Dark Surrender by Erica Ridley Page A

disturbing the fabric. Nothing. No snoring, no movement, no signs of life. She backed up until she reached the fold where the edge of one falling section of fabric overlapped the other. Should she? Could she . . .?
    Holding her breath, she slid a shaking finger between the layers of cloth and slowly, gently, pulled them apart.
    Empty. The bed was empty. Thank God.
    The bed was made, but the covers rumpled, as if someone had recently lain atop the layers of blankets. Unable to help herself, she reached out a hand and smoothed out the largest of the wrinkles. The mattress was so thick. The blankets were so soft. The pillows . . . smelled of Mr. Waldegrave?
    Violet leaned her face closer and took a deep breath. She hadn’t registered the fact that she’d somehow memorized his scent until she realized the pillow smelled exactly the same. Soap, sandalwood . . . something else, something she couldn’t place.
    Oh, Lord, what was she doing standing about sniffing the man’s pillow? Mr. Waldegrave must not always sleep in the sanctuary. She was in his bedchamber! She had to leave right now .
    Abandoning the idea of tugging the bell pull and summoning witnesses here, of all places, she straightened the tester about the bed and turned back toward the door—and caught sight of an open wardrobe. Satin dresses. Silk gowns. A pale pink riding habit.
    If this was Mr. Waldegrave’s bedchamber, she’d eat the matching pink hat.
    She returned to the bell pull and, this time, gave it a decisive tug. There. Someone should be along shortly. In the meantime, she was dying to see if there was a view. As far as she could tell, this might be the sole unboarded window in Waldegrave Abbey.
    Recognizing her folly, she clucked her tongue in self-annoyance. The telltale swaths of light should’ve told her it wasn’t Mr. Waldegrave’s bedchamber. He was far too controlled. Despite the pair of impossibly thick curtains, she doubted a man as threatened by the sunlight as he was would take any risks.
    She pulled back a section of the heavy fabric. She reeled backward with a grimace, momentarily blinded by sunlight. When her eyes adjusted, her jaw dropped at the view. She had to be gazing directly upon the sanctuary that housed Lillian and Mr. Waldegrave.
    The “sanctuary?” Hardly.
    The huge, expertly crafted building stood in a pool of direct sunlight. Even the layers upon layers of crisscrossed boards couldn’t hide the beauty in every line of its architecture. Back when the sun’s rays had danced across the exposed panels of stained glass, this bedchamber must have had the best view in the entire abbey.
    She closed the curtain, careful to overlap the fabric just as she’d found it. How long would it take a servant to respond to her call? Her fingers drummed against the bedpost. A room such as this would surely be close enough for maids to answer promptly. Someone would arrive any second.
    Drawn by morbid curiosity, she found herself crossing to the open wardrobe. The clothes were not his, but the scent upon the pillows indicated her employer enjoyed a fair amount of time within these walls. What kind of woman was it, with whom he apparently spent his nights? Better yet, who was it? His wife? Where was she now?
    Violet paused. If there were a missus, she would not only have been presented to her long before now, but the wife would most likely have been the decision maker with regard to hiring a governess in the first place. Therefore, there must not be a Mrs. Waldegrave. The gentry were not plagued with the careless abandonment suffered by the lower classes, which further meant that Mr. Waldegrave must be a widower.
    It wasn’t until this conclusion settled the nerves dancing along her intestines that Violet realized a small part of her had actually been concerned about . . . about what, exactly? Competition? She stifled a snort. He was so far above her status as to make even the daydream absurd. Yet she could not like the idea of him keeping