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.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment. I don’t suppose anyone’s ever called your Mr Felstone mad.’
She gave him a reproachful look. ‘He’s not my Mr Felstone and they’ve called him lots of other things.’
He snorted derisively. ‘Anyone can get a bad reputation. It takes a lot more commitment to be called mad as well.’
She laughed as a pair of kitchen maids appeared carrying plates of winter salad and a basket of fresh bread.
‘May I?’ Lance pulled out a chair for her.
‘Thank you.’ She sat down and spread a napkin over her lap. ‘I was so engrossed in my books that I missed lunch. I didn’t realise how hungry I was.’
‘I see you’ve been eating well.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her hand wavered in mid-air as she reached for a piece of bread.
‘Just that you look well.’
‘Because I’m bigger?’
‘I didn’t mean...’ He took the chair opposite, wincing at his own tactlessness. ‘I meant that you look better.’
She held his gaze suspiciously for a moment and then smiled. ‘It’s funny, Ianthe’s the one who’s having a baby and I’m the one who looks like I am. I won’t fit into any of my dresses soon.’
‘Good. You were far too thin before. I’ve never understood why some women compete to wear the tightest corsets. Whoever invented the garment clearly didn’t like your sex very much.’
She looked mildly shocked. ‘Are you allowed to mention corsets in polite conversation?’
‘Probably not, but then, you are my wife. Surely we can keep etiquette for other, less agreeable occasions?’
‘All right.’ Her lips curved upwards. ‘Then I have to admit I agree with you. They can be very uncomfortable.’
‘Hence the dressing gown?’ He winked. ‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t wear them at all when you’re at home. As part of your pursuit of freedom, I mean.’
Her expression became incredulous. ‘You don’t think I should wear underclothes?’
‘As far as I’m concerned, you can wear as much or as little as you want. A modest wrap should be enough to spare Mrs Gargrave’s blushes.’
She stared at him open-mouthed for a few seconds before bursting into a peal of laughter and he found himself grinning back. He’d promised himself that he’d behave, but somehow he couldn’t resist flirting with her. The sound of her laughter was almost intoxicating. And he was only joking after all—half joking, anyway.
‘I might have to abandon corsets altogether if I keep on eating like this.’ She popped a potato into her mouth as if to demonstrate her intention of doing so. ‘Or I might burst out of mine one day.’
‘I’d like to see that.’ He grinned broadly. ‘I’d be there to catch you, of course. Trust me, Violet, you have curves in all the right places.’
She dropped her gaze to her plate as her cheeks darkened. ‘It’s funny, but I love food. I never realised it before, but I do. Isn’t that strange?’
‘That you never realised it? I suppose so.’
‘My father said it was unladylike to eat large portions so I thought I was always just hungry, but it’s more than that. I love food. Now I can decide what to eat and how much, I relish every mouthful.’ She made a face. ‘I’m not sure I’m explaining myself very well.’
‘I think you are. You mean you’re learning new things about yourself.’
‘Yes! Who I am, what I like, who I want to be... My father used to make every decision for me. Now that I have my own choices to make, I feel like I’m finally discovering who I am.’ She gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Better late than never.’
‘Some of us get too many choices too early.’ He put down his knife and fork, losing his appetite suddenly. ‘I had all the choices I ever wanted. Second sons are lucky that way. The oldest son gets the money and the title, but the second gets to take more risks—in my case especially.’
‘Why especially?’
He frowned. Why had he started this? They’d been talking about corsets and food. Why was he spoiling the evening by bringing the past up again, telling her things he’d never told anyone, even Arthur?
‘After my mother died, my father let me do whatever I wanted. He put all the pressure on Arthur and left me alone.’
‘Didn’t it make you happy to do whatever you wanted?’
‘For a while—or maybe not even that. I thought it did, but...there was always something missing.’
‘Maybe you wanted some of your father’s attention, too?’
He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Maybe, though I would never have admitted as much back then, not to myself or him. I resented him too much. I blamed him for her death, you see. I was only eleven, but even at that age I knew there had been something strained between my parents. She was so full of love and he... In any case, I knew he hadn’t made her happy. I thought that if he’d loved her then maybe she wouldn’t have left us, that maybe she would have wanted to stay. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there’s a difference between knowing something in your head and in your heart.’
‘Did he know that you blamed him?’
He grimaced. ‘Subtlety was never my strong suit. Not that we saw each other very often. He just shut himself up in his study and we never spoke of it. We rarely spoke at all, and when we did, we argued. It’s strange, but in some ways, I suppose I behaved just like your father.’
Her face froze. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He blamed you for your mother’s death. I blamed my father.’
‘You were just a boy.’
‘I still took my grief out on someone who didn’t deserve it.’
‘True, but you loved him. You said so when you gave me my first tour of the house.’
‘So I did.’ Though the fact that she remembered took him by surprise.
‘Then maybe love and hate aren’t so far apart after all.’ Her brow creased thoughtfully. ‘If you could love him despite blaming him, then maybe my father loved me, too. I’ve always assumed that he didn’t, that love and resentment couldn’t go hand in hand, but maybe I was wrong. In which case, maybe he really did think he was protecting me from the world.’
‘Maybe he was frightened of losing you as well as your mother.’
‘So many maybes...’ She smiled sadly. ‘I never spoke to him about any of them either. Maybe I ought to have tried arguing back once in a while.’
‘Maybe I should have tried doing what I was told.’
‘Maybe again.’ She sat up straighter. ‘I know that my father resented me, but now I’d prefer to believe that he loved me as well. It would make it all seem less of a waste.’
‘Can you forgive him for blaming you?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t hesitate. ‘I think that his heart was genuinely broken by my mother’s death. I don’t agree with what he did, but I can understand why he did it. Can you forgive your father?’
‘What is there to forgive? He didn’t love my mother, but he didn’t kill her.’
‘He could have reached out to you.’
‘I don’t think he was capable of that. I was the one who caused the rift between us.’
‘Is that why you were so wild, to get back at him?’
‘That would be the easy answer, though I suppose it was a kind of revenge. The family name meant a lot to my father so I set out to sully it. It was selfish and adolescent of me, but I wanted to embarrass him. I was always the wildest of my friends, the risk-taker. Poor Arthur was left to be the good one, the dutiful son, the one who bore all the pressure while I simply enjoyed myself. It was no wonder he snapped eventually. It took me a long time to understand that my behaviour was hurting more people than just my father. I was hurting everyone around me, but by the time I realised, it was too late. I acted like an immature boy for too long. I only really grew up eight months ago, just when it was too late to put anything right. I failed Arthur when he needed me. Everything that went wrong in my family was my fault.’ He met her gaze across the table. ‘You’re still finding out who you are, Violet, but I already know who I am—a worthless reprobate, just like my father said.’
‘No.’ Her voice sounded surprisingly firm. ‘What happened to your father and brother was tragic, but they were responsible for their own lives. You can’t blame yourself for everything that happened.’
He arched an eyebrow. If only it were so easy... If only there were some way to redeem himself... If only that was all there was to forgive...
‘You have to move on, Lance.’
He smiled at her optimism. ‘And how do you propose I do that?’
‘I have an idea.’ She tucked into the last of her salad. ‘Although you might not like it.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘We’ll throw a ball.’
‘A ball?’ He felt as shocked as if he’d just been shot again.
‘Yes. I’ve only been to one and it didn’t go so well, if you recall?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘Then let’s go back to the start, as if we were meeting all over again.’
Back to the start... A fresh start... The idea was certainly tempting. The thought of the ballroom and all its memories appalled him, but perhaps she was right and it was time for them both to move on. Could he put the past behind him? He wanted to, and she seemed to want to do it with him, almost as if she wanted a real marriage, too. Having her at his side made it seem easier and at least this meant she wouldn’t be leaving again straight away...
‘So you’re not in a rush to go travelling again?’
‘No. I have a few other things I want to do first, like prove to the world I’m not a timid mouse any more.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘You’re not timid at all. In fact, I’m starting to think you might be more than I can handle. Very well, Mrs Amberton, if you want a ball, let’s throw a ball.’