Chapter Fourteen #2
“Kaitlin must be over the moon.” She’d always wanted a lot of children. They both had...
Oh dear. The sniffles started again.
“We’re both delighted.” Edward beamed, reflecting on some inner thoughts. When he noticed she’d started dripping again, he passed her his handkerchief.
“I’m just...just so happy for you,” she bawled.
“Don’t weep so. You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I always wanted b-babies.”
“Of course you did—of course you do. And you’ll have them. One day. Violet? Do you...do you need another brandy?”
She hiccoughed through a snort. “It won’t make me stop crying, Edward. And it won’t stop this pain.” She laid a palm to her breast. “Besides, I think I’ve had plenty.” Indeed, the room was getting uncomfortably warm. “It’s just that...” She sighed. “I love him so much and I’ll never see him again.”
Something in his expression snagged her attention. He rose from his crouch at her feet and sat next to her again.
“Edward? What is it?”
He plucked at his lower lip. “You, ah, may see him again.”
Her heart leapt. She sprang to her feet. “What are you saying?”
He stared at her, lips pursed, as though trying to figure out how to break some unpleasant news. At long last, he said, “He pressed Kaitlin into that betrothal because he needed entrée into the ton. So his sister could have a season.”
Violet nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes.” She knew all this.
“In exchange for you and Kaitlin, I agreed to give him what he wanted.”
Her fingers curled into tight balls until her nails scored her palms. “Which was?”
“Ewan McCloud and his sister are coming here for the season. We are hosting her debut.”
The blood rushed from her head. Her knees went weak. The brandy, previously quiescent and warm, turned into a bubbling, boiling brew in her belly. She sucked in a breath but still her lungs burned.
A slow curtain fell and a blissful darkness took her.
Ewan’s belly tightened as the carriage made its way through the clogged streets of London. He’d always hated the capital with its thick air and constant bustle. He missed Scotland, his little island particularly.
He was decidedly a fish out of water in these surrounds.
He knew little to nothing about the haute ton.
Although William had tried to coach him on the finer points, it had only served to show him precisely how much he did not know.
How utterly gauche and incongruous he would be at teas and soirees and fucking balls.
But he would only have to suffer the discomfiture for three months.
Three long months.
He could handle it, he supposed.
He would.
For Sophia.
He glanced across at her exuberant expression as she stared out of the window and his heart clenched. She was worth everything. Every discomfort. Every humiliation. Every sacrifice.
Why the vision of Violet Wyeth—soft and fragile and lolling in his bed—popped into his mind just then, he did not dare contemplate. It wasn’t as though he had sacrificed a future with Violet to gain this boon for Sophia.
There had never been a future with Violet to sacrifice.
He hadn’t made a choice. He’d never had a choice.
He was, simply put, not good enough for her. And after what had passed between them, she had every right to deplore him.
He’d spent the last month putting her from his mind.
It was time to put the past—and his feelings for Violet—behind him and move on.
He’d spent a lifetime building a fortune and creating connections and scrabbling for Sophia’s future.
The next three months would be critical for her.
Ewan couldn’t afford to be distracted by jet-black curls or indigo eyes. He needed to focus on Sophia.
When he’d picked his sister up at Lady Satterlee’s, he’d been poleaxed by the difference in her. She was all grown up. It seemed she’d turned from a wild Scottish hoyden into a refined British woman in the space of two years.
Though her enthusiasm for adventure had not dimmed. Even now, she practically hung out the window. Every now and then she would spot a famous sight and call it out and her face would glow.
She’d been a little perturbed to learn she would be staying with Moncrieff at Wyeth House—the Dark Duke’s reputation was something of a legend in Lady Satterlee’s hallowed halls.
But now that Edward was married—and to a Scot and, apparently, one of Sophia’s school friends—she was looking forward to it.
Ewan hadn’t known Kaitlin had attended Lady Satterlee’s. He hoped the new duchess could overlook their unpleasant past and treat his sister well. He couldn’t bear the thought of waspish tongues turned in Sophia’s direction.
His sister did not deserve to suffer for his sins.
The carriage turned down a broad avenue and rolled to a stop in a curved drive before an enormous mansion.
Ewan’s pulse kicked up a notch. His throat went dry.
Well. This was it. This was where he discovered whether or not Moncrieff was a man of his word.
He goddamn better be.
He clenched his fingers into a fist and then, when he realized he had, deliberately forced them to relax. He’d sent a missive with their arrival plans in good time for Edward to cry off. Make some lame excuse. Or simply tell him to go to hell.
Which he would have deserved. Ewan had held the man’s cousin in his dungeon after all. Debauched her. Fallen head over heels for her. Surely she had told the duke everything by now.
Well, perhaps not everything.
At any rate, Moncrieff would be well within his rights to refuse them entrance.
So Ewan had cause to sweat.
And, if he was being honest, a great portion of his anxiety stemmed from the fact that finally, after one full month of aching hell, he was going to see her again.
He wouldn’t be able to touch her, not as he wanted to. He certainly would not be allowed to speak to her alone—society had very stringent rules for unmarried women. Ewan had no illusions about that.
But surely it would be enough just to see her face.