The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) (15 page)

In the library, he’d awakened her to pleasure that she hadn’t known existed. His kisses had been so hot, his words even hotter. Then there was the way he’d touched her:
inside
and out until bliss had exploded, catapulting her over that dazzling, ecstatic edge… It had been, without question, the most exhilarating experience of her life. Better than any sport. Better than riding, climbing, and dancing
combined
.

“We should talk.”

Carlisle’s pronouncement pulled her from her reverie. His brusque tone and the intent look in his eyes instantly filled her with wariness. Although she couldn’t deny her physical attraction to him, their differences were far from settled. The memory of his shoddy marriage proposal surfaced, along with all his past comments about her character.

And
he’d sided with Ambrose in trying to shut her out of the case.

Nothing has changed,
her inner voice said.
Just because he dallied with you doesn’t mean he likes you.

Something inside her deflated like a soufflé. As much as she’d told herself that his opinion didn’t matter, for some infernal reason, it did. The fact made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way she didn’t like.

As they passed the landing, which featured a Grecian urn gleaming in its recessed niche, she tried to bluff her way through. “Yes, we need to figure out how to help Wick—”

“There’s no
we
in that endeavor, Miss Kent. Wickham is my brother and my responsibility. I don’t want you involved.”

His rejection worse than stung—it
hurt
. A fragile connection had sprouted between them since finding Monique’s body. For a short time, they’d actually been working together, and it had felt surprisingly… right.

Swallowing, she said, “I’m already involved. Wick’s my friend. Don’t forget I’m protecting his secret, too.”

“I’m in no danger of forgetting. I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.” While she struggled to absorb that blow, Carlisle went on impatiently, “My brother aside, you and I have a matter to settle between us. A matter of honor.”

At the word “honor,” she stopped short in the deserted hallway, just a few doors down from her chamber. Anger shot up like a geyser. She welcomed the sudden surge of energy because it felt better than humiliation.

“You’re not going to propose again, are you?” she said acidly.

His eyes flickered. Did he flinch?

When he spoke, his words were harder than iron. “Is it the notion of marriage that you find offensive or the notion of marriage to me?”

“I don’t find the notion of marriage offensive.”

“It’s me, then.” His expression was darker than a forge. “At least you’re honest. So none of that meant anything to you, is that it?”

“None of what?” she shot back.

“Kissing, making love.” Iridescent ore glittered in his eyes. “You’re like the rest of your sex. Flirtation is a game to you. You string men along for fun and then toss them aside when you grow bored.”

The unfairness of the accusation rendered her speechless for a moment.

She planted her hands on her hips. “I’m not playing any games!”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” he said in scathing tones, “you and I have played twice now in the dark. Yet you won’t even listen to my proposal.”

Then and there, her temper snapped.

“Because I don’t want to be insulted, you lummox!” she yelled.

“Insulted?” he said coldly. “Why would
you
be insulted?”

Could the man honestly be that obtuse?

“Because your last
proposal
was a lecture on duty and responsibility. Despite the fact that I am not the paragon you want for a wife—that I am a
mistake,
as you so charmingly put it—you charitably offered to take me on anyway, in spite of your good judgement.”

Heartbeats pounded by as he stared at her, looking… surprised? Ruddy color tinged his broad cheekbones. Lifting a hand, he rubbed the back of his neck.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he muttered.

“Well, that’s the way it came out. And I have no desire for a repeat performance. Trust me, I’m fully aware of my flaws and don’t need to have them pointed out to me.” Her breath grew choppy; she had the sudden panic that she might burst into tears. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her vision blurring ominously, “I’ll see myself to my room.”

“Wait.” He caught her by the arm.

“Just let me
go
.” Determined not to let him see her cry, she struggled against his hold.

“Violet, please. I… I’m sorry.”

At his hoarse words, she stilled. He was… apologizing? To her?

“I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m not skilled when it comes to dealing with… affairs of a personal nature.” The gruffness of his admission made her throat swell. “I haven’t my brother’s charm or ease with your sex. Sometimes I say things, and they don’t come out as I intended. That is my failing entirely—and not a reflection of my regard for you.”

Violet stared at his sincere, rough-hewn features, unable to form words.

He released her arm. His gaze fixed on the carpet as if the pattern explained the mysteries of the universe. “I don’t expect your forgiveness. I’ve not acted like a gentleman where you are concerned. But even so,”—his voice was gravelly—“I cannot regret what has passed between us.”

The thumping of her heart grew loud in her ears. All at once, emotion surged. She didn’t have the wherewithal to push it back.

“You’re crying?
God,
I’m such a bastard.” Looking stricken, Carlisle cupped her jaw with both hands, his thumbs wiping clumsily at her tears. “Damnit, I’m so sorry…”

His tenderness was unexpected and…
awkward
. Endearingly so. It unleashed a tempest within her, and she began to weep. With a groan, Carlisle gave up trying to dash away her tears and pulled her into his arms instead. His embrace was too tight, the buttons of his waistcoat jamming into her cheek, but he stroked her back, murmuring bits of nonsense against her hair.

Vi didn’t cry often, but when she did it was oft like this: as intense and brief as a summer storm. When the tears subsided, awareness returned to her... along with a feeling of supreme foolishness. Embarrassed, she pushed at his chest. He let her go and silently handed her a handkerchief.

Fighting a sniffle, she wiped her cheeks. “Just so you know, I’m no watering pot. I don’t know where that came from.”

“’Tis the stress, I expect. You’ve been through a lot. First there’s the assignation in the library, then finding a dead body. And I had to go top it off with the worst proposal in living memory.”

His dry humor startled a hiccupping laugh from her. His expression remained stoic, but the line of his lips bent a little. A rueful curve.

“When did you become so understanding, Lord Carlisle?” she said.

“Just now, when a young miss put me in my place and deservedly so.”

In his iron-dark gaze, she thought she glimpsed a smile. Her heart fluttered.

“Feeling better now?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said shyly. “Thank you.”

He reached out, brushing his knuckles against her cheek, his touch mesmerizingly sweet.

The sound of footsteps dispelled the magic of the moment. They sprang apart just as Miss Turbett appeared at the end of the hall. She was walking with her head down, apparently lost in her thoughts. When she was in danger of plowing right through them, Vi spoke up.

“Um, hello, Miss Turbett.”

The other miss started, her grey gaze flying up. “Oh! My, you gave me a fright. I’m afraid I didn’t…” She bit her lip, bobbed a curtsy. “Good afternoon.”

Violet and Richard both returned the courtesy. Vi noticed that the other girl looked paler than usual—which was saying something. Beneath Miss Turbett’s fine, translucent skin, tracings of blue veins could be seen, and purple smudged below her eyes.

“Are you all right?” Vi said with concern.

The other’s light brown lashes swept rapidly. “Oh, yes. I’m perfectly fine—”

“Amelia! There you are.” Mr. Turbett came marching up. He was a tall, sparse man; during the party, Vi had observed that the merchant had a brusque and domineering manner, especially when it came to his daughter.

“What have I told you about wandering off without me?” he demanded.

Cowering, Miss Turbett whispered, “I’m sorry, Father. I… I was just…”

“She was just chatting with us,” Violet said brightly. “Good day, sir.”

“Turbett.” Carlisle inclined his head.

The merchant grudgingly bent at the waist. “My lord. Have you seen Mr. Murray?”

Carlisle’s jaw tautened. “My brother is around, I’m sure.”

Neatly done
, Violet thought.

“But not where he’s supposed to be.” Turbett’s gaze narrowed. “I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since yesterday afternoon.”

“Father, please—”

“Be quiet, Amelia.” Her father held up a hand to silence her. “Now, Carlisle, you and I had an understanding. I didn’t come all the way to this bloody house party to twiddle my thumbs. And now there’s the inconvenience of that woman’s accident. God knows how an acrobat managed to meet her maker tripping over something in the library.”

Violet exchanged a quick look with Carlisle. Apparently, Billings had made the announcement about Monique’s death, and he’d skimmed over the facts.

“Now we’re all stuck here until the matter is wrapped up, and I refuse to have that time be wasted. Mr. Murray had better pay his respects to my daughter soon, or our deal is off.” Turbett crossed his arms over his puny chest. “He’s not the only fish in the sea.”

A muffled sound of embarrassment escaped Miss Turbett. Violet’s heart went out to the other. Simultaneously, she noted the ominous ticking of the muscle in Carlisle’s jaw.

With an obvious force of will, he maintained his temper. “Wickham knows his duty. You may expect to see him soon.”

“I had better.” His message delivered, Turbett grabbed his daughter’s arm. “Come, Amelia. ’Tis time for our afternoon constitutional.”

The girl looked so miserable that Violet said impulsively, “I was wondering, Miss Turbett, if you’d care to join my sisters and me for, um, a game of cards some time?”

Miss Turbett blinked. “Oh. That’s nice of you—”

“My daughter doesn’t play games. She hasn’t time for frivolity. Good day.” Without another word, Turbett dragged his offspring away.

“He’s not a friendly chap, is he?” Violet muttered under her breath.

“To Turbett, friendliness is a waste of time.” Distaste was evident in Carlisle’s austere countenance.

Then why are you bullying Wick into marrying his daughter? Why are you using him to clean up the mess you made?

Confusing questions tangled in Vi’s brain. At the same time, weariness rolled over her like a fog. She wavered on her feet; Carlisle caught her.

“You haven’t slept all night. You must be exhausted.” He steered her the remaining distance to her room. “Time for a nap.”

She opened her mouth to argue that she wasn’t a child—and a yawn emerged instead. Crumpets, she
was
drowsy. “We have to talk. ’Bout Wick,” she mumbled.

“We will. After you’ve rested.”

“Promise?”

He nodded. “Now get inside, lass.”

She let him open the door for her, was halfway in when she turned around. “Carlisle?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you… for being nice.”

His lips tipped up slightly at the corners. “You’re welcome.”

Smiling to herself, she closed the door. Without bothering to take off her clothes, she stumbled to the bed and flopped onto the mattress. She gazed up at the canopy, her eyelids already heavy, and within minutes, she fell asleep... thinking of him.

Chapter Fifteen

“Violet, dear, it’s time to get dressed for supper.”

Vi ignored the soft, familiar voice and snuggled deeper into her dream. Cuddled against a hard chest and held by strong arms, she was riding into a glorious sunset with her prince. They were astride a majestic white horse, and she sat in front of him, relaxed and comfortable in her… trousers?

“Poor thing’s all done in.”

She disregarded the second voice, too, because she’d turned her head to look into her prince’s eyes: they were as dark and smoky as a smithy. He bent his head, his mouth slanting deliciously over hers…

“Violet never naps. I hope she’s all right…”

As the voices murmured on, the vestiges of the dream slipped away. Violet blinked groggily at the pink canopy; never a sound sleeper, she wasn’t used to the disorienting lethargy of waking from a deep slumber. Then it all came back to her.

Monique… Wick…
Carlisle.

The stress of events and that crying jag must have worn her out. How long had she been asleep? Leaning up on her elbows, she saw two figures standing by the wardrobe. Emma… and Thea!

She threw back the covers. “Thea, when did you arrive?”

The second eldest Kent sister, now the Marchioness of Tremont, turned, her pretty, gentle face wreathed in smiles. She opened her arms, and Violet bounded into them.

“Just an hour ago.” Thea gave her a hug and stepped back, studying her with warm hazel eyes. “It’s only been a few weeks since we were last together, but I vow there’s something different about you.”

Vi squirmed. “I’m, um, just the same as I ever was. Same old Violet, that’s me.”

“Now that you mention it, Thea, I see it too.”
Parsnips
—now Em was scrutinizing her too. “There
is
something different about you, Violet. A certain glow.”

Do not blush. Do not blush.

“I had a good nap, that’s all.” Running her fingers through her tangled tresses, she said, “How was your journey, Thea?”

“Not as eventful as what’s been going on here.” Thea shook her head, her gilded oak curls gleaming. “Emma told me everything. I can’t believe it. How dreadful for Madame Monique. And for you and Lord Carlisle to discover her.”

“It was a shocker,” Vi admitted.

“We’ll have to do our catching up whilst we get Violet dressed,” Emma interjected. “There’s only an hour before supper.”

Vi noticed then that her two sisters were already dressed for the evening. Emma’s cerise taffeta complemented her rich brunette coloring, a pink sapphire and diamond choker circling her neck. Thea’s celestial blue
crepe de chine
was trimmed with seed pearls and suited her ethereal beauty perfectly.