The Violet Hour by Brynn Chapman Read Free Book Online Page B

up behind him to stare over his shoulder.
    My breath intakes sharply at the life-like sketches.
    Pyrotechnics explode on the page in a vertical fashion—the first five, starbursts with long comet tails, the next, six diagonal shooting jets, all detonating at once into flower-shaped pinnacles of light.
    “Is this better?” His eyes steal up to mine. Again, pouring over my face.
    They suddenly drop to the magnolia pendant around my neck.
    He spins so his whole body faces me. “What is your story, Allegra?”
    Fear tickles my face. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”
    He shakes his head. “You were not born poor. Your speech, your manners, your walk, your musical education—all recommend you are high-born , Miss Teagarden.” He smiles. “If that is truly your name.” His face clouds again.
    I swallow as panic roots in my chest. What if I was wrong? What if I’ve misjudged him? He may turn me in for a reward today . This very moment.
    “My parents have passed. I have only distant relatives to recommend me. I and my cousin Sarah, had to find a means to live , Mr. LeFroy.”
    “I said, call me Brighton.” His eyes narrow. “Humbug. Sarah is no more your cousin than I am your husband. You are hiding …from someone or something. I wish to know before I entangle myself into your world. I have enough to be getting on with as it is.”
    Anger replaces my fear.
    His haughty disposition and lack of empathy light a fire in my chest.
    “My life is no concern of yours. Need I remind you, you are here to create a show . A show to keep this place afloat. That is all. I owe you no explanations. Nor any man, anything.”
    “Ah.” He nods smugly. “You are running from a husband.”
    “What? No!” My hands tremble with rage and I press them hard against my thighs. To keep from striking him.
    His gaze ticks from my face, lingering on them. The result is a tremor so violent, it is as if I’ve been struck with palsy. Except for my one wretched finger. It remains bent, like a crone’s hooked claw, its tip firmly fixed against my palm.
    He hesitates, but then kneels before me and slides his rough fingers atop mine to gently extricate them from my thigh; the remnant of his touch burns my skin.
    His other hand reaches up to finger the magnolia dangling below my collarbone. I flinch as a spark of electricity hits my chest.
    He drops it quickly looking alarmed, and points to it instead.
    “ This. This says you were well-loved, my dear. It is very fine. I’ve upset you. That was not my intent. Do tell me, where is the other earring?”
    “How did you know it was an earring?”
    He shrugs. “Quite easily. Where is it?”
    “Lost.” Like me .
    “You shouldn’t wear it—it gives away your game. Anyone with one wit of sense will figure out you’re a fugitive with one glance of your fine necklace against your peasant dress.”
    So stupid . I step forward, feeling dizzy. He steadies me, easing me into a chair. He kneels before me, his chest pressing against my knee. My heart swells, filling my ribcage, pumping madly in my chest.
    His proximity sucks every bit of breath from my body. I will myself not to touch him. To reach up and lose myself in the texture of those blackened curls.
    “I. I…” I lick my dry lips, trying my best to form coherent words.
    “I will not harm you, Allegra. You, and your secrets are safe with me. I have my own…troubles. Too much to ever add to anyone else’s. Keep your secrets for now, and keep them close. But if you are ever in need of help, know you may come to me.”
    I nod. No words come forth. They seem to have been washed away in the pounding river of blood pumping from my ridiculous, smitten heart.
    He stands and my breath returns.
    He strides to my cello and walks it back, placing it before me. “Play. I will hold the pictures for you to compose.”
    I place the cello between my legs as he lifts the sketches. He sits directly across from me in a wingback chair and holds aloft the