The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(37)
She could smell his scent. On him, the bitterness of the thistle spirits transmuted into something savory, something green and enticing. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stop being afraid,” he told her. “You know me better than that. I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want. Not with a marble. Not any other way.”
She sagged against the chair in relief. Relief and…
…And maybe, because she was well on her way to intoxication, maybe a hint of regret as well.
She fumbled for his hand in the dark. His fingers were hot against hers. How did he stay so warm? It seemed inhuman. Or maybe—worse—it seemed all too human indeed.
“I don’t understand.” She shut her eyes. “I really don’t understand. Why aren’t you angry with me? If I don’t…” She trailed off, unable to continue her thought aloud.
But it continued itself in the darkness. He wanted her. He wanted her in his bed, their limbs locked together, his lanky frame coming over hers. His hands would hold her down…
No. She didn’t want that. She couldn’t.
“Did your husband get angry with you?” he asked quietly.
Her throat closed. Her fingers clenched spasmodically around his. But she didn’t say anything.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes I do. I get frustrated, because damn it, Violet. I want you so much. But then I remember that we’re friends. And the part of me that is your friend wants to punch myself in the face. I don’t have a right to be angry because you want something different.”
“But… You have to wish…”
“I wish every day.” His hand was still clasped in hers. “Every day that passes, Violet. But I watched you during your marriage—and if you’ll pardon me—I don’t think you need another man to get angry with you.”
She let out a breath and her world righted itself. This was Sebastian, not some horrible demon. She could trust him with that much.
“Here.” She pressed the marble back into his hand. “You don’t need a favor for that.”
Her mind was a confusion of images—his mouth on hers, his hand clasping hers. Their hands would come together, drawing them closer until body pressed against body…
No. Those things were for some other person. Not for Violet when she was drunk. Not when she was sober. Not ever.
Violet was a stack of papers, dry as dust, each with Sebastian’s name written on it.
She closed his fingers on the marble.
“I trust you, Sebastian,” she said. “I always have.”
So long as he held her marble, he held a possibility—the barest chance that there might someday be more for her. In some other place, some other Violet might get kissed. It was all she knew how to hope for—some other person’s happiness—but she hoped it with every wistful part of her heart.
Maybe someday, she could let herself imagine that someone could be her. So long as it stayed in her head, she would never be hurt.
But he smiled as if this Violet—this prickly, difficult, impossible Violet—was enough for him.
“Friends?” His voice was low, so low that she could almost feel the word reverberating through her chest.
She pulled her hand away from his. “Friends.”
MAYBE IT WAS THE WEDDING. Jane glowed at the forefront of the small chapel, laden in jewels the likes of which New Shaling had never seen before. Everyone, Oliver most of all, had been unable to take their eyes off her. Maybe it was the return to London afterward with Robert and Minnie sitting next to one another and holding hands.
Maybe it was something in the summer air, because from then on, everywhere Violet looked, she saw couples. Couples promenading in the park, with the lady’s eyes cast down daintily, the gentleman beaming at her possessively. Couples on a picnic. Couples driving out together, looking for sharp turns as an excuse to lean into one another. There were happy couples everywhere.
Her visit to her sister only reinforced that. Violet was shown into the parlor. She was made to listen to her sister recite the happenings of the night before, the details of Amanda’s continuing conquest of the Season, when the door opened and Lily’s husband entered the room. He greeted Violet politely. And then the Marquess of Taltley came up behind his wife and murmured in her ear.
Violet looked away. She really did. But there was only so far one could politely avert one’s gaze without risking getting a crick in one’s neck, and she couldn’t help but see when his fingers slipped down to her sister’s shoulder.
Lily playfully slapped at her husband’s hand. “No, go away,” she said with an impudent grin. “And stop looking at me like that. I’ve only been out of confinement for seven months.”
Violet smiled, but the corners of her mouth felt brittle—as if her face might crack and fall into dust at the slightest breeze.
Lily stood and took her husband’s arm, ushering him to the door. Violet tried not to notice the way he leaned in to whisper something else in her ear. She turned away so she wouldn’t have to see that faint flush on her sister’s skin, a flush that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with something far more intimate.
She didn’t want to see her sister squeeze her husband’s hand, didn’t want to imagine the promises that were being whispered back and forth.