The Countess Conspiracy

If he didn’t want fifty acres of farmland, he’d certainly have no need for as poor a specimen as herself.

“I see,” he said slowly. “You’ve never known me at all.” His mouth twisted. “I’ve given lectures for you for five years running, delivering them over and over until I knew your mind better than anyone else’s. And this whole time, you’ve never bothered to return the favor.”

“Sebastian.” She could scarcely look at him, but she couldn’t look away. His eyes were dark, his face grim.

“I know you this well.” He took a step toward her. “I know that if I stand too close, you look for an escape. If I so much as brush your fingers…” He lifted his hand.

She scrambled back.

“Precisely.” He bit off the word. “Violet, you and I—we lie to each other as much as we lie to the rest of the world.”

It was true. She felt a panic brewing in her stomach. Over the last year—she couldn’t help herself—she’d begun to feel again. That flutter of interest, those moments of weakness. But Sebastian didn’t know what he was asking. For him, it would mean nothing to crumble her defenses. For her, the truth would wash away everything she was.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice didn’t sound the least bit shaky. And why should it? Stone was firm. Stone was unyielding. “You already know everything about me.”

“All I know about you these days is your work.”

Stone didn’t care about the hurt that bloomed in his eyes. Stone persisted; that’s what it did. She sniffed. “My work is all there is to me.”

He looked at her and slowly, slowly shook his head. “Damn it, Violet.”

Stone felt no pain. It had no heart to do so.

“I suppose matters would be different,” she heard herself say, “if I were one of your women—susceptible to your charm. Then, perhaps I could—”

He turned from her, withdrawing so quickly that she caught her breath.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Violet.” His voice was low and withering. “I don’t care what you think of my morals, but I do have standards.” He turned his head to contemplate her over his shoulder, his eyes dark and intense. “And you don’t meet them.”

She felt a pit open in her stomach. There was too much truth in that—enough to remind her why she’d pushed him away.

“Good riddance, then,” she heard herself say to her best friend. “It’s just as well we’re not working together any longer. I doubt I’ll even notice your absence.” She wished she could sweep away, but she had to fumble for her gloves, still lying on the bench.

“I’m sure you won’t,” he shot back. “Good thing I won’t be here.”

She grabbed up her gloves and glanced at him. His arms were folded, his eyes bright with hurt. Sebastian was rarely angry, rarely out of sorts. If Sebastian was showing such a thing—and twice, in twenty-four hours—he had to be upset beyond her comprehension.

He was right. It hurt, admitting that. He was right; they couldn’t keep on as they had. He had too much to hope for from life, and she had too little.

He looked at her as if imagining that even now she’d apologize. Yes, Sebastian. I’ll stop pushing you away. I’ll just let myself fall in love with London’s greatest rake.

For a moment, she wanted to take his hands and confess everything. But when she thought of opening her mouth, she found that she had nothing to say. That much hadn’t been a lie. There couldn’t be anything to her but her work. Anything else…well, it would turn to fossil soon enough.

Instead, she slipped on her gloves and walked away.

Chapter Three

THE ESTATE WHERE SEBASTIAN had grown up lay ten miles west of London, a pleasant hour’s ride from the point where the clutter of close-packed buildings gave way to smaller hamlets and countryside.

His charade with Violet had absorbed so much of his adult life that a gaping emptiness presented itself. A vast distance had sprung up between himself and the people he most cared for. But if there was a place where he might go to bridge that gap, it was here. Here on the land that belonged to his brother, in the place where his childhood memories clustered, fuzzy indistinct recollections of his earliest years.

Memories of falling in that stream, there, when he’d been six years old, trying to imitate Violet as she gracefully crossed a log. Of her reading a story aloud when he was just learning his letters.

Even here, Violet was intertwined with his life. She’d grown up half a mile from him. She was two years older than he, and for as long as he could remember he’d been following her around, seeing her as some wonderful creature, one more clever and more capable than he. These last few days marked the first time in Sebastian’s life that he’d pushed her away.

But there were other memories here besides those containing Violet, and that was why Sebastian had come.

He brought his horse to the stables. A man came out and offered to care for the animal; Sebastian waved him away.

It had been a gentle ride and his black mare was hardly in need of anything more than a rub and a bucket of oats. Still, he took his time currying her, running the brush over the whorls of her hair, watching her hide twitch when he tickled her flank. It was one of the oldest tricks he knew: If he couldn’t make sense of the world, he could at least make sense of his horse.

The stable doors opened. Light flooded in; another horse huffed at the entrance, blowing hard.

Sebastian looked up. The rider—a tall, thick figure—slid to the floor. The man was gasping for air. For a long while, he stood there, clinging to his animal as if his knees wouldn’t support him any longer. Sebastian sat on the stool next to his own animal, frozen, wanting to stand but afraid to intervene.

Gradually, the man’s breath evened. He straightened.

He didn’t call for a servant.

Sebastian blinked in disbelief as his elder brother sank to one knee beside his horse and undid the girth on his own. Before Sebastian could offer his help, he had lifted all that heavy leather off his stallion. He staggered under the weight, managed to catch himself against a wall. His breathing was shallow, echoing too loudly in the dark stable.

Sebastian stood. “Benedict. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Benedict Malheur froze where he stood. For an instant, it was as if their positions were reversed—as if Sebastian were the elder and Benedict the one who had been caught in a misdeed. But the moment didn’t last long.