a mistress. The roiling sensation returned to her stomach.
She ran a finger along the endless row of rich gowns, not bothering to deny the jealousy eating her from the inside out. Here she was, dipped in ink and forced to air dry, in the only dress of her possession. And here was Miss Lady of the Night, whose wardrobe was full to bursting with bejeweled finery. Or had been, anyway. Violet’s brow creased as she examined the gowns more closely. This wardrobe was even older than Mr. Waldegrave’s. These clothes had not been stylish in over a decade. She frowned, uneasily recalling the pair of gravestones behind the abbey. Was the owner of this wardrobe buried down below? Or was she locked away in a gilded tower somewhere, just like Lillian?
Violet shook the morbid fancy from her head. Mr. Waldegrave was not so dreadful as that. She would simply ask him for an explanation the next time she saw him.
In the meanwhile . . . Unable to resist such beauty, she lifted one of the gowns from the wardrobe and held it before her. Such artistry! Even its jewels had jewels. The cut was years out of fashion, but any woman who wore something this glorious to a ball would have her dance card filled within seconds.
She held it to her shoulders and glanced about for a looking glass. She’d never in her entire sorry life wear anything half so fine, of course, but there could be no harm in indulging a quick fancy. A mere glance at her reflection would be enough fodder for an imagination as active as hers to fill up the next two decades of tattered hand-me-down dresses, with the memory of the time she’d pressed a real, honest-to-God ball gown to her bosom.
Just as she neared the glass, the door swung open and Mr. Waldegrave strode in.
A horrified gasp strangled in her throat. Her fingers dug into the delicate fabric she clutched to her chest. She stared at him in guilt and mortification. She could think of nothing at all to say that might excuse this transgression, not that her tongue seemed to be working anyway.
Mr. Waldegrave, however, did not suffer a similar loss of words.
“How dare you.” His face paled in anguish. “How dare you step into this room, touch anything you have seen, defile it with your very presence! Get out, get out, get out!”
“I—I—I . . . ” was all she could manage, her nerves jangled to a mortal degree. She tried to return the gown to the wardrobe, truly she did, but her limbs had frozen as if struck with rigor mortis and not a single joint obeyed her command.
His eyes were wild, as if he no longer saw Violet but rather his own private nightmare. “I have asked you to leave. This room belonged to my wife, and is all I have left to remind me of being young and happy. My wife—”
“Y-your wife?” Violet managed, then flinched as his gaze came sharply in focus.
“Relinquish her gown at once.” He stared almost beseechingly at the bejeweled fabric, as if it had the power to restore his memories to reality. “Hand it over right now, Miss Smythe, or so help me . . . ”
Her fingers were frozen into trembling claws, her entire body shaking with terror. He was so much bigger than her. He blocked the only exit, and he was so angry. A single blow to the head from him would knock her unconscious for a week, like the time when—
His hand flashed toward her.
Violet screamed. She stopped screaming only when she realized that he hadn’t so much as touched her. He’d simply snatched the ball gown from her hands. Well, most of it. Due to the death grip she’d held on the fragile silk, the gown hadn’t come free in one piece. Indigo threads clung to her stained bodice, and the once-fine gown now cradled in his hands was torn at the seams, the scalloped shoulders in jagged ribbons.
“Destroyed,” he said brokenly, his voice once again distant as if his words were not meant for her. “It cannot be fixed. Nothing can ever be fixed.” His eyes closed, as if in pain beyond all reckoning. “Gone. I
She ran a finger along the endless row of rich gowns, not bothering to deny the jealousy eating her from the inside out. Here she was, dipped in ink and forced to air dry, in the only dress of her possession. And here was Miss Lady of the Night, whose wardrobe was full to bursting with bejeweled finery. Or had been, anyway. Violet’s brow creased as she examined the gowns more closely. This wardrobe was even older than Mr. Waldegrave’s. These clothes had not been stylish in over a decade. She frowned, uneasily recalling the pair of gravestones behind the abbey. Was the owner of this wardrobe buried down below? Or was she locked away in a gilded tower somewhere, just like Lillian?
Violet shook the morbid fancy from her head. Mr. Waldegrave was not so dreadful as that. She would simply ask him for an explanation the next time she saw him.
In the meanwhile . . . Unable to resist such beauty, she lifted one of the gowns from the wardrobe and held it before her. Such artistry! Even its jewels had jewels. The cut was years out of fashion, but any woman who wore something this glorious to a ball would have her dance card filled within seconds.
She held it to her shoulders and glanced about for a looking glass. She’d never in her entire sorry life wear anything half so fine, of course, but there could be no harm in indulging a quick fancy. A mere glance at her reflection would be enough fodder for an imagination as active as hers to fill up the next two decades of tattered hand-me-down dresses, with the memory of the time she’d pressed a real, honest-to-God ball gown to her bosom.
Just as she neared the glass, the door swung open and Mr. Waldegrave strode in.
A horrified gasp strangled in her throat. Her fingers dug into the delicate fabric she clutched to her chest. She stared at him in guilt and mortification. She could think of nothing at all to say that might excuse this transgression, not that her tongue seemed to be working anyway.
Mr. Waldegrave, however, did not suffer a similar loss of words.
“How dare you.” His face paled in anguish. “How dare you step into this room, touch anything you have seen, defile it with your very presence! Get out, get out, get out!”
“I—I—I . . . ” was all she could manage, her nerves jangled to a mortal degree. She tried to return the gown to the wardrobe, truly she did, but her limbs had frozen as if struck with rigor mortis and not a single joint obeyed her command.
His eyes were wild, as if he no longer saw Violet but rather his own private nightmare. “I have asked you to leave. This room belonged to my wife, and is all I have left to remind me of being young and happy. My wife—”
“Y-your wife?” Violet managed, then flinched as his gaze came sharply in focus.
“Relinquish her gown at once.” He stared almost beseechingly at the bejeweled fabric, as if it had the power to restore his memories to reality. “Hand it over right now, Miss Smythe, or so help me . . . ”
Her fingers were frozen into trembling claws, her entire body shaking with terror. He was so much bigger than her. He blocked the only exit, and he was so angry. A single blow to the head from him would knock her unconscious for a week, like the time when—
His hand flashed toward her.
Violet screamed. She stopped screaming only when she realized that he hadn’t so much as touched her. He’d simply snatched the ball gown from her hands. Well, most of it. Due to the death grip she’d held on the fragile silk, the gown hadn’t come free in one piece. Indigo threads clung to her stained bodice, and the once-fine gown now cradled in his hands was torn at the seams, the scalloped shoulders in jagged ribbons.
“Destroyed,” he said brokenly, his voice once again distant as if his words were not meant for her. “It cannot be fixed. Nothing can ever be fixed.” His eyes closed, as if in pain beyond all reckoning. “Gone. I
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