The Countess Conspiracy

He didn’t let up.

“It took me years to figure out that it was true.” Her breath was coming in gasps; each phrase slid out between jolts of pleasure. “That I’d told that one person. And that all those years, he’d been telling me over and over and over—”

Every cell in her body seemed to explode and shiver. It swept through her, hard and powerful. He didn’t relent; his fingers inside her stretched her, expanding the moment; his mouth wrested waves of pleasure from her. She screwed her eyes shut and let the orgasm wash through her, scouring everything from her. When it passed, she lay on her back, shivering. Waiting for him to take advantage of the moment. Waiting for him to come on top of her and have his way with her while she was too weak-willed to say no.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

It was Sebastian. He would never hurt her. She’d known it all these years; she understood it now, understood it with a clarity that she’d never until now.

“Thank you,” he said gravely, extending his hand to her. She took it, and he pulled himself up to curl beside her. His arm slid around her with an easy affection. He nuzzled her neck.

“I needed that,” he breathed.

He didn’t say a word about his brother. She didn’t say one about her mother.

“That’s the thing,” Sebastian said. “Tomorrow—we can always make it better. Whatever happens, we can make it better. I don’t know what anyone will think or what they will say, but so long as we’re together, it can’t be so awful.” His hands tangled around her. “I love you.”

I love you. It felt wrong to accept that, wrong to let him love her when everything could still go so wrong.

She shivered, but he pulled her close.

Chapter Twenty-one

EVEN THE MEMORY OF THAT PREVIOUS NIGHT could not keep Violet warm the next morning. Her mother’s house had always seemed dark. Today, it seemed positively gloomy. The curtains had been drawn halfway to keep out the worst of the summer sun. The dark furniture absorbed whatever light had been left. It made the whole house seem dank and humid, a forest shrouded in clouds.

Violet had a good idea of the sort of storm that she was about to set in motion. There were some things that her mother would never forgive.

Her mother—her ever-so-practical mother—the woman who had taken Violet under her wing when her father had sent her away and taught her the steps of knitting—was going to hate what Violet had to say.

Despite her worries, Violet squared her shoulders at the threshold of her mother’s parlor. She nodded to the footman, as if nothing were amiss, and swept into the room.

“Mother,” she said respectfully.

Her mother was seated before a table reading the paper. She had spectacles on—thick spectacles—and still she held the paper a mere twelve inches from her face, concentrating on it with utmost care. Some part of Violet’s brain realized what this must mean—how poor her mother’s vision had become—but she wasn’t going to get caught up in such details. She was here to deliver a message.

She sat at the table without waiting for an invitation.

Her mother sat reading, that paper masking her face. As if she already knew what Violet was going to say. After a few minutes, she slowly laid the pages down.

“Violet.” She spoke her daughter’s name as if she were tasting something unsavory. “What are you doing here? Why are you looking at me like that?”

No point lying now. No point obfuscating, as the rules demanded. “Because you are going to be most unhappy with me.”

White eyebrows rose. “I am, am I?” She made a great show of folding the paper. “Well. Don’t just sit there like a lump. Tell me what I’m supposed to be so upset about.”

“It’s…” Violet took a deep breath. “It’s about that thing we talked about earlier. That old scandal.”

“That little thing?” Her mother’s words sounded careless, but her hand twitched, fluttering the newspaper like a fan. “Good heavens, Violet. There’s no need to talk about that little thing. I thought we were in agreement on that score.”

“Unfortunately, Mama…” Violet trailed off. She couldn’t look her mother in the eye. She couldn’t. “Unfortunately, Mama, there is. You see, that scandal is about to become very public.”

“No, it isn’t.” Her mother’s voice sounded curiously flat. “It will not. Just tell me who will be bringing out this news, and I will quash him.” Her mother’s hands shook. “With all my considerable power.”

Violet’s throat was dry as chalk. She licked her lips but her tongue imparted no moisture. She’d always been the disappointing daughter. Lily had children. She had the lovely marriage. Lily was pretty and warm and open. Lily never had to pretend.

Now Violet was going to make herself even more hated.

“It’s me,” she finally managed to croak.

Her mother’s eyes grew wide. She let out a shaky breath. Her mouth slid open, her eyes wide and haunted. “You?” Her voice trembled, and suddenly, she sounded as old as she looked. “You’re going to tell everyone? But Violet…why?”

“Because I’m tired of living a lie.”

“That’s no reason,” her mother snapped. “Are you tired of living, too? Lily wouldn’t have understood, but I thought that you would.”

“Tired of living?” Violet shook her head. “I know that there have been threats associated with the whole business, but I don’t judge them to be serious. I will have to make some alterations to my life, and I don’t know if Lily will ever forgive me, but—”

“Oh, you’ll have to make some alterations to your life.” Her mother huffed. “And you’re worried about Lily of all people? I weep for your alterations. I weep for your sister. But you two are not the ones who would hang for murder.”

Violet froze. Her eyes widened, and she placed her hands flat on the table, her mind reeling. “Really, Mama,” she managed to get out. “Are you threatening to kill me because you think hyperbole is a useful tool at a time like this, or do you wish to flout the proprieties?”

Her mother didn’t explode in anger as Violet had expected. Instead, she frowned in contemplation. Her eyebrows drew down and she peered at Violet, as if seeing her for the first time. She sniffed the air, like a cat testing her reception, and tilted her head. After a very long time, she leaned in. “Violet,” she whispered, “do you mean to tell me that you are not talking about…ahem, you know. That thing. That thing we discussed earlier? You know, that particular event relating to you that took place in 1862?”