“It doesn’t matter. I do not want you involved in this.”
She tried to wriggle out of his hold, but he kept his grip firm. She was damned well going to listen to him for a change.
“These people are dangerous, and I have no desire to bring the danger to you and your family. I appreciate all you and your family have done for me, but I am almost healed and there is no need for me to be here.”
“But you should not be alone at Christmas,” she protested.
Duke resisted the desire to snort. He’d been alone many a Christmas. Yes, he and his father had a tradition of spending every festive season together and Duke did it willingly. His father needed him. However, he could not claim to feel anything other than deep, grating loneliness when staying in the country. He needed to be around people, to keep busy. To not sit around and think of what he and his father lost.
By all rights, he should stay with the Musgraves. But how could he risk any of them? How could he risk Violet’s safety?
“I am returning home.” He released her arms. “I’ll send for my carriage to take me home tomorrow.” He turned and she moved swiftly, placed herself in front of him.
“I’ll still investigate,” she told him.
“No.”
“I will. I mean it.”
Duke ran a hand across his rough jaw, eyed her stubborn stance, and bit back a sigh. He had no doubt she would. And she would inevitably get herself into trouble if he wasn’t here to keep an eye on her.
“It looks like I’m staying then.”
He didn’t like how smug her smile was when she clapped her hands together and declared how ‘excellent’ that was. There was nothing excellent about the situation. Not about what was happening with Patrick Doyle, nor with his father, and most certainly not with Violet. Much longer here and his already weakening defenses might crumble entirely.
Chapter Fifteen
Violet eyed the tips of the dark kid gloves as they curled around the edge of the carriage door with a wince.
He’d caught her.
Duke thrust his head through the doorway, his expression dark. “Going somewhere?”
Violet peered ahead at the bolster cushion opposite. “Just off to see a friend.”
“Liar.” He lifted up and seated himself beside her, forcing her to move over lest she be squashed by him.
The sleeves of his coat brushed up against her pelisse and his thigh pressed firmly to hers. She continued to eye the carriage interior and forced herself to take deep breaths. It was simply being caught by him that made her pulse flutter, that was all. Nothing to do with the way she felt heat coursing through her limbs or how his mere presence in the tiny confines of the vehicle seemed to make the air thick and unwieldy, like when fog rolled in off the Thames in the morning. Surely those who were forced to travel through inclement weather felt the same as she did right now?
She plucked at the tiny buttons of her gloves and switched her attention there. Surely they all felt as lost and confused as she? Why did she have to feel such things, and why now? There was nothing more inappropriate about having inappropriate thoughts whilst Duke suffered so.
“I’m running rather late,” she said, her voice emerging an irritating squeak rather than the controlled, eloquent fib she’d intended.
“To go where, Vi?”
“Lady Payne’s,” she said swiftly. “I’m visiting with Lady Payne.”
“You are a terrible liar, Vi. I should know. Iama lawyer.”
She swung her gaze his way and regretted it. The trill of her pulse turned into a raging storm. He was healing well—signs of the fight fading quickly to nothing more than a tiny line upon his forehead and a tinge of green under one eye. It would not be long before he returned to being his usual handsome self. Goodness, he was close enough already. She just wished she could be immune to it like she used to be.
“Get out of my carriage, Duke.” She shooed him with a hand. “I need to leave.”
“Not without me.” He pulled the door shut and tapped the roof with a knuckle.
The carriage lurched forward, and she grabbed his arm instinctively. Her pale pink gloves against the black of his jacket sleeve made her pause. The gloves fit her perfectly, emphasizing long fingers her mother always adored painting. Against the dark width of his sleeve, they seemed smaller, delicate, feminine. She’d never shied away from feminine pursuits or enjoying the decorative nature of her sex like her sisters, but it never lured her before, never made her wonder more deeply about the contrast of man and woman.
Of how perfectly it all seemed to fit together.