breath.
“What, exactly, is the nature of your acquaintance with Mr. Hope?”
Eight
V iolet stared at Harclay as if a third ear had sprouted from the middle of his forehead. Of all the questions he could have asked, he’d chosen the one she absolutely, positively did not want to answer.
Not only was the earl terrifically handsome and, from what she could feel through her chemise, well-endowed, he was also savvy, clever in a way that was wholly unexpected for a man of his position. No doubt he was fluent in Greek and Latin and all that rubbish they taught at Eton and Cambridge. But he was fluent, too, in body language; he could read emotions, read a
person
, from a mere desultory glance or two.
He had, after all, pinned the very crux of her predicament after a single evening together and in a single, devastating question.
She met his eyes, hoping to find some clue as to why he asked, what answer he was looking for. But while Lord Harclay was a master at reading others, he was scrupulous in ensuring no one would return the favor. His features were carefully arranged in a vague expression that could have been boredom, polite interest, even distaste. It was the kind of expression he’d wear while listening to Great-Aunt Eugenia complain about her son-in-law’s predilection for American whiskey, her husband’s for Chinese opium.
What with her blood rioting, her legs and belly molten from his touch, Violet could hardly think. How could she possibly explain her dire circumstances to
him
, enormously wealthy, titled earl that he was? He would never understand. He’d judge her as a destitute fortune seeker intent on ensnaring the richest man she could find.
Which, maddeningly, couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Violet took the first route that came to mind and pasted the most seductive smile she could manage on her lips.
“My dear,
dear
Lord Harclay,” she purred. “Jealous, are we? Mr. Hope is a very handsome, very powerful man. Though I would hardly think a gentleman of your esteemed lineage would stoop to compete with a man of business.”
The earl turned to her. His hands, she saw, were clasped tightly at the small of his back, as if he were restraining himself from reaching out to touch her.
“The only man with whom I compete is myself, Lady Violet, though I daresay Mr. Hope would make a most dangerous adversary.”
He stepped forward, his face suddenly close to hers. He loomed above her—Violet’s head barely grazed his chin—and in a low, steady voice said, “When you agreed to my request, you swore to answer truthfully. Out with it, dear girl; I’ll not let you out of my sight until I have the hard facts.”
Violet swallowed, trying her best to remain standing as the weakness in her knees suddenly returned.
There was no escaping this man. She’d just won two
thousand
pounds off him, and she did not doubt he would have what she owed him, whether she wanted to give it up or not.
With a sigh of resignation she turned back to the sofa. She sat quietly on its edge, bending to retrieve her blanket from the floor and wrapping it tightly about her shoulders. She turned her head so that she might not have to meet his eyes as she shared the awful truth.
“Best to start from the beginning, I suppose,” she began. “My grandfather, the eighth Duke of Sommer, was a man of many interests. Art, architecture, antiques—our houses are stuffed with his treasures. Unfortunately, keeping his tenants fed was not among them. Like many of his neighbors, he hoarded the crops grown on his land, grain in particular, so that he might sell them at inflated prices.
“This, of course, led to the bread riots. In ’95, and then again in ’01, if memory serves. People were starving, but dear old Grandpapa made a fortune selling his grain to far-flung merchants. My father was appalled; in true British fashion they did not get on, he and Grandpapa. When my father inherited the title ten years ago, he reversed