‘What would you like to do with the house?’
Lance shifted forward on the bench, trying to catch a glimpse of Violet’s averted face as they sat side by side in the rolling carriage. The tops of the moors were still covered in snow, but the valleys had cleared sufficiently for them to make the journey to Whitby without too much difficulty. The weather had improved markedly over the past week, so that it felt like spring today instead of winter. Now they were on the outskirts of town, two scant hours before their wedding, although there was somewhere else they needed to go first.
‘Sell it.’ She didn’t hesitate. ‘Unless you want to keep it?’
‘Not if you don’t want to.’
He shook his head, not that there was much point in doing so when she wouldn’t look at him, but at least she was speaking now, which was more than she’d done since breakfast. She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, her small hands gripped rather than folded together in her lap, her jaw a tightly drawn line. If he wasn’t mistaken she was clenching her teeth. If she didn’t relax soon, then she’d break a tooth for certain.
He only hoped that it was pre-wedding nerves and not that she’d changed her mind and felt honour-bound to go ahead, although he was reluctant to ask the question out loud. It had been a week since she’d accepted his proposal and he’d thought that they’d been getting along well enough.
Admittedly, he’d been busy at the mine during the days, but they’d spent their evenings together in the drawing room, either talking or reading or playing cards. She’d seemed reasonably calm until that morning—happy, even. Strangely enough, it had felt good to make her happy, as if he were doing something positive for once in his life. To his surprise, he’d felt reasonably happy, too. He’d even been sleeping better. He’d never imagined spending his life with any woman for a prolonged period of time, even so much as a week, but he’d actually enjoyed being with her.
Today, however, was the real test. It was now or never. He’d given her as long as possible to be certain, but in another day, the terms of her father’s will would expire. They could either be rich together or poor separately, although, somewhat alarmingly, that seemed to be a more difficult decision for her than he’d thought. Dressed in a plain grey morning gown, her small face pale and drawn, she looked more like a woman on her way to the gallows than a bride on the happiest day of her life.
‘Very well, then.’ He did his best to sound cheerful. ‘I’ll ask Mr Rowlinson to look out for a buyer. I just wondered if you’d like to keep your own establishment in Whitby.’
‘No.’ She pressed the flat of her hand against her stomach. ‘After today, I never want to go back.’
He lifted an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic edge in her voice. Going to the house that morning had been his suggestion. He’d thought that collecting some of her own belongings might make her feel more at home in Amberton Castle, but apparently the idea had only made her feel nauseated. Now that he thought of it, she’d seemed to turn a little paler when he’d mentioned it, though she hadn’t objected. She hadn’t said much at all. Was that why she seemed so withdrawn then, or was he grasping at straws, trying to persuade himself that her behaviour wasn’t about their impending nuptials?
‘Violet?’ He reached across and folded one of his hands gently around hers. ‘We don’t have to visit the house if you don’t want to.’
She gave her head a small, determined shake. ‘It’s all right. I’m being silly, but I just never expected to go back there again. I know it’s only been a week, but it feels like an age since I ran away. So much has happened.’
‘Not all of it bad, I hope?’
‘No.’ Her lips parted, although she didn’t smile as he’d hoped. Her tone wasn’t particularly reassuring either. ‘Not all of it.’
Her fingers tensed beneath his as the carriage rolled to a halt. He looked past her, out of the window and up at the red-brick facade of her father’s mansion. Even in the bright morning sunshine, it looked gloomy and forbidding. And he’d thought that his mother’s architectural designs had been Gothic…This looked more like the stuff of nightmares.
He tightened his grip reassuringly. ‘If you don’t want to go inside, then let me. I’ll collect your things if you tell me what you want.’
‘No.’ Her voice sounded forceful, as if she were trying to spur herself on. ‘I’m not running away again.’
‘Then let me come with you?’
‘Yes.’ Her tone softened again. ‘Thank you.’
He smiled, relinquishing her hand as Martin opened the carriage door. She climbed down and he followed behind, berating himself inwardly as she mounted the front steps of the house. Damn it all, this was his fault again! Considering what she’d told him about her father, he ought to have considered how coming back here might affect her, but he’d been insensitive again and on their wedding day, too! It wasn’t exactly a promising start...
Oddly enough, there seemed to be no one around to open the front door, so he did it for her, leading the way into a vast, marble-floored hallway that echoed loudly with the sound of their footsteps. He looked around, repressing a shudder. It was the gloomiest, most spartan-looking room he’d ever been in, as if the owner had been determined to have as much space as possible and yet not to fill it.
‘Have the servants started packing up the house already?’
‘No. It’s always been like this.’ Her voice sounded strained. ‘I’ll go upstairs and fetch my things. It won’t take long.’
He nodded and wandered into the drawing room. Surely here the servants must have started putting ornaments and furniture into storage? But, no, there was no sign of trunks or boxes anywhere, nor any marks on the floor to suggest that anything had recently been moved. Unbelievably, the room must have been intended to be just as it looked, almost empty and cheerless, its windows draped with heavy velvet curtains to shut out all trace of the outside world.
His eyes alighted on two chairs by the fireplace, one large leather armchair and one small, uncomfortable-looking wooden one behind it. The other side of the hearth was empty. The sight made him unaccountably furious.
He swung on his good heel and strode determinedly out of the room. An ancient-looking butler had appeared from somewhere, though he seemed unperturbed by the sight of a stranger in the hallway. He simply stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking to all intents and purposes as if he’d turned to stone.
‘Which one is Miss Harper’s bedroom?’ Lance asked as he mounted the stairs.
The ancient face barely moved as it answered, ‘At the end of the corridor on the left, sir.’
Lance started up the stairs and then stopped. ‘How many people are employed here?’
‘Myself and Cook, two maids and a boy, sir.’
‘Send the boy up.’
He made his way as quickly as he could up the staircase and along another barren corridor to her bedroom. Considering the size of the house, it was surprisingly small, though there was no sign of her in it. He might have thought he had the wrong room if it hadn’t felt so much like her. It shouldn’t have, given that it looked as empty as the rest of the house, but somehow it felt lighter and less oppressive.
Absently, he ran his hand down the frame of her four-poster bed before stooping to press his face into the pillow. That was her scent, too. Not perfumed, but clean and fresh, like soap and...Violet. He frowned at the thought. Wedding-day nerves must be getting to him, too. He wasn’t usually sentimental.
He lifted his head, straightening up again at the sound of several loud thuds coming from the opposite end of the corridor.
‘Violet?’ He called her name out as he followed the noise back down the corridor, drawing to an abrupt halt in the doorway of another, much larger room, taken aback by the sight of an enormous heap of clothes and papers piled high in the centre. Every cupboard in the room appeared to have been opened and emptied, every drawer pulled out and upturned over the floor. It looked as though a storm had just blown through the room and there in the midst of it, looking slightly dazed, stood Violet, as if she had no idea what had just happened either.
‘Are you all right?’ He took a tentative step towards her.
‘Yes.’ She was panting heavily. ‘I was just looking for something.’
‘Then let me help you.’ He edged forward again, moving slowly as if she were a wild horse to be steadied. She looked almost skittish. ‘Two of us are better than one. What are we looking for?’
For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to tell him, before her face crumpled into a look of heartfelt appeal.
‘Something to do with my mother. I wanted to find something—a letter, a diary, anything. I thought there might at least be a picture of her, but there isn’t.’ Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘I think perhaps I got carried away.’
‘Sir?’ A boy of around twelve years old skidded up behind him suddenly, staring wide-eyed at the mess on the floor. ‘Mr Jenkins said you wanted me, sir? Oh, begging your pardon, Miss Harper.’ He attempted a bow when he noticed her. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
Lance looked the boy over appraisingly. He could hardly have presented a greater contrast to the butler if he’d tried, with a mop of tousled red hair, a cheerful-looking face and a generous sprinkling of freckles. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Daniel, sir.’
‘All right, Daniel. Do you know where the family portraits are kept?’
‘Mr Harper didn’t like pictures, sir.’
‘What about family heirlooms, that sort of thing? Where did he keep them?’
Daniel scrunched up his small face thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know about anything like that, sir.’
Lance reached into his pocket and drew out a shilling. ‘Do you like a challenge, Daniel?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Good. Then take this. If you want to earn another, see what you can find. Tell the other staff, too. We’re looking for a picture or keepsake, anything to do with the late Mrs Harper, understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The boy’s face lit up enthusiastically.
‘And, Daniel?’ He winked. ‘You have Miss Harper’s permission to break as many ornaments and tear down as many walls as it takes to find them. Enjoy yourself.’
‘I will, sir!’
The boy ran off and Lance held an arm out towards Violet. She still looked vaguely stunned and for the hundredth time he wished he’d never so much as mentioned her father’s house. The visit certainly hadn’t gone the way that he’d hoped. The idea that he’d caused her anguish made his chest ache almost painfully. All he wanted now was to get her out of there as quickly as possible.
‘Shall we go?’
‘Yes.’ She gripped his arm tight, holding on to it like a lifeline. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
Violet stepped back out into the street, heart hammering violently against her ribcage. What had just happened? It all felt unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare. She’d gone up to her old bedroom with every intention of simply collecting a few belongings, but once she’d reached the top of the stairs she’d found herself walking towards her father’s old chamber instead. She didn’t care about her own belongings, she’d realised. She cared about something else, something that had been bothering her ever since Lance had told her she looked like her mother and she hadn’t known if it was true.
But she ought to have known! Surely any daughter ought to know what her mother looked like. And so she’d gone to her father’s room looking for clues, starting off calmly enough by opening a few drawers and simply peering inside, then somehow become possessed by the idea, rummaging through every cupboard and hurling all his belongings to the floor—still finding nothing.
‘I’m sorry.’ She glanced awkwardly towards Lance as he stood on the pavement beside her. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. I’ve ransacked enough rooms in my time. You did quite a good job for a beginner.’
She tried to smile, but her face fell instead. ‘I just wanted to find something of hers.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you for what you did.’
‘You mean Daniel?’ He brought his spare hand up to cover hers on his arm. ‘Hopefully he’s sufficiently motivated.’
‘It was a good idea. I just wish...’ She dashed a hand across her cheeks, the words dissolving into a sob.
‘Shall we walk for a while? Get some sea air?’ He spoke softly, almost kindly, and she felt an even bigger lump swell in her throat. She hadn’t expected kindness from him.
‘Yes. I’d like that.’
He led her in silence along the clifftop streets, across to the promenade that ran along the edge of the north bay, into the fresh sea air until she started to feel her mind calm again.
‘It’s so beautiful here.’
She stopped finally, her arm still hooked inside his as they looked out over the rippling expanse of the North Sea. It shone like an emerald carpet rolling out endlessly into the distance, calm today even though its moods could, and frequently did, change quickly enough.
‘It’s funny. Our house was so close to the sea, yet I only saw it once a week when we drove by. We never went down to the shore. I always wanted to walk on the sand.’
‘You never have?’
‘I have now. My father slept a lot when he was sick. I nursed him most days, but there were times when I had to get out or I thought I’d go mad. Ianthe was setting up a school for some of the shipyard children and I helped her sometimes. One day we all went for a walk on the beach in our bare feet.’
‘How did it feel?’
She brushed aside a lock of hair that had blown across her face. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Freedom does feel wonderful.’ He reached out and caught the hair before it blew back again, tucking it gently inside her bonnet. ‘Especially your first taste of it. You can walk barefoot on the beach as much as you want from now on.’
She held her breath as his fingers skimmed across her cheek. Brown eyes smiled down into hers, softer and gentler than she’d ever imagined they could be, reminding her of how little she knew about him, this man she was going to spend the rest of her life with. Was she doing the right thing in agreeing to marry him?
‘Violet?’ He put a finger beneath her chin, tipping it upwards. ‘What is it?’
‘Everything’s just happening so fast.’
‘Our wedding, yes. As for our marriage, we have another seven years to get to know each other. Think of it as a long engagement.’
She pressed her lips together. He was trying to make her feel better. Surely his words ought to make her feel better, but they didn’t. She was going to be married and yet not married. To a man who wasn’t the marrying kind, who’d told her that she was the last woman he would ever have chosen. If she married him, then she’d be making the same bargain his mother had done, a marriage based on money, not love. Could she be content in a loveless marriage, too? Would it be enough? In all honesty, she didn’t know, but she was running out of time to decide.
‘How long do we have?’
‘Until the fateful hour?’ He pulled out a fob watch. ‘Half an hour. Time enough to collect your maid of honour.’
‘Yes.’ That thought at least made her smile. ‘It’ll be good to see Ianthe again.’
‘I have to admit I’m rather intrigued by the sound of her. What was it about her that your father disapproved of? You said he forbade you to see her.’
‘You didn’t hear the rumours?’
‘I might have. Mrs Gargrave feels it her duty to regale me with the comings and goings of Whitby society, though I try not to listen. Being the subject of so many rumours myself, I have a certain amount of sympathy for the victims.’
‘Well, Ianthe is the victim. She was pursued and blackmailed by Sir Charles Lester.’
‘Lester...’ He drew his brows together. ‘Wait, I do remember something about that. He fell off the cliff, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t just a fall. He was trying to shoot Robert and lost his footing. I saw the whole thing from their house. It was an accident, but there were still rumours. People said that Ianthe must have done something to encourage his attentions and that Robert attacked him in a jealous rage.’
‘Neither of which was true, I suppose?’
‘No. Lester was obsessed with Ianthe, and Robert only fought back in self-defence, but my father hated any hint of scandal. He was going to sell Robert his shipyard until that happened, but afterwards he refused to have anything to do with either of them. He sold it a few months later for half the price.’ She looked at him askance. ‘I don’t suppose Mr Rowlinson mentioned that when he told you about the will.’
‘No, but I’m not greedy. You’re still pretty good value.’
‘How amusing.’
He chuckled softly. ‘Then I’m even more intrigued by your friend. Though under the circumstances I suspect she might not be so delighted to see me.’
‘No, maybe not.’ She had to admit she felt mildly apprehensive about that herself. Considering how determined she’d been in planning her escape, she wasn’t sure what Ianthe would think of her sudden decision to marry. She’d tried to explain in the letter Martin had delivered to Whitby, but she had a feeling her friend might not be completely convinced.
‘I just need a few moments...’ she unthreaded her arm from his gently ‘...on my own, if you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. I’ll take a walk along the front. Slowly, of course.’
‘Are you afraid that I’ll bolt at the last minute?’ She smiled ironically, but he only looked sombre.
‘I’ve put all my cards on the table, Violet. I know what I want, but you must do whatever you wish. When you’re ready, if you’re ready, we’ll go to the Felstones’ house together.’
She watched him limp away, feeling a rush of gratitude. There was still time to change her mind, he was saying, if she wanted to—but she didn’t want to, she realised. Whatever else, life with him wouldn’t be dull. He might never be entirely respectable, but he wasn’t the man she’d feared he was either. Reprobate or not, he had more depth than she’d previously suspected. More pain, too, however much he tried to conceal it. He seemed to understand how she felt about her father as well and he did seem to have changed. He was prepared to change even more to marry her. She hadn’t seen him touch a drop of alcohol since the night she’d agreed to marry him.
Most importantly, he wanted to use her father’s money to build something, not just for himself, but for the good of others. He had a plan, a purpose, and he was prepared to let her live her own life, too. Most of all, he’d been honest with her about the nature of their relationship, hadn’t deceived her by pretending that his heart was involved. As long as she protected hers, too, they ought to be content.
‘Lance?’ she called out before he’d gone barely ten paces, pointing towards the Royal Crescent on the other side of the promenade. ‘That’s their house over there.’
He turned around slowly, meeting her gaze with a look of such searing intensity that she felt as if all the breath had left her body suddenly. He’d removed his hat and the combination of sun and sea breeze made his hair seem to glow with golden tints, making him look more ruggedly dishevelled than ever. He even looked younger, too, though his expression was stern, as if he’d been bracing himself for her to refuse him at the last moment.
She forced herself to start breathing again. He was, without any doubt, the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on—a realisation that seemed to be having a disturbing effect on her body, making her breasts and stomach tighten, so that she wondered if she were making a terrible mistake after all. She didn’t want to feel any kind of effect. That wasn’t part of their arrangement, not for seven years anyway. How mortifying would it be to want a man who didn’t want her back? Especially when that man was a renowned libertine!
Then he smiled and she forgot everything else.
‘Come along, then, Miss Harper.’
He started towards her and she found herself drifting forward to meet him, her feet seeming to move of their own accord.
‘You won’t regret it, Violet, I promise.’
He took hold of her hands as they met on the pavement, lifting them slowly to his lips and kissing each in turn. She felt a thrill of pleasure, unexpectedly touched by the gesture. He really did want her to be happy, it seemed. Maybe that in itself would be enough. Whatever other unsettling physical effects he might have on her, she could control them. There was certainly no need for him ever to know about any of it.
They walked arm in arm along the crescent to the Felstones’ house, though they’d barely entered the hall before Ianthe came hurtling out of the drawing room, enveloping her in a none-too-gentle embrace.
‘Violet! I’ve been so worried!’
‘I’m sorry. I got word to you as soon as I could, but the snow...’ She hugged her back just as tightly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Ianthe took a step back and glared daggers at Lance. ‘You didn’t intend for any of this to happen.’
‘No, but...’ She looked between the two of them, wondering how to ease the atmosphere of tension. Ianthe looked as if she wanted to throw Lance out on to the street. Nine out of ten men would have quailed and fled from such a virulent glare, but he only bent his head courteously.
‘Mrs Felstone, I presume?’
‘You presume correctly.’
‘Then I’m honoured to meet such a good friend of Violet’s.’
‘Indeed?’ Ianthe’s voice was clipped with anger. ‘Then I’m sorry to inform you that the feeling’s not mutual.’
‘Captain Amberton?’
Ianthe’s husband, Robert, emerged from the drawing room at that moment, and Violet felt a surge of relief. At least he sounded civil. Not that she could blame her friend for being protective, but there was so much to explain...
‘Mr Felstone.’ Lance took the other man’s proffered hand with a smile. ‘I’m glad to meet you again under better circumstances.’
‘So am I.’ Robert turned to face Violet with a serious expression. ‘I hope you can forgive me for what I did. It wasn’t my wish to betray you.’
‘I know.’ She smiled reassuringly, too grateful at that moment to do otherwise. ‘You were trying to help.’
‘I was. And believe me, I’ve been reprimanded enough.’
‘Oh!’ She threw a quick glance towards her friend. ‘I hope I haven’t caused any trouble.’
‘No more than he deserved.’ Ianthe seized hold of her arm, throwing one last venomous look towards Lance before dragging her off to one side.
‘It’s all right.’ Violet threw an apologetic look over her shoulder. ‘He’s not as bad as I feared.’
‘So you said in your letter, but are you certain?’ Ianthe spoke in a fierce whisper. ‘You don’t have to go through with this. Robert and I have been talking and you’re welcome to—’
‘No! I know what you’re going to say and, no. I don’t want to live on your charity, although I do appreciate the offer.’
‘But marriage is such a big step.’
‘It is, but I know what I’m doing. This is my decision, not my father’s, and I was wrong about Lance. He wasn’t mocking me that first time we met at the ball and he isn’t a reprobate, at least not any more. In any case, we’ve come to our own agreement.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that we’re adapting our fathers’ plans to suit us. Half of my inheritance will go towards the new ironworks. The other half is for me to keep and do whatever I want with.’
Ianthe looked dubious. ‘Do you trust him?’
‘Yes.’ Violet surprised herself with the readiness of her answer. ‘He’s been a perfect gentleman most of the time.’
‘Most of the time?’
She gave an evasive shrug. She had the distinct feeling that mentioning her imprisonment in a freezing cold tower wouldn’t help Lance’s cause.
‘People aren’t always who we think they are.’
‘True.’ Ianthe threw a quick glance in Robert’s direction. ‘All right, if you’re certain, then I’ll support you.’
‘Thank you.’ Violet hugged her again. ‘Besides, if it doesn’t work out, then I can always run away again.’
‘Don’t joke. You’ll be trapped up there on the Moors with him.’
‘I was trapped here before with my father, but this marriage won’t be a prison, you’ll see.’
‘It won’t be.’ Lance approached her solemnly. ‘But now I believe that it’s time, Violet.’
She looked around at the three faces surrounding her. It was hard to tell which of them looked the most anxious, though oddly enough, the sight was reassuring. The fact that they cared enough to be anxious made her feel warm inside, despite the fluttering of nerves in her abdomen. It still wasn’t too late to change her mind, but she liked him, she trusted him—and she was going to marry him.
‘Yes.’ She took his arm, all her fears dissipating in the sudden warmth of his smile. ‘It is.’