Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

" V iolet!" Rosalie screamed, springing to her feet.

"Your Grace!" the housekeeper screeched at the same time. "Your Grace! Help! Someone help us!"

Violet's heart was in her throat. She wanted to scream again, but she was paralyzed with fear. She was hanging by just the strength of her arms and fingers, which were beginning to cramp. They were all that were keeping her from falling hard to the floor below. And it was so far. Far enough to break an ankle, or a leg, or worse…

Her fingers dug into the wooden frame even harder, but her hands were sweaty, and she could feel them slipping.

"Help! Help!" Rosalie shouted, her voice joining the housekeeper's.

There was a loud sound of footsteps hurrying in their direction, and Violet squeezed her eyes shut. She was going to fall, but she didn't want to see it. The ground was so far away.

What had she been thinking, climbing to the top of the ladder?! In trying to prove her competence to her husband, she had endangered her own life.

A door banged open at the end of the hallway, and then indistinguishable male shouts filled the echoey hall.

"Help her!" she heard the housekeeper shout. "She's going to fall!"

Rosalie was crying. A man was shouting. Violet's hands were slipping.

Now, only her fingertips were holding on, and it was taking every ounce of her strength to keep them there. Her whole body was throbbing with pain. She kicked out her legs to keep herself from falling. She had to let go. She had to?—

And then hands grabbed her legs. Hands and arms held her, taking some of her weight, making it easier for her to re-grip the frame, to keep from tumbling down.

"I've got you," a male voice said, surprisingly soft and soothing. It was James.

A shock went through her. She had been sure that it was a footman who'd come to her rescue. But it was James. It was her husband.

"I've got you," he repeated. "You can let go now."

"I can't!" she whimpered. "I'll fall backward, take you down with me."

"You won't," he said, his voice strong and reassuring. "I'm strong enough to hold you upright, even when you let go. Then I'll slowly put you down. All right? You'll be all right."

"I can't," she whined, her panic rising. "I'm s-scared."

Even in her fear and pain, it occurred to Violet that she had never said those words out loud before. It felt good to admit it.

Maybe Rosalie is right. I don't talk about my emotions enough.

"I know you're scared," James murmured. "But I won't let you get hurt. I promise."

And at last, Violet let go.

For a long moment, she swayed, her legs firmly in James's grasp, but her torso, arms, and head were still suspended in the air. But James was right—his grip was strong, and he had her. And even as she swayed, she knew he would never let go.

Slowly, he began to put her down, until, at last, she was safely back on solid ground, his arms still wrapped around her. For a whole minute, they both stood there, her leaning back against him, him holding her tightly. Her head was nestled in his neck, and she could feel his soft, warm breath tickling her ear.

Finally, he released her, and she turned around to face the room.

Seconds later, her sister had plowed into her.

"Oh, Vi, you're all right!" Rosalie cried, hugging her tightly. "I was so scared!"

When Rosalie released her, the housekeeper also came forward and wrung her hand, her face as white as a sheet. "It's good to see you back on solid ground, Your Grace."

"What were you doing up there?" James interrupted them.

Violet turned back around to face him. His tone was furious, and his face was contorted with rage. Even his fists were clenched at his sides. She was taken aback. The last time she had seen him this incensed was when he saw the roses cut at the stem.

"I was re-hanging the portraits," she explained. "One of the footmen hung them wrong."

"Then you should have had a footman put them right again!" His voice echoed through the corridor, and she wanted to take a step back. But she held her ground.

"Do not raise your voice at me, Your Grace," she said, quietly but firmly. "I was only trying to do this myself, without having to create more work for the servants. I didn't realize it would be so tricky to climb up the ladder."

James took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he had a strange look on his face, like he was trying to force himself to remain calm.

"You're right," he muttered, his voice thick. "I shouldn't have raised my voice at you. It was most ungentlemanly. But there is a reason we have trained staff, so they can help in areas they are most skilled in."

Violet waited for more of an explanation, but when it didn't come, she took a cautious step towards him.

"Are you upset with me for rearranging the portraits? I know you weren't sure you wanted to donate some, but with this redecoration, I am merely trying to highlight your illustrious family line."

"I don't care about that, Violet," James said distractedly.

His eyes had just landed on the portrait that she had been hanging, and his expression darkened once again.

"My illustrious line," he spat. "Such good men from whom I descend."

Violet looked down at the portrait. It depicted a man who looked remarkably similar to James, although older and with a much more unpleasant look on his face. She had a feeling she knew who he was.

"Your father?" she ventured.

Her husband nodded curtly.

Violet looked at the portrait again, then made a decision. "We don't have to hang it if you don't w?—"

"I was in the middle of some important work when I heard the calls for help," James interrupted. "I must return to my study. I wish you a good day. And please, I beg you, have a footman do that."

He hurried out of the hall, leaving Violet to stare after him, confused and shaken.

Later that night, James was sitting at the desk, writing a letter to Phineas, when a knock sounded at the door. He checked his pocket watch—it wasn't yet time for his valet to undress him—before he realized that the knock hadn't come from the main door. It had come from the door that connected his chamber to the Duchess's.

His throat suddenly dry, he set aside the letter. "Come in," he called a little hoarsely.

The door opened, and Violet appeared in the doorway. She wore a pale pink dressing gown that made her ivory skin and dark hair appear even more beautiful, and James found his throat growing even drier.

"Your Grace," she murmured. "May I come in? I wanted to speak with you about what happened earlier today."

"Yes, of course, come in," James said, motioning for her to enter. She did, then stood with her back pressed against the wall, hovering nervously.

"About earlier," she began slowly. "I'm sorry for hanging the portraits myself. You were right, I should have had a footman do it. It was reckless and dangerous to do it by myself."

James set down his pocketwatch and stood up. "Please don't apologize, Violet," he said, approaching her slowly. "My anger earlier was misplaced. I should not have yelled at you like I did. The truth is, I wasn't angry. I was scared."

As he said the words, James realized that this might be the first time in his life that he had admitted to feeling afraid. It felt good to open up to someone, to say what he was actually feeling.

"I understand," Violet murmured, her eyes soft. "I was scared, too. It's hard to admit, isn't it?"

"Yes." James chuckled softly. "It is. Usually, when I'm angry, I just push the feeling down and pretend to be amused or charming. It worked well for me in the past."

"I've noticed that about you," she noted, her eyes raking over his face. "It's a mask you wear. Although today, you were angry, not amused."

"Yes, I was." James considered this. "When I saw you hanging there, my first thought was that you could have died. I couldn't have born that. So once you were safe, it was easier to be angry at you and blame you than confront the fear."

Violet swallowed. He watched the movement, the way her throat bobbed, and he felt a strange longing to stroke the delicate skin of her neck. Of course, he restrained himself.

"Well, thank you for coming to my rescue," she said. "It was much appreciated."

James smiled. "You're welcome. Did you get the portrait re-hung?"

Now it was Violet's turn to smile. "I decided that particular portrait didn't belong there. So I put it in a better spot—the scullery."

James's eyes went wide, and he laughed. "A good spot for that man," he said lightly. "And I'm glad you didn't climb up that ladder again. Although I must say, it wasn't entirely surprising. I always find you in the most unladylike positions, don't I?"

"I wanted to be a damsel in distress for once, I suppose," she mused. "See if you were as good at being the white knight as you are at being the nagging husband."

James's eyes widened, and for a moment, he was too shocked to respond.

Is she flirting with me?

"I believe that the nagging wife is the stereotype," he finally said.

"Well, either way, you acquitted yourself admirably," she quipped. There was a moment of silence, and then she looked away. "It is late, so I will let you go to bed. It has been a trying day." She turned to go, but then she paused at the door, her eyes flickering back over his bed. "By the way, that looks nice there. Perfectly suited to the room."

He followed her gaze to where the hideous portrait of the men playing poker hung above his bed. He looked back at her, and they both laughed. Then she disappeared into her room, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in a long time.