The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(56)

He felt like her own two hands, doing the things she would have done—sweeping up the broken shards of a pot when she dropped it, making little notations where needed, tidying the things that should be tidied, doing every last thing she thought about.

Everything except that one little thing: He didn’t kiss her.

He continued not kissing her as she finished with the last seed. There was no kissing at all as he helped her stack her collection of unbroken dirty little clay pots together, and then brought them back to the work area, where they’d be sent to be scrubbed by one of the undergardeners.

He didn’t kiss her when she washed her hands, and after she’d finished, he handed her the towel to dry them off without so much as a word.

She might almost have believed that last night had not happened—that she’d never gone to him and thrown herself at him and confessed everything—except every once in a while, he looked at her, and in that look…

She didn’t want to see that expression in his eyes, didn’t want to know what he was thinking. Surely, he’d kiss her good-bye. He’d been biding his time, setting her at ease—never mind that she’d become less and less easy as their time together went on—making her think that the kiss would never come.

When they finished the last chore together, he didn’t grab her to him. He simply went to the entry of the greenhouse. He removed his smock, changed it for his hat and his jacket. He shrugged into the latter and tipped the former at Violet. While she watched in amazement, he turned and left.

He’d left without kissing her.

She stared at his retreating form in a muddle of confusion and dread and hurt.

Impossible. He’d left without kissing her.

Violet raised her chin and marched after him. He was already through his gate when she slipped between those walls. She cursed the path and her skirts, so ungainly in that small space. The lace at her hem caught on weeds and twigs; she felt like a massive creature crashing through a tiny space.

He was halfway up the brick path to his house when she stepped out from behind his bushes.

“Sebastian!” she called.

He turned and saw her. Slowly, he paced back down to her. “What is it?”

There were a thousand things she could have said.

Thank you for your help.

I’m sorry about last night.

What she said instead was, “What on earth are you doing?”

He blinked at her for one second in confusion, and then folded his arms in front of his chest. “Are you angry at me?”

God, he was so perfect. Maybe she’d imagined it—that look in his eyes today. Maybe she was a fool to think that he’d want to kiss her. It was ridiculous to even think of what he’d told her. I am in love with you, Violet.

He couldn’t be. Maybe he’d stopped.

The instant she admitted the possibility, she realized that he must have done so. She’d admitted that she wasn’t indifferent to him. She’d been nothing more than a puzzle to him, and now that he’d solved her, he’d lost interest.

God, she should have been relieved at the thought. His interest was not something she could bear. So why did she want to shake him?

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” Violet demanded.

Sebastian rubbed his eyes. “Good God,” he mumbled into his hand. “Never say you want me to.”

She did. She didn’t. She yearned for it almost as much as she dreaded it. It was stupid to feel rejected simply because he hadn’t done something she didn’t want him to do, and Violet hated feeling stupid.

“It’s really quite simple,” she said, trying for smooth, unshaken speech. “You’re a rake. You’ve admitted that you’ve held off on attempts to seduce me because you thought me indifferent to your person. I told you that I was not. Far from it.” She held her chin in the air. “So why haven’t you kissed me?”

“You’ve expected me to leap on you?” he asked dryly.

It sounded so foolish when he said it that way. No, of course he didn’t want her like that. Maybe he felt some affection for her, but she wasn’t the sort to inspire lasting passion. Enough for… She shook her head.

That night a few weeks ago—that was all she was good for. A quick frig against a wall, a momentary distraction, soon forgotten.

It was a good thing, after all. The last thing she wanted—the last thing she needed—was to inspire passion in a man. Passion led to intercourse; intercourse led to miscarriages. Enough of those would kill her. The entire universe had demonstrated in no uncertain terms that she was not the kind of woman who could have passion. Why should it bother her that Sebastian had joined his voice with that overwhelming chorus?

“Did you hear what you told me?” he said. “You told me that when your husband had sex with you, he made you feel as if you were nothing. As if your death was a risk that he’d be willing to take.”

She couldn’t look at him. “That doesn’t mean my body is entirely silent on the matter.”

He came down the path to stand in front of her. “Violet,” he whispered, “in what world do you think I would tell you that you were nothing to me?”

She looked up at him. Her eyes stung; she could scarcely breathe. “I just—I thought—” She couldn’t say it. “I thought that perhaps you didn’t want…”