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‘In the evening?’ She looked down at her dressing gown in dismay. ‘But I never even got dressed!’
‘I did wonder about that.’ He grinned. ‘Not that I mind informality, of course.’
‘No wonder Mrs Gargrave looked so disapproving.’
‘Wait until she finds out that we plan to have dinner in here.’
‘I’ll t
ell her that you’re a bad influence.’
‘And she’ll believe you.’ He put a hand to his heart as if he were wounded. ‘She’ll be scandalised, of course, though I do believe it’ll be one of my lesser crimes.’
‘Shall I tell her?’
‘No, let me. I need to have a bath and a shave first anyway. I’m still covered in dust.’
‘Then I’ll get dressed finally.’
‘Pity. I rather like you in your nightclothes.’ His gaze flickered downwards, lingering over her hips, and she felt her blood start to heat again. What did it mean when he looked at her like that? What did their kiss mean? Surely it had to mean something! What was he thinking?
‘You know, you really are just like your mother, Violet.’ He gave her the answer as their eyes met again, his own dark and intense, as he made for the door. ‘You look perfect, too.’
Chapter Fourteen
Lance pulled his shirt over his head and flung it aside in exasperation. Had he really just told his wife she looked perfect? The words had taken him by surprise—even more so the fact that he’d genuinely meant them. He hadn’t simply been flirting with her, though in truth he’d been starting to feel almost like his old self again—with one significant difference.
In the past, flirtation had always been a game, one played with willing partners, but a game none the less, the women largely interchangeable with each other. This time he was only interested in one woman, a tiny fairy-tale creature in a rumpled dressing gown and pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, with tousled blonde hair and a look of pure joy when she’d been gazing at her books. She’d looked...perfect. That was truly the only word for it. And altogether more gorgeous than he was quite comfortable admitting, as if she’d somehow grown into her body while she’d been away.
So he’d kissed her. He shouldn’t have, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. She’d looked so serious and studious at her reading that he’d found his mouth pressed against hers almost before he knew what he was doing.
Not that she’d stopped him or pulled away either. On the contrary, her lips had parted and her tongue had sought his with an ardour that had seemed equal to his own, though perhaps he’d imagined that. She’d felt soft and warm and deliciously tempting, but he’d known he had to resist. If it hadn’t been for their agreement, he would have been seriously tempted to take her to bed right then and there, but instead he’d forced himself to step away.
That hadn’t been easy. He let out a low moan at the memory. Never mind seven years, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her for one day! He had no idea how he was going to get through tonight. But he’d made her a promise. Freedom was what she deserved, not to mention a better man for a husband, but since she was stuck with him, he could at least do the decent thing and leave her alone. He wouldn’t sully her by dragging her down to his level. She was a hundred times better than that.
He tore off the rest of his clothes and lowered himself into a steaming hot bathtub. The heat eased the pain in his leg, soothing the damaged muscles and making it feel almost restored again. Almost. Not that it could ever be truly restored.
He ducked his head under the water so that he was completely submerged. His body would never be completely the same, the camp surgeon had been clear about that, but he felt no resentment about the fact. His leg was simply the punishment he had to accept for his past misdemeanours, but what about the rest of him? Could his self be restored?
He emerged out of the water and rested his head against the back of the tub. He’d come home from Canada with only two intentions. To save the estate and then drink himself into an early grave. Violet had helped him with one and prevented the other, although to his surprise he didn’t resent that either. He’d been afraid that if he stopped drinking then he might be overwhelmed by his memories, but instead he’d found himself slowly coming to terms with them.
While she’d been away, he’d forced himself to keep sleeping in his father’s old chamber, to the point where it now finally felt like his. For the first time in six months, he was starting to feel that he might be able to accept the past and move on. The only problem was that he didn’t want to do it alone. He wanted to do it with his wife—a real wife, one he could share both his heart and his body with. He wanted to do it with Violet, the woman he’d promised to set free.
* * *
He had to force himself to wait another hour before returning to the sitting room, refreshed but no less frustrated, to find all the armchairs pushed back and a small dining table set in the centre.
‘What do you think?’
Violet gestured at the arrangement proudly. She was wearing her azure-blue evening gown again, the one she’d worn for their first dinner, though her new fuller figure made the neckline somewhat more close-fitting. The mounds of her breasts were bulging in a way that affected him in a much lower area, too, intensifying his sense of frustration.
‘Very snug.’ He tore his gaze away from her cleavage. ‘Perhaps we should do this more often.’
‘I don’t think we could get away with it too often. Mrs Gargrave already came to ask if you’d gone mad.’
‘And you said?’
‘I said you seemed the same as ever to me.’
