Sebastian rubbed his forehead. “Thank you for the advice.”
“I know you’re enjoying your freedom,” Bollingall said. “You’re young yet. But think about it. You’re doing important work.”
Sebastian shook his head.
“None of that nonsense,” Bollingall said. “You are doing important work. Never forget that, and never tell anyone otherwise. You are doing important work, Malheur. You need only go make it yours.”
It was only in his mind that those words rearranged themselves.
Go make her yours.
No, no. Insidious, awful thought.
Luscious, invigorating thought. He couldn’t drive it away. It lingered through the remainder of their conversation, whispered in the back of his mind the entire journey back to London. He didn’t care about the work or the credit. He cared about Violet.
Go make her yours.
The truth was, it wasn’t only his work with Violet that divided him from everyone.
His entire life had been shaped by two lies: the secret he shared with Violet, and the secret he kept from her.
He’d always had a reason for keeping quiet. A thousand reasons, really. Her husband, at first. And then after he’d passed away, she’d seemed so breakable that he’d not dared to disturb her. He’d waited and waited and waited even longer. He’d always had the sense that she had lost herself, that after her travesty of a marriage, he needed to give her time to look up and notice the world around her again. If only he waited long enough…
I have standards, he remembered snapping at her. You don’t meet them.
God. He couldn’t see any way that this could end well. But that temptation persisted: the desire to cut corners through those long years of uncertain waiting.
Go make her yours.
Chapter Six
VIOLET WAS STILL IN HER GREENHOUSE at seven in the evening. She’d refused to let Sebastian’s journey distract her, had refused to think about the conversation he must be having. Her worry had hunkered at the back of her mind, an ominous, brooding weight.
If things went wrong, she might be exposed. Everyone would know. She shouldn’t have assented. Her mother was right; she should never have allowed him to expose her secret, no matter how trustworthy he thought his friend.
She heard the outer door open, then, a few minutes later, the inner door. His footsteps crossed the flagstones.
“Violet.”
She was afraid to look up. That was why she did it anyway, raising her eyes to his as if pretending not to care would eradicate the fears roiling inside her.
“Well?”
Sebastian looked tired. He let out a sigh and found a wooden chair, pulling it beside her and sitting down. He folded his arms in front of him and sagged, his shoulders slouching.
“The good news,” Sebastian said, “is that he won’t tell anyone.”
Violet removed a flat of seedlings from another chair, brushed the excess dirt onto the floor, and sat next to him.
“The bad news…” Sebastian shut his eyes. “The bad news is, he says our arrangement is unremarkable, and that the best solution is for us to continue on as we were in all respects, except…” He trailed off and cast a wary glance at her.
“Except what?”
Sebastian was rarely reticent. But his jaw set and it took him a few moments to speak. “I want you to know that this idea did not come from me. I disclaim it entirely.”
“What is it?” Violet repeated. “How bad can his advice be?”
“He said I should marry you. That we should continue on as before.”
For one second, her entire body tensed. She found herself shrinking back in her chair. No. No. Not that. But he looked reluctant, not eager. Her heart pounded, but he looked as likely to sprout antennae as he was to propose. She let out a slow breath and arranged her lips into a semblance of a smile. “How amusing,” she croaked.
“I’m only repeating what he said.”
“Of all the useless advice.” Violet wrapped her arms around herself. “He thinks we should marry?” Her laugh sounded overloud. “Presumably you didn’t mention it was me, or he’d never have suggested such punishment.” She knew she was babbling, but so long as she kept talking, the idea couldn’t hurt her.
Sebastian sank lower in his chair. “Violet,” he muttered.
“He’s supposed to be so clever, and that’s the best he can manage?”
“Yes,” Sebastian muttered. “We’ve covered my unsuitability quite enough for now. Now can we just take a few steps back and consider—”
“Oh, why do that? Let’s just do as he says. Let’s get married after all.” If she could say it, she could make the notion safe: a joke, clearly labeled as such. A matter for derision, an item to be laughed at. Not something that would destroy her completely.
Sebastian’s lip curled up reluctantly. “Ha.”
“It would be fabulous. You could pretend to be busier and busier, and I would come give lectures in your stead. ‘Mr. Malheur says,’ I’d tell them. You could become a complete recluse.”
“Wouldn’t that be amusing,” Sebastian said in a flat voice.
“I can just see it now: the handbills for the event printed up, with ‘Mr. Sebastian Malheur’ in large print, and underneath that, ‘as portrayed by Violet Malheur, his wife.’”
He snorted.
“I’d put an advertisement in the paper: ‘Please address all hateful correspondence regarding scientific matters to Violet Malheur.’ That’s one aspect of your job I’d excel at. Nobody really likes me anyway; this way, they could go on hating me without a second thought.”
“Violet.” He had a small smile on his face, one that she knew all too well. It was his patient smile, the one he gave people who were dreadfully wrong, when he’d decided not to speak and embarrass them. His hands were clenched.
“What?” she demanded. “What did I say now? I was only joking.”
His smile didn’t alter, but he looked away from her. “It’s just… Oh, hell.”
Violet felt a tremor go through her, a shudder of emotion that jolted her shoulders before settling in her stomach. “I merely wished to lighten an uncomfortable moment. What did I do wrong now? I wasn’t trying to be difficult.”
He swallowed. His lids fluttered down, and his dark lashes—so unfairly long—shielded his eyes for a moment.
Finally, he looked up. “Violet,” he said calmly, “please don’t joke about marrying me.”