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Authors: Kate Moore
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descended, then circled back through the servants’ door and up another stair.
Now he passed from Frank’s bedroom around the central courtyard towards the guest rooms at the rear of the house. He stood awhile in the dark looking down the hallway. No sign of light came from under the door of any of the rooms assigned to the prince’s party. At the far corner of the courtyard, he spoke briefly to Stevens, the man Goldsworthy had added to the Hammersley staff.
“Anything to report?”
“A loud quarrel between the count and countess. Unfortunately, gibberish to me, Lord Blackstone. I don’t speak a word o’ any tongue but English.”
“How long a quarrel?”
“Ten minutes, I’d say.”
“And no attempt to hush it up?”
“No, sir. They seemed to enjoy going at it, like they wanted to be heard.”
“A quarrel staged for public notice?”
Stevens nodded. “I’ll be on duty, sir, until the other servants are up and about. The people here like Miss Hammersley and the young master. They’ll keep a sharp eye out.”
“Thanks, Stevens.”
Blackstone left Stevens on watch and completed his circuit of the upper story passing through the oval drawing room and George Hammersley’s study to stand outside Violet’s bedroom. He leaned his shoulder against the wall. Last week he had felt too weary to follow the willing Lady Ravenhurst to her bedroom. Now he was awake, against his body’s better judgment, in a state of sense-pricking awareness.
Violet, too, had put out her lights. That did not mean she slept. He imagined her restless mind working at the problem of Frank’s disappearance through the night and considered how he was going to handle her need to act.
He should feel only bitterness at her mistrust and her willingness to judge him, but sharing a bench with her reminded his body of other feelings she stirred. When polite London turned on him, he should not have been surprised. London was fickle in her favor at best, but when Violet had turned on him, the one person who knew him better than his own family knew him, that had been the unforgivable thing.
He laughed at himself for standing on guard outside her door. There could be only one reason for it.
She was a walking summons to a man’s most tireless soldier that he should stand and salute. Blackstone should know, he had begun having erections in her presence when he’d been a worldly seventeen and she, thirteen, plump as a partridge, with no breasts to speak of.
No one in his or her family had imagined there was any danger in their intimacy. He was older, her brother’s friend, titled. She was outspoken, unpolished, and bookish, an annoying younger sibling. The first time he’d visited the house, she had been confined to her room for attending a lecture on economics in male dress.
Experience had not lessened her impact on him. The black eyes, alive with sharp intelligence and unholy curiosity, had acquired depths. Violet had grown into her eyes. With each of his youthful visits he had watched her grow into a slim beauty with lush ripe breasts and wondrous dark hair. Tonight her hair was up, coiled in some cunning way so that it hung in soft curls about her face, but he had seen it down, lying against the pearl white swell of a breast, thick lazy curls unwinding like smoke in a clear sky.
When he thought of the first time Violet had roused him, he understood that his reaction had less to do with her appearance than with Violet herself and her dangerous need to know things. It was an extreme need that went far beyond anything Pandora or Eve had ever contemplated, and that insatiable curiosity was accompanied by a singular unwillingness to take no for an answer. After that first experience he had tried to stay away from her, to reestablish some fitting distance.
For awhile he had succeeded. His real downfall as far as Violet was concerned began when he’d been in town between terms at his college. Coming from university, he had felt himself a
Now he passed from Frank’s bedroom around the central courtyard towards the guest rooms at the rear of the house. He stood awhile in the dark looking down the hallway. No sign of light came from under the door of any of the rooms assigned to the prince’s party. At the far corner of the courtyard, he spoke briefly to Stevens, the man Goldsworthy had added to the Hammersley staff.
“Anything to report?”
“A loud quarrel between the count and countess. Unfortunately, gibberish to me, Lord Blackstone. I don’t speak a word o’ any tongue but English.”
“How long a quarrel?”
“Ten minutes, I’d say.”
“And no attempt to hush it up?”
“No, sir. They seemed to enjoy going at it, like they wanted to be heard.”
“A quarrel staged for public notice?”
Stevens nodded. “I’ll be on duty, sir, until the other servants are up and about. The people here like Miss Hammersley and the young master. They’ll keep a sharp eye out.”
“Thanks, Stevens.”
Blackstone left Stevens on watch and completed his circuit of the upper story passing through the oval drawing room and George Hammersley’s study to stand outside Violet’s bedroom. He leaned his shoulder against the wall. Last week he had felt too weary to follow the willing Lady Ravenhurst to her bedroom. Now he was awake, against his body’s better judgment, in a state of sense-pricking awareness.
Violet, too, had put out her lights. That did not mean she slept. He imagined her restless mind working at the problem of Frank’s disappearance through the night and considered how he was going to handle her need to act.
He should feel only bitterness at her mistrust and her willingness to judge him, but sharing a bench with her reminded his body of other feelings she stirred. When polite London turned on him, he should not have been surprised. London was fickle in her favor at best, but when Violet had turned on him, the one person who knew him better than his own family knew him, that had been the unforgivable thing.
He laughed at himself for standing on guard outside her door. There could be only one reason for it.
She was a walking summons to a man’s most tireless soldier that he should stand and salute. Blackstone should know, he had begun having erections in her presence when he’d been a worldly seventeen and she, thirteen, plump as a partridge, with no breasts to speak of.
No one in his or her family had imagined there was any danger in their intimacy. He was older, her brother’s friend, titled. She was outspoken, unpolished, and bookish, an annoying younger sibling. The first time he’d visited the house, she had been confined to her room for attending a lecture on economics in male dress.
Experience had not lessened her impact on him. The black eyes, alive with sharp intelligence and unholy curiosity, had acquired depths. Violet had grown into her eyes. With each of his youthful visits he had watched her grow into a slim beauty with lush ripe breasts and wondrous dark hair. Tonight her hair was up, coiled in some cunning way so that it hung in soft curls about her face, but he had seen it down, lying against the pearl white swell of a breast, thick lazy curls unwinding like smoke in a clear sky.
When he thought of the first time Violet had roused him, he understood that his reaction had less to do with her appearance than with Violet herself and her dangerous need to know things. It was an extreme need that went far beyond anything Pandora or Eve had ever contemplated, and that insatiable curiosity was accompanied by a singular unwillingness to take no for an answer. After that first experience he had tried to stay away from her, to reestablish some fitting distance.
For awhile he had succeeded. His real downfall as far as Violet was concerned began when he’d been in town between terms at his college. Coming from university, he had felt himself a
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