Page 68 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Violet lifted her chin, giving him an almost imperceptible nod.

Hugh turned on his heel and left the office, the door slamming behind him.

When Cyril turned back to Violet, she had leaned forward, bracing her hands on the desk, her head lowered between her arms. She was trembling.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She lifted her head quickly, as if she’d forgotten she had a spectator. She straightened, her chest moving in and out as she breathed. Her brow lifted. “A warning. What a novel idea.”

He held her gaze. He wasn’t going to take the blame for her father’s inability to see her for who she was. Still, his own father had never spoken to him like that. Nor to his mother, or any of them. He’d lost his temper on occasion but usually took it out on a bruising ride or on the golf course. “Can I get you something? Tea?”

“I’m quite all right,” she answered, then briskly began sorting her paperwork. In her agitation, she scooped up a pile that must have been hiding her fountain pen, sending it clattering to the desktop. Upon impact, ink splattered all over her blouse. “Oh!”

She lifted her face to his as he leaped around his desk, pulling out a handkerchief as he did so. He paused only a moment, his breath catching. The ink hadn’t only marred her blouse. He strode around her desk. She’d pulled out her own handkerchief, blotting her shirt, while he began to work on her cheeks and nose.

“Why?” she asked, her voice quivering. “Why must everything be so difficult?”

The ink on her face began to wipe away more readily as herealized she was crying, and her tears served as a solvent. “Here, now. You have extra freckles.” He lifted her chin and continued to blot her forehead and temples. “I’m not sure we can save the blouse.”

She had given way to more tears. “It was my favorite.”

“It’s quite fetching. We shall buy you another.”

“You can’t buy me clothes. It’s indecent.”

“We’ll charge it to your father.”

She snorted a laugh and wiped her nose with her handkerchief, leaving a streak of ink.

“Blast you, you’re undoing all my hard work.” He managed to get her more Violet and less Dalmatian. As the ink was removed, he became more aware of the soft warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the angle of her jaw, and the sweep of her lashes as they revealed her gaze up to his. Blast, the sensation of her so close, her fresh, warm scent, took him right back to …

Her fingers came around his forearm as he held her chin. “Why are you helping me?”

He softly cleared his throat, steadying his thoughts. “Because I’m a gentleman.” The answer was automatic, but as Violet looked at him, her eyes filled with question and doubt and dissatisfaction, he realized she’d known too many gentlemen.

He swallowed. His throat felt thick. “This war of yours was not my idea, nor do I want it.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

They were inches apart, her sea-green eyes searching his, the stroke of her thumb on his shirtsleeve throttling the rhythm of his heart.

She was covered in ink and tears and had just stood her ground against her formidable father in a manner that would make Athena proud. His gaze went to the bluebottle fly brooch,just right of her throat, and he touched it. “Why insects?” he asked.

“They were my grandmother’s. She left me her collection. I don’t remember very much of her. She died when I was small. But I remember her wearing them. She’d let me look and ask questions, and she would answer every single one. For example, did you know that bluebottle flies wear spiked armor?”

He smiled. “No.”

“To protect them in battle. She called them the knights of flies.”

“Did she?”

She nodded slowly as he traced the jewel’s outline, the filigree lace wings. Her eyes closed, and she shuddered, her breath quickening as his did. “Do you remember the day you left?” she whispered.

His hand froze.

He did remember it. Like it was yesterday.

Her eyes opened, glassy and beautiful. “What have you been doing?” she asked, her expression honest, searching, vulnerable. “All this time? Without me?”