Yes, My Lord

Violet shuffled in a daze through the dining room, her half eaten supper left to the weary maid who'd stood at her elbow a quarter hour, softly clearing her throat as snow fell silently on the windowpanes. The baron and baroness, along with their son Lord Ainsley Shelton and his younger sisters, had retired thirty minutes ago. As was customary, the family of the house dined before their governess.

Angling for the door, Violet recalled the surreptitious wink Lord Ainsley had sent her as he departed along the path she now tread.

Was the wink meant as a silent acknowledgment of enduring feeling? she wondered. Perhaps it was nothing more than a weightless nod to her existence.

She flitted a glance at the discarded china scattered over the long dining table, her gaze alighting on his dishes. Although she knew him to be a voracious eater, a good portion of the younger Lord Shelton's food had gone uneaten, too. Her mind turned somersaults, but Violet would not allow over-analysis of her erstwhile lover's lack of appetite, or his fleeting wink, to upset the tenuous balance time had earned her. She was older now, she should have outgrown such fanciful notions.

Alone, she walked to her first floor room between the servants' wing and back parlor. Anne and Charlotte, a couple of chatty housemaids, dashed past, dripping with melting snow and holiday cheer; but they did not engage Violet. A governess was known to float in that lonely, uncertain space between social circles, as Violet did. She was not high born enough to dine or entertain with the Sheltons, and her middle class education set her apart from the rest of the servants, who would not include her.

Once upon a time, Lord Ainsley Shelton— just Ainsley, then— had filled a void in her solitary world. But two years ago their secret romance ended with his abrupt displacement from Herringdown. Today, Ainsley Shelton was a grown man, and a tutor. A teacher, like Violet, though he taught England's college elite. Tonight marked his second Christmas as a visitor to his parents' estate, much to his mother's ambivalence. And Violet's too, if she was honest with herself.

The excitement building under her cool exterior could not go unbridled. Everything was different now.

Some twenty minutes later, as she was tying the sash on her nightgown, a knock sounded on her door. A familiar rapping of three short tap-tap-taps.

Ainsley.Perhaps she had not been imagining things, after all. A slice of the corridor's candlelight brightened her rug as Violet peaked her head around the door. "Lord Shelton."

"Please," he blanched, "do not make me imagine I am my father, when you have that look on your face."

Violet wondered what her traitorous features gave away. "But you are Lord Shelton now." Withdrawing slightly into the shadows, she added, "And I have not seen you in two years."

"Because every time I tell my mother I plan to visit, she sends you away! This time I came early. I told her it was my Christmas present to her. So I hope she will not jump to conclusions and eavesdropping. The truth is I was dying to see you, Violet."

"Surely not," she said over the loud thump of her heart. "You look utterly hale. The picture of health, really."

Ainsley's smile lit his whole face. His tilted green eyes, which reminded Violet of a cat's, crinkled with mirth. "It is a mental anguish. Life is not as vibrant without our conversations."

On that topic, Violet could not disagree. The catalyst for Ainsley Shelton's pursuing a hobby in private tutelage was common knowledge within the Herringdown household. During his undergraduate years at Eton college, their late-into-the-night-discussions on literature and philosophy had spurred many a heavy-handed rumor. It was only Lady Shelton's tenacious spirit that kept those 'rumors' — for they were not entirely untrue— from creeping past the estate's walls.

Violet deemed it the grace of God that prevented Lady Shelton from dismissing her. "You are too pretty," the baroness had once told her in confidence. "This is as much my fault as anyone's. I should have hired an older, plain governess. But you do such a fine job with our girls; and Ainsley is leaving soon as it is. Nothing will come of it."

And not much had...

"Will you at least let me in?" he said with a cockeyed grin, raising one tawny red eyebrow. "I have been starved of the sight of you for too long. After supper, it was all I could do to—" Violet cracked open the door. "Good God, woman! You are wearing next to nothing!"

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed, closing him in her room as he gaped at her. "Anne and Charlotte are running around. If they hear you..."

"Nonsense," he shook his head, draping his ungainly form across the wooden rocking chair in front of her dressing panel. The frock she had worn all day hung limply over the panel like a drying towel.

What would someone think if they walked into the room?

Violet drove the door's sliding lock home.

"You look beautiful," Ainsley said, his bright eyes darker in the dim light. "I suppose I should have expected you would be preparing for bed. With me gone, you must not have reason to stay up so late." Her cheeks flared. To Violet's surprise, Ainsley's did as well. "Discussing heroes and villains, and pondering life's meaning, of course," he added in a hurry, the slightest stammer coloring his voice.

But they both knew their past had not been quite so innocent.

"Of course," she agreed, staring at the ground. There was nowhere to sit except on top of her turned-down bedspread or the roll-top trunk at the end of her bed. The bed was preferable but, current circumstance as it was, she chose the discomfort of the traveling trunk.

Ainsley ran a hand through his light auburn hair, mussing it into disarray. Violet might have sighed, for the gentleman had lovely hair. It was the first of his striking features that she had become infatuated with, over five years ago and against her better judgment. He stretched his lean arms behind his head and she was nearly undone.

Unlike his ruddy, ham-fisted father, the younger Lord Shelton was lithe and vivacious. He bore no likeness to a Greek Adonis. He had neither the countenance nor the physique of a warrior. But as Violet had witnessed firsthand, from the outskirts of several a London season, Ainsley Shelton did not lack for interest from the female half. Not hardly. He could stand alone as proof that a great plethora of women scoffed at the showy Goliaths of the male species. Discerning women, like Violet, gravitated toward men just like Ainsley. And those who fell for his flashing cat eyes, lopsided smiles and clever wit, fell hard.

Poor Violet had fallen so hard she felt as if she was still sprawled on the floor two years later, all the emotions she had thought drowned by time rushing back with crushing force. "Why are you here, Ainsley?"

"I did try to put you out of my mind," he drawled, leaning his head over the back of the rocker, so that all Violet could see was the bottom of his stubbled, square chin and his bobbing Adam's apple. It was a pose meant to evoke his anguish, she supposed.

His head snapped back down, his eyes flashing. "I went away because I was a coward afraid of what might be said. I tried to forget everything, but the only thing I managed to lose was the intoxicating scent of you. It was awful, Violet. If you taught me nothing else during our shared hours in this house, it was that what we feel in our heart is the most precious of all possessions. Without happiness my heart is black."

"You are unhappy?" Violet fidgeted, crossing her legs. It did not do much to imbue her thin nightgown with modesty.

"I am despondent." His hand worked a kink at the back of his neck. "I cannot stomach this false life any longer. My mother will not stop badgering me about finding a wife, but whenever I close my eyes, there you are... your head resting in my lap in father's library, by the barest candlelight, telling me that a man is a man no matter what title precedes his name. That no one can brand a soul. Such wise words, and I believe them now, Vi! I believe that we must craft ourselves from the blank slate" He sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Tell me to go, that I am wrong. That your heart is changed, that you are changed to me, and I will leave."

Violet stared at the sheer fabric covering her thighs. "I cannot. I am the same as I ever was, unfortunately or not."

"Ha! Thank god for that! I love your candid comments and independence. As far as I traveled, and as many people as I met, I never found anyone like you. Compared to you, Violet Caulfield, every woman seems a simpering trickster."

"If your mother heard you now, she would put me out."

"I would not let her do it," he declared. Unfolding his long legs he approached the mantelpiece over the fire. Pulling his gaze from a palm-size painting leaning upon the mantel, he regarded her over a vest-clad shoulder, "Unless you want me to, that is."

"Why would I?"

The fire crackled and smoked, simmering toward a slow death, until Ainsley picked up the iron poker lying on the brick hearth and prodded the charred logs into temporary revival.

"I know this is improper..." he said, barely above a whisper, reaching out and clasping her hands, "but I suppose mine is not a soul of normal convention anymore. I could not stand it if we were only to have a brief audience in my mother's company—" he cringed "—or worse, my baby sisters'. As it is, my parents may not permit us that much, under this roof. You see, I had to come to you like this."

"Then you are still a free thinker."

"I don't know. Perhaps I am just mad for you." He lifted her warm palm to his cheek. "I have certainly done a lot of thinking. Our old discussions have stayed at the forefront of my mind. For example, why should you be scandalized if I am seen entering your room, while I receive no real censure? Are women not the more wary sex and more likely to invite in reputable persons for innocent purposes?"

"That depends," Violet said archly. "Are you a reputable person?"

"Of course I am! However," he added, his lips twitching, "I cannot say that my purposes are wholly innocent."

Flames licked the chimney, brightening their pale complexions and masking the heat flaring on both their cheeks. They gazed at one another within the governess's small world of ambiance.

"In the past I vacillated. I was a fool then. But now I am quite sure, my dear, that you have stolen my heart." Ainsley's gaze flicked to the trunk behind her legs. "Is that where you keep it locked up?"

Violet tried to laugh but could only sigh, her cheeks puffing out wearily. Though her heart sang to hear Ainsley's proclamations, her mind told her that he was more foolish than ever. Whether or not either of them believed in the strictures of society and time, they were obliged to adhere to them. If they did not, both of their lives would be turned upside down. Ainsley had called her wise, but the governess in Violet was nothing if not practical.

Philosophy was philosophy: easy conjecture shared around cups of tea and firelight. Reality was quite another subject. She worried that she had steered him off course, that he had had two years to ruminate on twisted meaning gleaned from her own unthinking words.

"Tell me what is wrong ...You do not love me." Anxiety danced in those moss-colored eyes.

Violet shook her head, swallowing the urge to sob. "No, that isn't it. You cannot know how it pleases me to hear you say you love me, after all this time. It is quite unbelievable, to be honest. I need a moment to have it sink in."

He squeezed her hands. "Take all the time you need. But you should know that I came here for a greater purpose than to awkwardly profess myself. Dearest Violet, I mean to make you—"

She pressed a finger against his perfect lips. "Shh! Ainsley, you and I, we cannot be..." She let her sentence trail off; it already said all that needed saying.

"I don't care what society thinks any longer!" He lifted her clasped hands to his face, resting his nose against her knuckles. "I don't care what anyone thinks. I love you, Vi. You challenge and torment me, whether with me or not. Your face keeps me up at night, restless and forlorn. If you say that we cannot be together..." He drew her finger against his mouth, parting his lips. "That I may never touch you again..."

Violet gasped as her finger slid onto the moist bed of his lower lip. Old memories surfaced in vivid detail. "You are not being fair," she whispered.

"Oh, but I am. I do not need my father's title and approval to be happy. Don't you see why I became a tutor? I have run in circles since I left, worrying that I might never have the courage you deserve. That I might never be good enough."

"You have always been good enough." Her breaths were becoming uneven. "But you deserve better than the life you would have with me. Look at you! You were made for more than that."

"You wish to be a governess all your life, never marrying or knowing the love of a child? Or a man? We are twenty-four and twenty-three..." His hands came around her waist, pressing her to him, her breasts lifting against the hard plane of his chest.

No, they were certainly not children anymore.

"I—" she faltered, "I do not think marrying has anything to do with knowing the love of a man." Her cheeks blazed at the implication. She had always known that she would not withhold herself from the man she loved, but it was something she had never said aloud. It was not done.

"Violet! You must not say that." His voice came out rough, his fingers digging into her narrow waist.

"Why? We both know I cannot marry you! Though I do love you, and, given time, if you asked me to—" She was not able to finish her sentence because Ainsley's mouth came down upon hers with the force of a deluge. His hands threaded through her long, looping hair.

Their lips moved to a silent, synchronized melody. The air around Violet seemed to disappear, as if she had drained it into her lungs. As if she had not breathed since their separation.

"Your mouth alone will kill me," he murmured against her lips, pulling back with wide eyes.

Rebuffed and flaring red, Violet cast her eyes to the fire. But it was no use. Something deep within her core had been roused from slumber; some primal sensation was already awakening. Shivers rained down her spine. It had been an eternity since Ainsley kissed her.

She had forgotten the taste of him was like heaven.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, tracing a path over the front seam of his linen shirt. "I did not expect this to happen."

Ainsley gritted his teeth, his tilted eyes following Violet's fingers as they dipped lower, stopping above the top of his breeches. He tensed under her touch.

Oh god, what am I doing? she thought vaguely. But in the next moment the thought dissipated, like so much smoke. This was her room, the only space she had to call her own in the world. She was a grown woman, twenty-three years of age, and Ainsley was a man old enough to make his own decisions. He was her oldest friend, her first and only love. These truths mattered... But right now she simply wanted to feel him. His warm skin under her hand. The adoration in his eyes.

"Violet, if we—" his voice broke off. "We must discuss this later." Trapping her roving hand, he stared at her. "I mean it. You cannot cast me off."

"I will never cast you off." On the contrary, she would give him all he wanted; and spare him everything that he deserved.

"Good god, woman! I do not know where to begin," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers. Without reply she pushed the cap sleeve of her nightgown off her shoulder, letting it spill into a pool of fabric above her breast.

He lifted a shaking hand. "You are going undo me before I have a chance to impress you."

"Not likely, she said. "I was impressed before you ever knocked on my door."

With a low growl he folded the fabric of her nightgown away from her chest, cupping his hand around the firm globe that was revealed. Lukewarm air drifted across Violet's bare nipple, tempering it to his touch. He watched her face, gauging her reaction. A long moment passed before he knelt down, taking the tip into his mouth, his tongue sweeping the sensitive, pink bud in languid circles. At the gentlest tug from his lips, she cried out.

She was an educated woman, she knew the general mechanics of lovemaking, but she could not have guessed how a man's mouth on this secret place could drive her as mad as a proper kiss. Perhaps more so.

The prickling heat between her legs intensified, the new sensation building upon itself as though it might spill over if he continued the delicious teasing.

At the onset of another unrestrained feminine moan, Ainsley guided his free hand to Violet's still-clothed right shoulder, sweeping the sheer fabric away from her hot skin. Now both of her breasts were in his hands, under his mouth, being attended in alternation by his delicate tongue. It was absolutely divine.

Violet blushed as her nightgown settled farther down her hips.

"My lord," she purred, freeing his linen shirt from the high waistband of his breeches.

"My lady." He winked, tugging off his cravat and tossing his unbuttoned waistcoat on the rocker. The linen shirt came easily over his head and dropped at Violet's feet. She looked at him admiringly, adjusting the mental picture that she would forever hold onto after tonight.

In the two years since they had last seen each other, Ainsley had filled out. The hard lines of his chest were firm and pliant to the touch. Her small hands explored the taught skin and the baby fine wisps of curling hair, as his own hands, in turn, drifted below her waist, caressing her round bottom through the thin layer of her nightgown.

Leaning forward, Ainsley groaned into the smooth hair curving around Violet's neck. The circular motion of his hands pushed her nightgown past the widest part of her hips. He grasped the loose fabric before the last of the governess's modesty fell to the ground.

She plied at his fingers, turning her face to his cheek. "Forget about that."

"Hard to forget," he breathed, nibbling on her lower lip. The fresh kisses released a tidal wave of memories. It was as if Violet had never forgotten the smell of him, the taste of him. How she had once felt as if she could never get enough of the beautiful Ainsley Shelton.

Breathless, she staggered backward, stabilizing herself with a hand on the post of her bed. But Ainsley would not let her stand. Instead, he eased her onto the folded counterpane, his eyes black as he stared wonderingly at her undraped silhouette. Still standing, he pushed a buckskin covered knee between her legs, angling them apart. He scrubbed his hands through his ear-length wavy locks and knelt before her. Violet held her breath, anxious and excited in equal measure.

What do you have in store for me, my lord?

"Do you trust me?" he said, as if reading her mind.

Violet nodded as the captivating Lord Shelton settled himself between her tingling thighs. For a moment, she thought he meant only to gaze at her awhile— at that part of her body that no man had seen— but when he leaned in and found her secret skin, again with his mouth, she choked on a cry of surprise. A cry that melted into whimpering delight as his tongue lapped, artfully, gently tasting those most sensitive folds and tantalizing her newfound erotic apex. The small, sensitive bud of pure pleasure she hadn't known existed.