Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(10)

To this day, Violet remained unsure of his motives that night. Had he set out to seduce her, or had matters simply…progressed?

That night, there’d been a party at his family’s house. Just a small gathering of family and friends—their first foray back into society after months of mourning. Violet had haunted the corner, as always. Watching him surreptitiously, as always.

And then he’d looked up and seen her. Truly seen her. Just as she’d always prayed he would. His brown gaze seemed to explore the depths of her soul, uncovering all her hopes, all her dreams, all her fears and cares and desires…and most of all, her love for him.

At least, she’d wanted to believe he was looking straight into her soul. But in retrospect, perhaps he was just seeing through her, past her. As though she were some sort of gated entrance he must traverse, and the rest of his life lay on the other side.

As he’d crossed the room to her, his demeanor had been so intent.

I have a book for you, Violet. Come, it’s just upstairs.

So she’d followed him. On the way up the stairs, she’d made a little joke about the impropriety. But they were old friends, and no one would suspect more. She knew this house as well as she knew her own, and it seemed almost silly that she’d never been inside his rooms. He didn’t even reside in them anymore. For the past several years, he’d kept a bachelor’s apartment across the square.

He led her into a bedchamber and shut the door. A sudden wash of heat made her brain muddled, swampy.

Where’s the book? she’d asked.

There’s no book, he’d said.

And then he’d taken her in his arms.

That kiss—that first magical press of his lips to hers—how she wished she could go back and relive it. She’d been caught completely unawares, after a solid decade of yearning for just that moment. All those years of wishing and hoping and practicing on her hand…cast out the window, instantly. Because it was happening.

She felt her own life racing ahead of her, leaving her breathless in pursuit. Each step in the sensual progression took her by surprise. His hands on her br**sts. Then his mouth on her br**sts. The dizzy rush of inversion when he tipped her back onto the bed. His heavy weight, pressing her into the mattress.

Wait, she’d wanted to plead. Give me a moment to catch up.

But she hadn’t said a word. Because she knew him too well. If she’d expressed the slightest uncertainty, he would have ceased his attentions. And that would have been a tragedy.

She’d wanted it too. Each kiss, each caress. She’d wanted all of it.

All of him.

“What do you say?” she asked. “Was it a ruthless seduction or a simple mistake?”

Her companion scowled. And unleashed a robust chain of what sounded like pure Breton blasphemy.

Violet glanced in Finn and Fosbury’s direction, reassuring them with a mild smile.

When she spoke again, she kept her voice hushed and her manner calm. “I wasn’t unwilling, if that’s what you’re thinking. Quite the opposite.”

“Even so. He was a devil to take advantage. And a fool to ever let you go.”

“He was a disappointment, I’ll say that much. That’s how I came to call him in my mind, you see. The Disappointment. It pained me too much to think of him by name.”

“The Disappointment.” He snorted. “It was that bad?”

Her face flushed. “It wasn’t bad.”

“Then it wasn’t good.”

“From what I’ve been led to understand, it was about as pleasant as any girl can expect, her first time. Some parts of it were wonderful. It might have improved on the second go, but—”

But then he’d gone. He’d left England the very next day.

Though almost a year had passed, her viscera helpfully reenacted all the shock and pain of that betrayal. Her stomach clenched, and her heartbeat took on the hollow thump of a kettledrum.

“His father had purchased some land in Antigua, and he went to survey the property. He didn’t even come to tell me himself, just sent a note. I never saw him again. That was the disappointment.”

“Gutless bastard.”

“I was cowardly too.” She studied her tea. “I hadn’t asked him for any promises. I never told him of my feelings. Maybe he didn’t realize I would have liked more.”

“He knew. He most certainly knew.” He ducked his chin, seeking her gaze. “Your heart is written on your face, mon ange. That’s what makes your face so beautiful.”

Her pulse fluttered. What did he mean? What did any of this mean?

She wished she could collect all the warmth and compassion in his eyes and weigh it on some sort of scale. Did it add up to mere polite concern, or to something more? Guilt or apology, maybe. Perhaps even love?

She said, “You are remarkably well-spoken for a humble Breton farmhand.”

He ignored her baiting remark. “You have been treated poorly and have suffered much. I’m sorry for it. But I am here.”

“Yes. You are here. But I don’t know that you can be trusted. Until I’m convinced otherwise, I must assume you are an enemy. A threat to my safety and my friends’.”

“Come.” He cocked his head, urging her close.

With a cautious glance toward Finn and Fosbury, she leaned forward. Until the heat of his breath could be felt against the exposed, vulnerable curve of her neck. Her heart thundered in her chest.