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Violet’s clothes were ruined except for her drawers, so Alistair found a linen shirt and a pair of buckskin breeches in his wardrobe to put her in. And then he helped her dress as a valet might. It should have been fun, arousing even, but they barely spoke a word to each other as he worked.

He found he preferred the chilly distance between them now.

Perhaps the coldness could numb him. He hadn’t realized before this evening that feelings could physically hurt, the way a battle wound did.

That the ache in his chest was as sharp and painful as if she’d plunged a dagger there.

And that their newfound frostiness was the only method of self-preservation he had to keep that hurt at bay.

Of course, she won’t marry me. Why would she?

He had nothing to offer her, which meant he was nothing. All these years, his father had been right. He was nothing.

The thought cut him like a blade as Alistair crouched to his knees to roll up her breeches at the ankles. They clung indecently to Violet’s hips and thighs and gapped at her waist and calves. And they were far, far too long.

While he was on his knees cuffing them, her ankle bone, his old friend, called out to him to be caressed, but he steeled himself not to touch her more than was necessary.

As if she were some off-putting mother-in-law and not the woman of luscious curves and tremendous appetite he had just ravished in his bed.

His fingers trembled from the thought of it, from wanting her.

Even so quickly after he’d just had her.

Again, they said to him . Again.

They itched to reach for her, to tickle the underside of her knee and make their way up her curvy, beautiful thigh. To insert themselves into her wet center and bring her to her knees with desire.

No.

This time he didn’t listen. He briskly helped bind her breasts with a cravat, which he covered with one of his linen shirts as stonily as he could do anything in the vicinity of her breasts.

The shirt hung far too low on her, almost down to her knees.

He watched her shove it down into the breeches, and then he handed her an old overcoat.

It was much too large, with drooping shoulders that looked ridiculous, but it was the best he could do.

He disappeared into his wardrobe for a hat, the final touch, and then stared at her, as expressionless as he could make himself, while she heaved her hair up into a lopsided coiffure. It was a shaky, tenuous affair at best, her hair, but she managed to get it up and under the hat.

“If you’re to examine the girl before you leave, you ought to hurry. Dawn is breaking.”

“Jess,” Violet said. “Her name is Jess. And of course, I’ll see her.” She gave him a strange look, which he ignored.

“Come along, then.”

He led her out of his bedchamber and down the hall to his single guest room. The maid and footman were still abed after the long evening, but they wouldn’t remain so for long, so they moved quickly and quietly.

“Hurry,” he instructed her, before opening the door to where Jess slept.

He waited outside, impatient, while Violet checked in on the girl.

Jess.

Of course, he knew her name was Jess. He didn’t know why he had pretended otherwise except that it felt good to repudiate something of the time they’d spent together. To pretend it hadn’t happened.

Violet re-appeared after only a few minutes. “She’s doing well,” she said. “Still sleeping. No fever.”

Alistair didn’t reply. He only turned his back to her and led the way outside, stepping from the shadows of his townhouse to hail a passing hack.

He wished momentarily he had use of the family carriage but ignored the thought. To have use of the carriage would mean a great many things he didn’t want to contemplate at the moment. A hack would do well enough to get Violet home and out of his life.

When the hack stopped, Alistair threw open the door.

“Come,” he said and climbed inside, leaving Violet to follow on her own.

Then he knocked on the roof to alert the driver they were ready, and they rode back to Chester House in silence.

Violet arrived home after her evening with Alistair expecting to have a great deal of explanation ahead of her.

She slept a few restless hours before waking to the blaze of the late morning sun and making her way to the morning room, where she found her mother, her Aunt Lydia, and Catherine seated at the table.

“Good morning,” she said. “I can explain—”

“Oh, Violet!” Her mother cut her off. “Good morning, dear. You slept late. Have some breakfast. We have so much planning to do!”

Violet paused, eyeing her mother carefully. The woman seemed not to have noticed that she hadn’t arrived home until after dawn. And especially that she hadn’t slept in her own bed. She moved her eyes to Catherine, who smiled at her pleasantly.

“Cousin,” Catherine said. “I do hope you’re feeling better after you went to bed early with a headache.”

She shot Violet a look that very explicitly said, play along if you know what’s good for you.

“Yes,” Violet said. “I had a headache.”

“Mother and Aunt Nora were out at the musicale, as you know, and I stayed home to tend you. Which was quite gracious of me, if I don’t say so myself.”

“Yes,” Violet agreed, trying to keep her face impassive at her cousin’s ridiculous story. “Very kind of you indeed.”

“Catherine,” Lydia cut in, “will you share the news or not?”

“I was getting to it, Mother. If you’d give me a moment to continue.”

“What news is that?” Violet asked, helping herself to coffee and some breakfast. She was starving.

“I’ve a proposal, Violet. The gentleman was here this morning.”

Ah. That’s why they hadn’t noticed.

“That’s wonderful,” Violet said, examining Catherine, who had made the announcement in an oddly subdued manner. “Who is the lucky fellow and when can I meet him?”

“Henry Pembrooke,” Catherine replied. “You have met before. At the—”

“I remember,” Violet interrupted.

She’d met him the evening Alistair had asked her to dance, but she’d kissed him in the gardens instead. The evening he’d faked being a footman in order to apologize to her.

That had been how long ago? Less than two weeks, but it felt like a lifetime.

A feeling she was afraid might be regret pulsed through her that she ruthlessly ignored.

He wouldn’t have had to apologize if he’d trusted her in the first place, she reminded herself.

And he’d barely spoken a word to her the last hour of their acquaintance, despite their intimacy and his proclamation they were to marry.

He was inconstant.

Wasn’t he?

Even as she thought the words, she knew they were not true. He had proposed to her. That was nothing if not constant. It was she who had waffled. She who had declined.

“Violet?” her mother interrupted her thoughts. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. “Yes, of course. Congratulations, Catherine,” she said to her cousin and took another sip of her coffee.

“There is so much to do now of course,” Violet’s mother said. “We’ll need your help, dear. All hands on deck as they say!”

Violet shuddered at the sailing analogy. She’d rather not think about sailing or sea captains or Alistair Crawford ever again.

“There’s the announcement, the trousseau, and of course the wedding arrangements,” her mother went on. “Are you listening, Violet?”

“I am.” Violet turned her attention back to her cousin, realizing that she’d said she had a proposal. Not that she was betrothed.

“You have accepted him, cousin?”

“I have not,” Catherine said, causing both her mother and her Aunt Nora to whip their heads around to her.

“Not yet,” she amended. “But I will. He is young and handsome and the heir to the Waverly Viscountcy. It is a good match. We’ll have the contracts drawn up just as soon as possible.”

Catherine’s dispirited manner made Violet uneasy. “And is he kind?” she pressed. “Will he make you happy?”

“He’ll make her happier than having the Earl of Chester marry her off to the highest bidder,” Catherine’s mother said. “She’ll accept.”

Violet looked to Catherine. “I’ll accept,” Catherine confirmed. “But first I’ll go to the house party he’s hosting in the country next fortnight. Just to make sure. You’ll accompany me, won’t you, Violet?”

“Of course, she will,” Violet’s mother said. “Won’t you, dear?”

“I would have thought it better for me to stay away. After the Waverly Ball, we agreed for me to keep my distance.”

“Don’t be silly,” her mother scoffed. “She’s had the proposal now, so it’s completely different. You must go. We all must.”

“I suppose I could,” Violet agreed reluctantly.

It would be nice to be out of London, which reminded her too much of Alistair.

But first she would check on her patient. If Jess was well, she’d go. If not, she’d come up with some reason to stay.