Chapter Fourteen
Violet stared at her reflection in the mirror and sighed desultorily as Mary coiled her hair on top her head.
Honestly, why she had to go to all this trouble for dinner with her family was beyond her.
She wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed—where she’d been when Mary arrived—and resume her gloom.
Not that she enjoyed melancholy. It just seemed all she had energy for anymore. Since she’d returned from Scotland, she was exhausted beyond words. And whenever she thought of Ewan, she burst into tears. Not that she thought of him. She did not.
Not if she could help it.
Kaitlin, who had always been able to coax her from a dark mood, had been no help whatsoever. She and Edward—who had astonishingly been married in a quick ceremony before they left Dundee—had been sequestered in the ducal apartments; but for the odd meal, they hadn’t been seen in weeks.
Even Violet’s joy at being in the bosom of her family had palled quickly. It was as though there was a great gaping hole in her heart and nothing could soothe it.
And this—this trial of preparing for hours for a dinner that would not last half as long—seemed absurd. She longed for a simple plate in her rooms, a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread. A conversation with a large, laughing man whose eyes crinkled when he smiled—
Bother. There she went again.
She was not thinking of him.
She wasn’t.
“All finished, miss.”
Violet scanned her reflection. All she noticed were the dark circles beneath her eyes and the pallid complexion. She looked like a fishwife. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to keep her.
The gong sounded and Violet sighed again. She would make it through this meal. She would put food in her mouth when she was supposed to and smile when she should. She would make efforts at conversation. And when it was over, she could return to her room and crawl into her bed and wallow there.
The boys were assembled in the drawing room, chattering away and engaged in a variety of pursuits that would once have made her laugh. They greeted her with a series of calls. She nodded to them and then to Edward, because he was there as well. Oh. And Hortense.
She tried not to notice her aunt’s sharp perusal.
“Shall we go in?” Edward asked, taking Hortense’s arm.
“Isn’t Kaitlin joining us?” Hortense asked. The duke and his new bride had been inseparable since the wedding.
Edward grinned. “She’s not feeling well.”
Hortense snorted. “And that pleases you?” Edward nibbled on his grin and didn’t respond, which made Hortense’s rheumy eyes widen, her chins quiver. She patted his hand. “Good show.” She waved her cane and warbled in a strident tone, “Come along, lads. I’m starving.”
They took their seats around the table and the footmen began serving the soup.
Violet tried to eat it but couldn’t get much down.
It tasted off. As did the next course. And the next.
She did find an appetite for the pickled plums, served as a counterpoint to the beef, and scooped them all onto her plate, much to Malcolm’s chagrin.
To the conversation flowing around her, she paid no mind. Not until she heard the word McCloud. Her heart stalled and then began to pound. Her chin snapped up. She found her gaze snared in Edward’s and she didn’t care for the emotion she saw there. It was too close to pity for her liking.
“Hard to believe,” Ned was saying, a sneer on his handsome face, “that a man could have such gall.” Violet glared at her brother but he didn’t notice. “You should have had him hanged, Edward. Really. You should have.”
The blood in her veins chilled.
“Or transported him,” Malcolm chimed in.
Edward set down his fork and took a sip of wine. “They don’t do that anymore.”
“You could have done it,” Tay offered. “You could do anything.”
“Surely not anything,” Edward said with a smile.
“What happens to a man to make him into a brute like that?” Ned asked.
Malcolm nodded. “Surely he wasn’t born such an ogre.”
“He’s not an ogre.” Violet didn’t know from where she found her voice, or how it came to ring so clearly. But she couldn’t stay silent. Eight heads snapped up. Eight pairs of nearly identical eyes fixed on her, gaping as though she had sprouted horns and a tail.
“Violet! He kidnapped you!”
She put out a lip. “He did not. Callum MacAllister kidnapped me.”
“That’s true,” Hortense waved her spoon. “I was there.”
Ned ignored this pertinent fact. “But he held you prisoner.”
“Beat you.”
“Tortured you.” Oh, dear. But then, Hamish was the melodramatic one.
“He did not beat me. He most certainly did not torture me. He was... He was... Oh bother!” Tears welled, despite her attempts to hold them back. “You don’t know anything.”
“Then tell us, Violet.” This from Edward, a calm, kind request. He hadn’t asked for any details of her ordeal and she hadn’t offered. She had told them nothing. Clearly that had been unwise. They’d jumped to conclusions—and the wrong ones.
“Tell us what that swine did to you!” Hamish again. His eyes gleamed. He leaned forward in anticipation, the bloodthirsty fiend.
“I’ll tell you what we did to him.” Her voice was a low thrum, clogged with emotion. “Do you know who he was?” She turned to Ned, brandishing a plum on the tines of her fork. “Did you even recognize him?”
“R-recognize him?” he sputtered. “Why would I recognize him?”
“Because when he was young, he lived at Browning.”
A gasp circled the table.
“Never say it.” Malcolm reached for his water glass and tipped it over.
“Aye.” She turned to Ned. “Do you remember Ewan St. Andrews?”
His brow wrinkled. “The groom? The one who pulled you from the ice?”
“I remember him,” Malcolm muttered. “The boy who kissed you.”
Violet’s attention snapped to her younger brother. The little hairs rose on her nape. “How do you know he kissed me?” she hissed. “I told no one.”
“I saw you. Turned my stomach. He was a servant, Violet. He should never have kissed you.”
The plums curled in her belly. “And you told father.”
Malcolm snorted. “Naturally.”
“He beat him, Malcolm.” To his credit, Malcolm paled.
They’d all seen the sharper end of Horace Wyeth’s fury.
“He nearly beat him to death. And then our father dismissed his mother. Turned them both out without references.” She swallowed.
“It was winter, if you recall. A cold winter. They had nothing and...and she was with child.” Oh.
She couldn’t hold it in any longer. Could not hold back the tears.
They flowed down her face as she thought of that poor boy, the boy she loved, destitute and hungry and cold.
Alone in a cruel, hard world with nothing and no one.
“His mother died, Malcolm. Be-because of us.” She buried her face in her palms. “Because of me.”
A warm hand settled on her shoulder. She glanced up to see Edward standing beside her. “It’s not your fault, Violet,” he said.
“It is, Edward. Don’t you see? It is.” Her tears had become sobs, which were threatening to become gasping heaves.
He drew her up into his arms and held her tight. “Hush now. It was all long ago.”
She shook her head and tried to tell him no, it wasn’t so very long ago, and the scars had not healed and he hated her, but she couldn’t. All she could do was weep.
He shot a dark frown around the table and without a word, lifted her.
“W-w-where are w-we g-going?”
He strode toward his study. “You need a drink.”
“Not w-whisky,” she wailed. “H-he d-drank w-whisky.”
“Brandy then.” Edward settled her in the chair by the fire and poured her a dram, watching with fists on his hips as she drank it down.
It didn’t stop the tears but it burned away the bitter cold that had invaded her heart.
When her glass was empty, he filled it again, and then filled one for himself.
“I think we need to talk.” He pursed his lips. “When you’re ready.”
Ready? She would never be ready to talk about Ewan. She couldn’t bear it.
But apparently, in addition to its miraculous warming properties, the spirit could also loosen the tongue. Not only did she speak, she opened her mouth and the first words out were mortifying.
“I love him, Edward.”
He got that look again. Compassion and sympathy and discomfiting pity. “I gathered as much.”
“I always have. Since we were young. I love him with all my heart. And...”
“And?”
“He hates me.”
“When I spoke to him, I didn’t get the sense he hates you.”
She put out a lip, a trifle annoyed by his dissent. “It’s hardly something one proclaims in the course of a conversation.” She dashed at the dampness on her cheeks. “The point is, he will certainly never love me. Not the way I... Oh bother, Edward. What’s wrong with me?”
He knelt before her. Took her cold hands in his and stroked them with his thumbs. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Violet. You are a beautiful, vivacious young woman about to embark on your first season. This should be the most exciting time of your life.”
Really, she was quite put out by his gentle charm. Wherever had the heartless rake gone? “I’m not excited in the least.”
“You will be. Just wait. You’ll attend your first ball and meet a handsome man and fall in love and you’ll forget all about the McCloud. You’ll see.” Some odd emotion flickered over his face but it was gone before she could interpret it. “Don’t worry. We will find you a husband.”
Why that made her cry once more was a mystery. It was lovely being comforted like this. “I d-don’t w-want a h-husband. C-can’t I just live here with you and Kaitlin forever?”
His smile was far too kind. It only made her weepier. “Absolutely, poppet.”
An incongruous laugh bubbled out. “Have you ever called anyone poppet before?”
“Not once. But I figured I’d better get in some practice.” He leaned in and whispered, “Kaitlin’s...in a family way.”
At once her misery wafted away—at least for the moment—as joy trickled through her soul. “Oh, Edward.” She placed a palm on his cheek. “That is wonderful news.”
“Thank you.”