The Countess Conspiracy
Page 36

“Sebastian,” she said slowly, “what are you planning?”
“Well.” He shrugged. “I don’t really need the money, but someone was willing to pay fifty thousand pounds for my idea. He thinks it has no value. What if I make him see he’s wrong?”
She stared at him.
And he grinned. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right. What if I gave Benedict’s precious Society my idea?”
Chapter Eleven
THE NIGHT AIR IN LONDON WAS COOL, if not clean. Sebastian had managed to make it through the evening without embarrassing himself. But it had been close, damnably close. He’d managed to take his leave of her, to make it halfway through that dark gap between their garden walls before he’d stopped and leaned against the brick in utter gut-clenching agony.
The moon was full, spilling a narrow corridor of light onto his face, so bright in the darkness that it almost hurt his eyes.
He’d seen Violet focused on a subject before. When she was, she was vibrant and full of color. He’d seen her excited about a talk Sebastian was going to deliver, about a paper they were writing, about an experiment she was trying to untangle and understand. This, though, was the first time he’d seen the full weight of her attention concentrated not on her words flowing through him, but on him directly.
You’re not a stupid fribble, Sebastian. You’re a clever man who happens to have a wicked sense of humor.
They’d sketched a brief plan. At the end, she’d nodded. “This can’t just be about proving something to Benedict,” she told him. “It’s about determining whether your brother is being ridiculous. If this turns out as we hope, and he can’t accept it, you’ll know that the fault is not in you.”
And somehow, with those words, his world realigned. He wasn’t a court jester who could make others laugh. He was more.
He wanted to be more. And God, he wanted to be more to Violet. He wanted her desperately. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her tight. To wrap his arms around her and push her against the steel column of the greenhouse, kissing her until her breath grew ragged and she could scarcely stand.
He wanted to take her home to his bed. He wanted to have her there, sweaty and slick and ready for him. He wanted to sleep beside her when they were done and wake up next to her in the morning. He wanted to argue with her and make her laugh, to watch her work, to come back to her after a long day examining shipping records. He wanted her. He wanted every damned thing about her.
If she’d been completely indifferent to him, it would have hurt, but he could have given up. That she cared for him—so much, and yet not quite enough—made the situation both bearable and impossible all at once.
He leaned back against the wall. The bricks were unevenly placed; sharp edges dug into his spine. He could smell the leaves turning to mulch underfoot.
And he could still see Violet, angry to the point of shaking, because she didn’t think Benedict had treated Sebastian fairly.
God. If things were different between them. If only they were…
He was assailed by a confusion of imagery and need, a physical want that gathered in a lump in his abdomen. He didn’t want to go back to his home—his cold, lonely home, with only his cook to greet him, his valet to wish him good night. He wanted to go back to her—to go back and—
And—
And take her. To swipe those plants from the table on the north side of the greenhouse, to lay her down and slide inside her. Her legs would wrap around him, and she’d make a noise in the back of her throat.
It was dark. He was alone. And he wanted.
Easy enough to undo his trousers, to grasp hold of his erection in the cold night air. Easy enough to imagine having her—thrusting into her, telling her he loved her. No need for much preparation; a few gentle strokes and his befuddled arousal turned to painful erection. His hand slid over his shaft in smooth jerks, pushing himself. He tilted his face up into the moonlight.
He took himself to the point where his physical want was big enough, harsh enough, to overwhelm almost everything else he felt. Until he was gasping harshly, spilling on the leaves beneath his feet, letting his orgasm sweep his desires from him.
When it passed, he slumped against the wall.
That was when he heard the crackle of leaves.
He turned, but he already knew what—who—it was. There were only two people who had access to this place.
It was dark, but not that dark. Sebastian shut his eyes and did up his trousers.
Violet—and it was Violet standing there, not ten feet distant—didn’t say anything at all. Not for a long minute.
He wasn’t going to apologize to her. He didn’t feel ashamed. He just wished…wished… He wished for something he could not express in words. He wished for it with all his body, and he knew he was never going to have it.
“I do want to know,” she finally said, her voice low, “about the other women.”
He leaned back against the brick and looked up into the moonlight. “What do you want to know?”
She didn’t say anything for a while. “Do you have one now?”
“No. It’s been months.”
She took this in, considering for a few moments before speaking again. “How many have you had?”
“How many lovers?” He could have given her a straight answer. Dozens. Or, more specifically: Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven, if you counted mutual versions of the conduct he’d just engaged in, and Sebastian did.
But what he finally said was, “Too many. And not enough.”
Her face was in shadow. He couldn’t tell if she was disgusted by him, or if this was just a matter of idle curiosity for her.
She exhaled. “How many would be enough?”
He smiled sadly. “One more, Violet.” He looked over at her—at her arms folded around herself, at her head, turned from his, as if that would be enough to distract him from the ferocity of his want. “I’ve only ever wanted one more.”
She lifted her head. The moonlight caught her face, sending shadows across it. She shook her head; her arms squeezed around herself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t hold her close. And especially not now.
“There’s no need to apologize. You’re happy with our friendship as it is.”
He expected her to agree. To say that she had all she wanted—that their friendship was enough, that more would not please her.