“Yes, you can,” he agreed, so quickly that she nearly laughed aloud. “Please say you’ll dance with me,” he added, taking yet another step forward, and by now he was standing far too close for propriety. Violet tilted her head back and looked at him, finding herself caught in the intensity of that green gaze yet again. The word please sounded incredibly appealing on his lips.
“If I must dance with you twice before any discussion of your undergarments can ensue,” he added, “I had better not waste any time—it’s a conversation I suddenly find myself quite desperate to have.”
A startled laugh burst out of Violet and he seized the opportunity to sweep her into his arms—she had always thought the expression a bit absurd when encountered in a novel and yet there, on that balcony, on that particular moonlit night, it seemed entirely accurate.
Violet had danced with gentlemen before, of course, and until this moment she would have said that she had enjoyed those dances thoroughly. Some had been better than others, naturally—such was the way of life, her mother had once noted with a heavy sigh—but on the whole, Violet would have considered herself a lady who liked dancing.
But now, waltzing around on a balcony in the arms of a man she barely knew, she realized that all of those previous dances had been mere flickering candle flames compared to this one, which blazed like the sun. His arms were strong around her, turning her deftly in time with the music. This close, she could smell the particular scent that clung to him, some combination of freshly pressed linen and shaving soap and the faint note of spirits—brandy, perhaps? Whatever it was, the mixture was thoroughly intoxicating. Wild, mad thoughts flitted through her head: would it be strange to press her nose to his immaculately pressed jacket and sniff?
She decided that yes, it would.
She looked up at his impossibly handsome face as they slowly rotated, her eyes catching and holding his. His smile had not made a reappearance, but she could somehow sense its presence in his eyes, in the way he looked down at her. It made her feel warm and itchy in a way that she could not precisely explain, but which was not at all unpleasant.
Over the past weeks of the Season, Violet had danced many dances, spoken to many gentlemen, worn many beautiful gowns—but it was here, in a not-particularly-spectacular evening gown of blush-pink silk (which, in her opinion, didn’t flatter her complexion), on a secluded balcony, that Violet found herself at last thinking, Yes, this.
“You know, this might be the most enjoyable ten minutes I’ve spent at a ball all year,” Lord James said, eerily echoing Violet’s own thoughts.
“I can hardly believe that,” Violet said lightly, attempting to ignore the thrill that had gone through her at the words. “Gentlemen are allowed to engage in all sorts of activities that are unsuitable for young ladies, some of which I imagine must be more enjoyable than standing outdoors on a rather chilly evening.”
“True,” he agreed. “And yet, I find myself with a strong preference for this evening’s company.”
She looked up at him then, as they turned slowly about the balcony, his hand warm and steady in her own, the other burning through layers of fabric at her back.
“Lady Violet,” he said, halting abruptly, “I’m going to take you inside now, before I do something I regret.”
“Oh?” Violet said, unable to suppress a note of disappointment in her voice. Instead of releasing her, he pulled her closer to him, the warmth of her body drawn to that of his like a moth to a flame.
“Well, actually,” he said, gazing down at her, “I’m not certain I’d regret it at all. But since I do try to distinguish myself from the Jeremy Overingtons of the world, I don’t make it a habit to kiss young ladies on balconies.” He reached his hand up, relinquishing his hold on her waist to brush it against her cheek, then take one of her dark curls between his thumb and forefinger. Violet felt rooted to the ground—had the ballroom caught fire at that moment, she doubted even that would have spurred her to movement.
But, as she discovered a moment later, the sound of her mother’s voice proved more effective than any blazing inferno.
“Violet Grey!” came Lady Worthington’s shrill cry, horror and disapproval warring for precedence in her tone. Lord James dropped his hand immediately, and Violet took two hasty steps back, but it was too late.
They had been seen.
Lady Worthington swept toward them, the feathered headdress she wore atop her head quivering with indignation. She was still a very handsome woman, not yet forty, though Violet thought she often dressed as though she were far older. In this moment, her beauty was put to its full intimidating effect—fair cheeks blazing with color, blue eyes sparkling with anger. She looked from Violet to Lord James and back again, a single glance communicating more than words possibly could have. Violet braced herself for a blistering attack, but found her mother’s first words aimed at the gentleman of the party, not herself.
“Lord James Audley, I believe.” It was not truly a question; Lady Worthington had Debrett’s memorized, as Violet knew only too well.
“You presume correctly, my lady,” Lord James said with a courteous bow.
“Well, my lord,” Lady Worthington said, and Violet winced at the sharp edge to her voice, “I assume you won’t mind telling me what, precisely, you were doing on this balcony with my daughter?”
Lord James held Lady Worthington’s gaze briefly, then broke it, casting his eyes to Violet’s. He looked at her for a long moment, and she knew—somehow, she just knew—what the next words out of his mouth would be, much as she longed to prevent them.
“As it happens, your ladyship,” he said, still every inch the proper gentleman, “I was just getting around to proposing.”
One
July 1817
Violet Audley had mastered many skills in her five years of marriage but, to her everlasting dismay, pouring tea was not one of them.
“Really, Violet,” said Diana, Lady Templeton, reaching for the teapot. “Allow me.” Given Diana’s disinclination to exert herself when it was not strictly necessary, this was an indication of dire straits indeed.
“Thank you,” Violet said gratefully, relinquishing the teapot and reclining slightly against the green-and-gold settee upon which she was seated. “I’m sure the maids will appreciate one less tea stain to mop up later.”
“You must keep them busy in that regard,” said Emily with a smile, accepting the teacup that Diana handed her, filled to the brim with unsweetened, undiluted tea. Violet had always found it rather amusing that Lady Emily Turner, the most beautiful debutante of their year, the most prim and proper and sweet of all English roses, preferred her tea plain and bitter.
“That’s quite enough commentary on my tea-pouring skills, thank you,” Violet said, watching as Diana dropped a lump of sugar and a splash of milk into the cup before handing it to her. Diana began to prepare a cup for herself.
“That’s one thing you must miss about Audley,” Diana said casually. “Didn’t he pour tea for you, when you two were . . . friendlier?” The final word was laced with the delicate sarcasm at which Diana so excelled, and Violet stiffened—as she so often did at the mention of her husband’s name.