The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(30)

As a building burning down around her while she was thinking about something else.

He could shout at her about it. He might as well shout at a kitten for having fur.

She was still writing furiously. Not just swiftly—now that he was watching her, he could tell that she was angry about whatever had caught her attention. Even from ten feet away, he could see the jagged lines her pen made, the grim set of her mouth. Her eyes narrowed at the page.

Maybe she was writing a letter about the cruelty of using steel traps to catch garden pests—one of the topics that occasionally occupied her time. Maybe she was writing a response to a fellow scientist.

That was the thing about Violet. You never knew what had caught her fancy, whether trivial or of the greatest importance. You only knew that she wouldn’t see anything around her until she’d finished with it.

Seconds of waiting turned into minutes. The light in the room shifted slowly; the shadow cast by his chair lengthened, inch by inch.

Her anger seemed to ebb as he watched, slowly changing into something he couldn’t quite place on the emotional spectrum. Resignation, maybe? Eventually, as he had known she must, Violet put down her pen and pushed aside her paper.

Watching her come back into a recognition of her surroundings was always something of a joy. She blinked as if she had just come out of a cave and her eyes needed to adjust to the light. She stretched: spine arching, arms extending, fingers spreading wide and then clenching into a fist. She drew in a breath and looked up.

Her gaze landed on Sebastian. For a few moments, she stared at him. “Oh,” she said in puzzlement. “I suppose I did hear someone come in. I should have known it was you when you didn’t disturb me.”

“I know better than to disturb you.”

She regarded him warily before finally offering a hint of a smile. “You’re one of the only people that I can work around. Being around you is like being around nobody at all.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said gravely, trying to hide his smile in response. Only Violet would say something like that and intend it as a compliment.

She blinked again. “Wait one moment. I was trying to avoid you.” She spoke with perfect bluntness. “For God’s sake, I was writing you an angry letter.”

“Oh, really?” he asked. “That was for me?” He started to lean in so he could read her words, but she flipped the papers over.

“No.” She pursed her lips. “It’s much too rude for me to deliver.”

That didn’t normally stop her. He simply folded his arms and waited.

She sniffed. “And selfish. Also, I called you a great many names.”

“You mean I sat here for an hour watching you shout at me in your head?” He was unaccountably tickled by the notion. Here he’d been imagining fascinating thoughts on her part, something about cats or steel traps. She’d been thinking of him. “That’s lovely, Violet. But you’re allowed to shout at me in reality. What did I do this time?”

She let out a sigh and looked away. “That’s the problem. You didn’t do…anything. I sat down and wrote an entire diatribe, and the whole time I was writing, I realized how horrid I was being. Half the reason I was angry was because I knew I was being dreadfully unreasonable.”

She played with the pen on her desk, rolling it uneasily beneath her fingers.

“This is about what I told you the other day?” he asked.

Her lips thinned, but she gave him a jerky nod.

“And let me guess your complaint: ‘You’re my best friend. How dare you care for me!’”

Another nod, but this one came with a flush of color on her cheeks.

“I’m a daring man,” Sebastian said lightly. “An intrepid explorer. I have done many things.”

“Yes,” she responded in almost the same tone. “You braved the wasteland of Violet Waterfield, the dangerous shark-infested waters of her most treacherous coasts. And you lived to tell the tale.”

There was a hard light in her eyes as she spoke.

You’re not a wasteland, he wanted to say. She’d do anything for the people she loved—anything, except take compliments from them.

So he just shrugged. “I brought tea for the wasteland,” he informed her.

“What? Why? Are you practicing to become a footman?”

“No. I’m practicing to be a pest.”

“You don’t need any practice. You’re already an expert.”

She flushed and looked away—but Sebastian felt a flush of pleasure. If she could tease him, she was beginning to feel comfortable again. “Perfection of all kinds requires constant practice,” he intoned. “Besides, you didn’t have breakfast or lunch. You’re hungry.”

“I didn’t?” She frowned. “I am?”

He waited.

“Oh,” she said in some surprise after a little pause. “I am.”

He crossed the room and uncovered the items on the tray. He’d had experience enough with Violet that he’d made sure to ask for only those things that could survive an hour or so on a tray—cheese, apples, an array of summer vegetables, a selection of bread. A few sweet biscuits and a pot of now tepid tea rounded out the tray.

“It’s dangerous for you to not be on good terms with me,” Sebastian told her. “You’re not eating enough. That’s one of the things I’m good for—making sure you eat.”