Chapter Four
The chandeliers of Ashford House blazed with light, but William felt no warmth in them.
The brilliance only mocked him, gold and crystal burning bright over hollow hearts.
Violet’s face haunted him in every crowd, her voice in every silence.
He could almost hear her laugh in the rustle of silk, catch the scent of wildflowers amid the perfume and powder.
The memory of her, barefoot in the grass, sunlight in her hair, made this glittering house feel like a tomb.
He longed for the quiet green of the countryside, for the curve of her smile beneath their oak tree, and the weight of her head against his shoulder.
The locket he had given her had felt so right, so true.
He had imagined it lying against her skin now, warm from her pulse, his one fragment of honesty in a world of pretense.
He had chosen it to remind her of him, but now it reminded him of everything he had left behind.
Here, under the chandeliers, everything felt gaudy and hollow.
Tonight, however, he had resolved to do what honor demanded. His heart had already chosen; now he would make it official. If he meant to be the man Violet believed him to be, he had to act before his courage broke.
He found his mother in her sitting room, embroidery in her lap, jewels flashing at her ears. The firelight gilded her profile in bronze and shadow. Even now, she looked like the house itself, beautiful and cold. William did not waste words.
“I wish to see the family jewels,” he said without preamble. “There is a ring, an emerald one. I mean to give it.”
Lady Eleanor’s head snapped up, her needle arrested mid-stitch. “A ring?”
“For my future wife, Violet Hayes,” William said steadily. “Her eyes are green as the stone. It is fitting.”
His words fell into silence, broken at last by his mother’s sharp laugh. “Absolutely not.”
He stiffened. “I am not asking your permission, Mother. I am informing you. My future lies with her.”
Her lips curled, her tone silken with contempt. “A servant’s daughter? Have you lost your mind? Do you imagine the ton will receive her? That she could preside over Ashford House, host a ball, stand beside you in Parliament? She would be torn to pieces. And you with her.”
“I love her.” His voice cracked on the words, but he forced them out. “I have loved her for years. Nothing else matters.”
“Nothing else?” she echoed, rising, her silks whispering like a hiss. “Think of the title, the estate, the tenants who depend on you. You would throw it all away for a kitchen maid’s child?”
William’s jaw clenched, his mind a storm of images—Violet’s laughter by the creek, the freckles across her nose, the way she pressed her palm to his chest and whispered that his heart beat faster for her.
He could still feel it, the warmth of her hand, the tremor in her breath when she said his name.
The memory struck him like prayer and punishment both, and he clung to it, armor against his mother’s disdain.
Before he could speak, his father’s voice cut across the room. “Eleanor.”
The Earl of Ashford stood in the doorway, tall and immovable as the oaks that lined their land. His expression was severe, carved in stone. “Do not indulge this nonsense, William. You are not free to marry where you please. Your duty is clear.”
“Duty,” William spat, though his throat tightened. That word again, always that word. Duty had stolen his childhood; now it meant to claim his future as well. He had been raised to honor the name of Ashford, but what good was honor that required a man to betray his own heart?
His mother’s eyes gleamed, triumphant. She turned toward her husband, voice sweet as poisoned honey.
“You must speak sense to him, my lord. Already I have introduced him to Lady Victoria Whitcombe, charming, accomplished, from an impeccable family. She would bring fortune, influence, stability. Everything Violet Hayes could never provide.”
William flinched at the name, though it meant nothing to him.
He saw only Violet, her curls tangled by spring winds, the locket at her throat, the way she whispered she loved him.
He had written to her again and again, each letter an outpouring of his soul, yet none had come back to him.
Every silence scraped raw against his heart.
Had she received them? Did she still believe in him?
Or had London’s distance already begun to break what they’d built?
Lady Eleanor pressed her advantage. “Even if you wed her, William, society will never accept her. She will be mocked, shunned, whispered about behind fans. At balls, ladies will turn away. At dinners, she will be slighted. You would not be protecting her, you would be destroying her. Do you wish the woman you claim to love to endure that humiliation?”
Her words hit home like a blade. For the first time, fear crept in, fear not for himself but for Violet.
His mother’s cruelty was not a lie. The world would devour her, soft-hearted and unguarded as she was.
He could almost see it, her standing in some glittering hall, confusion and hurt dimming her eyes while those same painted smiles that mocked him now tore her apart.
William’s fists curled until his knuckles whitened. “I will not marry anyone but Violet,” he said, his voice hard as iron. “I will not be swayed. I will not relent. I have given my word, and I mean to keep it.”
His father’s gaze was like a blade. “You will do your duty. The family name will not be dragged through the mud by your folly.”
The oak tree flashed in his mind, the sun through the leaves, her laughter echoing like a vow. He could not, would not, betray that.
“Then I will bear your anger,” he said, his chest heaving. “But I will not break faith with her. Violet Hayes will be my wife.”
The silence that followed was taut as a drawn bowstring.
Lady Eleanor’s hand tightened on her embroidery hoop, her smile frozen sharp.
Her eyes gleamed with promise—not of surrender, but of war.
And William knew, with a hollow dread spreading through him, that the battle for Violet had already begun, and that his mother never fought to lose.