Violet leaned against the passage wall. “But I cannot imagine Mrs Garrick mixing poison and adding it to my tea. She seems so… good-natured.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I do not know. What would you suggest?”
“Did you find anything in the lab this morning?”
She shook her head. “Only that it has been used recently. This morning and late yesterday evening.”
“Then we wait. She will make a move soon. Your upcoming ball will signal that all is well between you and the duke.”
“Alright.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “We shall wait.”
In the evening, Violet concluded her work on making arrangements for the party and went upstairs. Sarah undressed her, helped her bathe, brushed her hair, and laid out the nightgown. She wished her a pleasant evening in the same bright tone she used every night.
After the door clicked shut, Violet donned her nightgown and sat at the dressing table. She took up the brush herself and began working through the tangles, long strokes from the crown, while she thought about what Kit had suggested, that she sleep with Henry.
As if on cue, the door opened. She saw him in the mirror. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, revealing his torso. He wasn’t wearing any trousers. She held her breath and watched his approach.
He crossed the room and took the brush from her hand. He had been drinking. She could tell by his movements, a little looser in the joints, though his eyes were clear. Henry drew the brush through her hair with slow, even strokes. He started at the crown and pulled to the ends, gathering the weight of it in his free hand, letting it fall. He was careful. The bristles dragged across her scalp, and the sensation ran down her spine like warm water.
She closed her eyes. She should not have closed her eyes. Because when his hands came to her shoulders and his thumbs pressed into the muscle at the base of her neck and moved in slow circles, a sound came out of her without consent.
She kept her eyes closed, even when his mouth found the place behind her ear. His breath was warm without any smell of alcohol, and his lips barely touched the skin, dragging more than kissing.
“Henry.” She meant it as a warning. It did not sound like one.
He pulled her to her feet, and she turned. “Did Kit speak with you? Is that why you are here?”
“Kit?” he replied as he pulled her closer, his voice hoarse. “I have not seen him.”
“Then—"
His mouth was on hers, unhurried, thorough, his hands already at the buttons of her nightgown. She spoke when he was on her third button. “We are quarrelling.”
“I am aware.” He undid the fourth button. The nightgown slid off one shoulder. His mouth followed it down. “Violet,” he breathed before taking her mouth in his again. He didn’t take his mouth off her as he guided her back toward the bed. The mattress caught the backs of her knees and she sat. He knelt on the floor between her legs, and the picture of him, kneeling between her thighs made her breaths grow shallow.
Henry pushed the nightgown to her waist. His eyes took her in with a groan that was somewhere between reverence and hunger. His hands found her thighs, spreading them, and she lay back on the mattress because she could not trust her spine. He kissed the inside of her knee. Then higher. Then the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she heard herself gasp as though from a great distance.
When his mouth found her, she arched off the bed. He was slow and deliberate.
She was making sounds—desperate, graceless sounds—and he responded to each one, his mouth working harder, his grip tightening. She became gradually aware that one of his hands had left her. She lifted herself onto her elbows and looked down at him.
The sight of him, this man who controlled everything, undone because of her, sent a surge of pleasure through her that obliterated whatever composure she had left. He wanted her. The knowledge was almost too much to bear.
“Henry—”
He pulled her closer to the edge of the bed. His mouth sealed over her, and he found the place that made her legs shake, and he stayed there, relentless, while his arm kept its rhythm and his groans came faster against her skin.
Her fingers twisted in the sheet and her heels pressed into his back. His name was in her mouth. Then with a final lick, her climax broke and her cry filled the room. His hands came to her hips and held her through the shaking while his mouth gentled but continued its caress.
She lay on the bed with her chest heaving and the ceiling above her. He rose onto his knees and rested his forehead on her belly. She could hear him breathing hard and felt his body straining. He began to relax after a few minutes. He pushed himself up, his spine erect, still on his knees. His gaze studied her heat forwhat seemed like ages, while both hands gripped her thighs. His breathing became ragged again, but his hands released her. He kissed the inside of her knee. One press of his lips, firm and slow.
He stood, and she saw his member for the first time—flushed, hard. He pulled his shirt down and turned away. With his hands braced on the dressing table, his head dropped between his shoulders.
Violet fixed her nightgown and watched him.
“Henry.” Her voice was rough.