a good a moment as any to make his grand entrance, Alistair swung open the door and stepped inside.

To say his presence doused the joy from both sets of eyes would be putting the matter lightly. Violet became extremely busy arranging the paintbrushes. Lillian rolled her eyes and huffed impatiently.

Alistair cleared his throat, unprecedentedly nervous and suddenly unable to recall a single word of his practiced apology.

“We’re busy, Papa,” Lillian said with her old familiar glare. “We’re painting. Go away.”

“
You
are not painting. You’re merely watching,” he returned before catching himself falling back into their previous routine of sniping at each other instead of speaking to each other. He arranged his face as pleasantly as he could and stepped further into the room. “May I see?”

Pink infused Violet’s cheeks. “Mr. Waldegrave, I—”

“Alistair,” he corrected softly. “I would be honored if you called me Alistair. Please.”

Her startled gaze snapped to his.

“Give us a moment, Lillian,” he said to his daughter, as she crossed her arms and glared at him for interrupting. He lowered his voice and turned to address Violet. “I don’t see how it could be possible to forgive me, but if you could perhaps bear in mind that I am an exceedingly stupid man, not only out of practice with the fairer sex but also shamefully out of touch with my own self . . . I can only beg of you that you give me another chance.”

Violet stood still as a portrait, her mouth a tiny O of surprise. She darted a glance toward Lillian, who immediately snatched up the brush and palette and set to ferocious, haphazard painting as if she were not straining to catch every single syllable exchanged.

He would not go into specifics in front of his daughter, but Alistair could no longer stand the guilt of knowing he had hurt Violet. “I am so sorry—”

“Do
not
be sorry,” she said fiercely. “You may apologize for ignoring me and for leaving, and I hope you will never do such a thing again, but as for what went before . . . if you do not regret it, then neither do I.” She glared up at him, her eyes tempestuous.
“Alistair
.”

She’d used his given name! Victory raced through his veins. And relief. He couldn’t tamp down his happiness. Anger and impertinence were both well deserved, and he would gladly take anything she wished to dish out so long as it meant she might forgive him. He would swing her up and kiss her soundly right here and now, were it not for the studiously-not-watching eyes of his daughter Lillian. Who gazed up at them in fascination, her errant paintbrush still slapping against the canvas at random. He grinned.

“We should continue this discussion later. Will you do me the honor of dining with me tonight? I can have Cook prepare something special around eight o’clock.”

“Yes,” Violet said with a slow smile. “That would be lovely.”

The tenseness in his shoulders eased somewhat. He knew he had not finished his apology, and that they had many more questions to answer about the future, but her simple “yes” had made him the happiest of men.

“Wonderful,” he said, his mind whirling with romantic requests for Cook. “I will see you then. And, Lillian?”

Although his daughter’s eyes looked up at his, her brush continued to attack the canvas with so much vigor that Alistair was at a loss to explain how all three of them weren’t covered head to toe in rainbow splatters.

“Yes, Papa?”

“I am pleased to see you painting again.”

She froze, then burst out in giggles.

Grinning, he turned and shut the door behind him. His step lighter than it had been in years, he slipped his hat out from under his arm and onto his head and made his way to the tunnels leading to the library. It was the one exit he could be certain no servants would be near.

As he entered the library, his steps slowed. He frowned. Something was off. The shelves, perhaps, or the books themselves . . . That was it, he decided. Violet had likely been making use of the library’s contents ever since he’d first introduced her to his collection, so of course it would look different than he recalled. With a shake of the head at his baseless paranoia, he unlocked the bolt and strode out the door.

Brutal sunlight assaulted his every sense.

Bigger and hotter and brighter than he remembered, the sun beat down on him from every angle. As he followed the main road, light reflected off every pond or hint of river and dazzled his eyes with every step.

Nine years, he mused as he marched forward into town, his hat cocked over his eyes. If it were not for there only being one road leading to Shrewsbury from the abbey, he might have forgotten his way. Should he go straight to the smithy and have done with this farce?

No, he decided with a sigh. The smithy was unpredictable, and Alistair had no wish to be sporting a black eye during this evening’s romantic dinner. Besides, if it had been a decade since he’d wooed a lady, it had been twice as long since he’d last been in a brawl. He’d do best to make this visit casual, to make himself appear harmless. He could visit the smithy another day.

Alistair stopped for a spot of water at the first fountain he passed, then dropped in on the milliner and bought a set of hideous, but expensive buttons. He smiled at every farmer and farmer’s wife that he passed, and tried not to take it too personally when their alternating surprise or blank lack of recognition kept them from smiling back.

He bought an apple from every stand and prayed his stomach didn’t turn on him between now and dinner from consuming each one. He passed the inn, and waved at the tiger watering the post-horses before leaving for the next shire. He paid his respects at the church and was just about to put paid to today’s exercise when he caught sight of a young woman with a flower cart just outside the open door of the local haberdasher. There were plenty of roses at Waldegrave Abbey, of course, but he would love to find an unusual bloom just for Violet.

He made small talk with the flower girl, who only knew him for a stranger. Either word of his arrival in town could not outstrip his meandering pace, or there was little to worry about after all. He hoped for the latter. He thumbed through the flower girl’s collection in search of something special. He finally came across the perfect bloom. Violets. Smallish and slightly wilted, but it was the thought that counted, was it not?

He added a fine cluster of bluebells to his bundle just in case.

He paid for his purchase and decided to take a quick turn through the haberdashery before heading back to the abbey. Perhaps a ribbon, or a nicely scented soap would sweeten the offering. He progressed no further than the creaking doorway before his eyes caught sight of an unusually dressed man directing another to affix a sketched portrait upon the wall. Curious, he stepped inside to look closer and nearly choked when he got a clean look. It wasn’t a portrait. It was a Wanted bill.

Murderess
, the headline screamed.
Wanted for Felonious Crimes,
£100
for Whereabouts or Capture
.

Just below, starkly sketched in black ink on white parchment, was Violet’s likeness.

#

Having spent the whole of the afternoon debating which garment could be considered her prettiest gown, and spending the subsequent hour and a half struggling with hairpins, Violet entered the dining room with a stomach so wrought by anticipation that she feared she would not be able to consume a single bite.

She need not have worried.

Not a single plate or glass lay upon the table. Not the faintest scent of food spiced the air. Not a single servant stood at the ready, with platters or wine or elegantly folded linens. The only adornment to the otherwise empty dining set was Alistair himself . . . and by the thunderclouds in his eyes, a romantic dinner would not be forthcoming.

“G-good evening,” she stammered self-consciously, unable to fathom what could have changed his mood so dramatically over the course of a single afternoon.