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“A little over a year. He first took me to see a play,” Violet said slowly, thinking about an interest the two of them shared. “The play was set in exotic lands and, as you know, Max loves adventure—”
“Oh, he does indeed. Mabel didn’t, which is why it’s not so surprising she left him. That takes spirit, in my mind. But we won’t talk about that. It’s all worked out for the best. You now, Violet, are a woman with an adventurous spirit. One can see it in your eyes. So, what was this play about? Was it set in Africa or India, two of the very places Max is so eager to see?”
“In India. It was set in India, which is where I was born. He was interested to hear that and it…it brought us closer together because I could describe it to him. The colours, the vibrancy.” Violet looked through the window and remembered how much she’d loved India.
But Miss Thistlethwaite was prodding her for more information. What had she been telling the old lady? She’d forgotten. The life she’d led in India was so different from the one to which she’d been consigned in England. Harder, but free in a way she wasn’t, here. It had been a life of discovery and exploration. The curiosities her father had discovered. The reverence with which he’d shown Violet and her sister. Exquisite butterflies of cobalt blue with yellow markings. Emily had cried when she’d accidentally crushed one in her chubby little fist. Violet had said its spirit had been released in a new world and not to despair.
Emily had asked if her spirit would do the same one day. Violet wondered if it had.
“My dear, you are crying! But of course, a proposal is a time for tears, is it not? I remember how I cried, too.” Miss Thistlethwaite’s tone changed. “But you are sad? Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. You were saying you were born in India. You told Max about it. Tell me, do you miss it?” Miss Thistlethwaite was speaking fast now, trying to deflect Violet but her words only made it worse.
“I miss it terribly.”
“Then Max will take you back there. He wants to see India, and he’d do anything in his power to make you happy. I could see it in his eyes the way he looked at you. You can see your family again. They are there, now, are they not? That is why you’re so sad. You miss them.”
Violet shook her head, and the tears that she’d managed to delicately contain were suddenly unleashed in a torrent.
“They’re not there. Or rather, they are buried there.”
“Oh, my poor girl.” Miss Thistlethwaite put her hands to her cheeks. “Both of them?”
Violet nodded. “Yes, both of them. They were murdered in Cawnpore.”
Chapter 7
Max fiddled with his cufflink as he stood in the theatre foyer and waited for Violet to appear. Aunt Euphemia had bought tickets for them all to attend a performance of As You Like It at Drury Lane. She would be bringing Violet in her own carriage as Violet had insisted she’d get herself to Miss Thistlethwaite’s townhouse—or rather, her brother’s—due to her ‘working commitments’.
Of course, Aunt Euphemia had understood Violet’s meaning in quite a different way. However, to Max, standing alone for the moment as he toyed with the gold monogrammed studs at his wrists, the idea caused him more angst than it ought.
Violet was a charming creature he’d essentially bought for her services for three weeks. The fact she was proving so bewitching in every way to him, and apparently so delightful to his aunt, should be neither here nor there. A very generous sum had been agreed upon for the whole transaction. And that didn’t even include his aunt’s largesse in terms of clothes and meals in fine restaurants and teahouses.
The moment Max and Violet had said their fictional vows and gone their separate ways, Violet would receive the second and final part of the agreed-upon sum in a nominated bank account which Max had set up.
He couldn’t help but admire Violet’s surprisingly specific stipulations. Of course, she’d never been in receipt of funds in this manner before; however, she’d been quite specific in terms of how she was to be paid—into a bank account that Max had set up in her name of which she, alone, was the signatory. Very novel.
However, this was the only way she’d have access to a line of credit that Madame Chambon could not touch, much less be aware of.
Violet Lilywhite was a surprising creature in so many ways. And the more Max learnt of her beyond the bedroom, the more there was to admire.
Which was extremely discomforting when he actually had time to reflect upon her as a person beyond the narrow scope to which he’d initially relegated her.
Yes, it was extremely discomforting that an image of her sparkling blue eyes kept intruding into his consciousness whenever he had a moment’s reflection. Or that he’d find himself wanting to seek her out for her opinion.
Or run his hands over her satin-smooth skin and lose himself in her embrace.
Which, of course, he couldn’t even do now, despite wanting to very much, as she swept into the foyer at his great-aunt’s side; tall, slender, majestic, those exquisite eyes lighting up at the sight of him. She was altogether the most magnificent woman he’d ever encountered.
But he had to remind himself very forcefully; he was not looking for a wife.
And if he were, she was the most unsuitable wife he could have chosen. Society would vilify them all if he made any kind of proposal that transgressed the boundaries carved out in stone. Boundaries beyond which not even the boldest cavalier thumbing his nose at convention would consider stepping beyond.
Now she was placing her hand upon his arm, an action that instantly aroused every nerve end.
That’s why he must remember she was not wife material. She was a woman whose calling was to create this very sensation in men.
All men. It was her job.
Still, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d rather be here this evening with her than in any other company.
