The Countess Conspiracy

She regarded him warily before finally offering a hint of a smile. “You’re one of the only people that I can work around. Being around you is like being around nobody at all.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said gravely, trying to hide his smile in response. Only Violet would say something like that and intend it as a compliment.

She blinked again. “Wait one moment. I was trying to avoid you.” She spoke with perfect bluntness. “For God’s sake, I was writing you an angry letter.”

“Oh, really?” he asked. “That was for me?” He started to lean in so he could read her words, but she flipped the papers over.

“No.” She pursed her lips. “It’s much too rude for me to deliver.”

That didn’t normally stop her. He simply folded his arms and waited.

She sniffed. “And selfish. Also, I called you a great many names.”

“You mean I sat here for an hour watching you shout at me in your head?” He was unaccountably tickled by the notion. Here he’d been imagining fascinating thoughts on her part, something about cats or steel traps. She’d been thinking of him. “That’s lovely, Violet. But you’re allowed to shout at me in reality. What did I do this time?”

She let out a sigh and looked away. “That’s the problem. You didn’t do…anything. I sat down and wrote an entire diatribe, and the whole time I was writing, I realized how horrid I was being. Half the reason I was angry was because I knew I was being dreadfully unreasonable.”

She played with the pen on her desk, rolling it uneasily beneath her fingers.

“This is about what I told you the other day?” he asked.

Her lips thinned, but she gave him a jerky nod.

“And let me guess your complaint: ‘You’re my best friend. How dare you care for me!’”

Another nod, but this one came with a flush of color on her cheeks.

“I’m a daring man,” Sebastian said lightly. “An intrepid explorer. I have done many things.”

“Yes,” she responded in almost the same tone. “You braved the wasteland of Violet Waterfield, the dangerous shark-infested waters of her most treacherous coasts. And you lived to tell the tale.”

There was a hard light in her eyes as she spoke.

You’re not a wasteland, he wanted to say. She’d do anything for the people she loved—anything, except take compliments from them.

So he just shrugged. “I brought tea for the wasteland,” he informed her.

“What? Why? Are you practicing to become a footman?”

“No. I’m practicing to be a pest.”

“You don’t need any practice. You’re already an expert.”

She flushed and looked away—but Sebastian felt a flush of pleasure. If she could tease him, she was beginning to feel comfortable again. “Perfection of all kinds requires constant practice,” he intoned. “Besides, you didn’t have breakfast or lunch. You’re hungry.”

“I didn’t?” She frowned. “I am?”

He waited.

“Oh,” she said in some surprise after a little pause. “I am.”

He crossed the room and uncovered the items on the tray. He’d had experience enough with Violet that he’d made sure to ask for only those things that could survive an hour or so on a tray—cheese, apples, an array of summer vegetables, a selection of bread. A few sweet biscuits and a pot of now tepid tea rounded out the tray.

“It’s dangerous for you to not be on good terms with me,” Sebastian told her. “You’re not eating enough. That’s one of the things I’m good for—making sure you eat.”

“Nonsense.” She reached for an apple.

He took her left hand in his. She stopped entirely as he did so, her eyes looking up at him wide and unblinking. As if she expected him to do something more than touch her.

“Don’t worry, Violet,” he said, a little more sarcastically than he intended. “I’ll hold off on seducing you until tomorrow. I just want to prove a point.” He turned over her wrist and held up his hand. “See?” He slid three fingers between her cuff and her wrist. “This gown used to fit perfectly.” He rotated his fingers, demonstrating. “Look how much extra space there is now. You’re not eating.”

“No, I am,” she said with a frown. “I’m sure I am. I have dinner. And breakfast.” A larger frown. “Most days.”

“You’re not eating,” Sebastian said, “and you’re not even noticing that you’re not eating. Do I have to set your maid on you?”

“Won’t work,” Violet muttered. “Louisa’s too timid. That’s why I hired her.” She refused to look at him. “Damn it, Sebastian. Why do you have to be so…so…”

He waggled an eyebrow at her.

“So necessary?” she finished.

“Oh, Violet.” He grinned at her. “That was almost polite.”

She made a little noise. “A few weeks ago, I told you I wouldn’t even notice if you disappeared. The truth is, I’ve noticed. Every time I look up, I notice.” Her voice was soft. “Every time I notice, I feel awful. And every time I feel awful, I look away. You’re my…”

He leaned forward.

“My best friend,” she concluded. “And I hate you for it.”

They’d worked out a system of code over the years—sentences they used to hide their true meanings from the entire world. I hate you was not part of their code, but it felt like it: words that Violet used because she couldn’t bring herself to say what she really meant. It had not been lost on Sebastian that when Violet needed codes for I need you and come see me, she’d chosen phrases that bordered on rude.

“That’s so sweet,” he said gravely. “I hate you, too, Violet.”

She ducked her head, looking away from him. Hearing everything that he’d said in words that nobody but the two of them would ever understand.

“Now eat.”

She did.

“I wish my genius ran to making automatons,” he said. “I would invent one that would follow you around with a tray. It would wait patiently for you to look up from whatever you were doing, and as soon as you did, it would say, ‘Lady Cambury, you must have something to eat.’”

She swallowed her bite of apple. “That would be extremely annoying.”

“I do not consider that a detriment.”