Page 36

“Wake up, cousin,” Catherine whispered. “Or we’ll be late.”

Violet sat upright. It was already dark out.

“Oh no,” she groaned. “I’m sorry, Catherine. Why didn’t you wake me earlier? You can’t be late to your own betrothal ball! The mothers will go into apoplexy.”

Catherine shrugged. “You needed to rest.”

Violet had taken the train to Pembrooke’s house party in Surrey after they’d found Jess and she’d been assured the girl was healing.

In body if not yet in heart. She understood that hearts moved at their own pace, and it was hers that drove her to leave Jess in Esmee’s capable care.

She wanted to be as far away from Alistair Crawford as she could be.

“And besides,” Catherine was saying, “there will be plenty of time for the announcement. They cannot exactly make it without me, can they?” She smiled her most winning smile. “And don’t you worry, cousin. We’ve still plenty of time for waltzes and ratafia.”

Violet made a face. “No ratafia or I’m not attending.”

Catherine grinned. “Agreed. I only mentioned it to make sure you were properly awake.”

Violet eased herself up from her comfortable, down-filled bed.

“I am. And I’ll hurry.”

Violet finished her toilet in record time for a lady of the ton, and despite the maid’s grumbling, she liked her hair. Her curls were loosely swept into a chignon with tendrils framing her face.

“You look French,” the woman said with a grimace that told Violet it was not a compliment.

Violet laughed. “I think I look thoroughly American.”

Catherine swept into the room. “Oh,” she said, “you do look French.”

She cast a sly grin at her cousin. “The new Earl is attending this evening, all the way from Paris. Perhaps you can marry him, and we’ll all live here together?”

“I am not marrying your father’s cousin,” Violet said. “And I’m not living in England.”

Catherine shrugged. “As you like. He may not show anyway.”

“How will you know if he did? Have you ever met the man?”

“Not once,” Catherine said. “But if you run into a Lord Sedgewick this evening, he’ll be the one. The new Earl of Chester.”

“And you’re sure about this?” Violet asked, changing the subject. “The marriage?”

“I am.”

Catherine smoothed her skirts, not looking Violet in the eye.

“It’s my best option. I won’t be a pauper or make mother one.”

“Catherine, I’d never let you be a pauper. You must know that. And I thought you had a small portion to your name?”

“I wouldn’t take your money, Violet. You need it for your hospital. It sounds wonderful.”

“And your portion? This Sedgewick did not renege, did he?”

“He did not. But it won’t be enough. Not to do what I want in this world.”

“Which is what, exactly? I will help you, whatever it is. You don’t need to do this.”

“That is the issue,” Catherine said. “I don’t yet know what I want to do. But I know it is something.

“I envy you that, Violet. Your certainty of what your life is for. I’d like to find that too. For myself.”

Violet reached for her cousin. She was a picture of beauty, with her gown of deep emerald tightly cinched at her waist and adorned with pearls and silver thread.

“You are beyond lovely this evening. Pembrooke will fall all over himself for you.”

Catherine grasped Violet’s outstretched hand and squeezed.

“Although,” Violet added, “it is not too late to cry off. The betrothal has not been announced. The banns have not been read.”

“I won’t cry off.”

“But will you be happy?”

“I believe that happiness is possible.”

Catherine’s tone was measured, and Violet wasn’t terribly sure she believed her.

“And,” Catherine added, “I’m glad you’re with me this evening. I don’t think I could do it alone.”

“The mothers will be in attendance. You couldn’t be alone if you wanted to be.”

“They’re hardly company,” Catherine said. “Mother is beyond herself at the idea of a Viscount’s heir. You’d think she might have learned her lesson from her own marriage. And Aunt Nora is no help at all. She practically shoves me at Pembrooke every time he walks past.”

“I apologize for that. I do believe you’re my mother’s last hope for a grand marriage. Now, let us go. No matter what you say, you really cannot be late to your own betrothal ball.”

“Violet,” Catherine said. “Pembrooke invited him this evening.” She didn’t have to specify who. “I didn’t want you to be surprised.”

Violet slipped her arm into Catherine’s, steeling herself against the memory of Alistair’s touch that vaulted down her spine at the mention of his name.

“Thank you for telling me. I think I can survive seeing the man for one night.”

“You can,” Catherine said. “I know you can.”

Catherine and Violet met their beaming mothers at the top of the stairway that descended to the betrothal ball. Violet could hear the music playing below her, and she glanced down at the figures gliding by on the dance floor.

All was as it had been before, during her mini season. Except for her. She knew herself so much more than that girl of eighteen ever could have dreamed.

“It’s time,” Violet’s aunt exclaimed, taking her place next to Catherine. “My daughter is the belle of the ball this evening.”

Violet moved next to her mother. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “that you’ll never get to say as much.”

Her mother only patted her hand in answer. “Time will tell. Now let us hurry.”

All eyes were on the four women as the majordomo announced them.

Pembrooke stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

His blonde head turned to Catherine as soon as she entered the room, and Violet thought that perhaps they would make a decent match after all.

It wasn’t a love match, but that might be for the best.

Alistair had called her love over and over again—and that sweet affection made it hurt all the more that she couldn’t have him.

She felt the phantom pain of his touch again, remembering when he’d tipped her face up or pressed his thumb into the small of her back.

She probably had to resign herself to the possibility that she might feel it forever.

The cousins descended the stairs, and Pembrooke met Catherine immediately, whisking her away toward the dance floor.

Violet smiled as she watched her cousin depart.

This would be her last ball. She’d stay on in England until Catherine’s wedding, and then she’d travel back to New York, where her future awaited her.

She made her way slowly to the lemonade stand and poured herself a cup, then perched on a settee nestled among the potted palms, where the other spinsters and wallflowers resided.

She noted Mrs. Jenson staring at her from across the room and ignored her. Who cared what the Mrs. Jensons of the world thought of her? It had no bearing on Violet, nor on her hopes and dreams.

A few gentlemen managed to find her, as they always did, but she politely declined their invitations to dance. It pleased her to sit and watch her aunt and mother across the ballroom, gaily conversing while her cousin danced with her handsome beau.

This , she thought, is all I can ask for .

And it was almost enough.

Alistair stood on the balcony of Pembrooke’s country house and watched Violet perched among the plants that bordered the wall.

He’d entered quietly through the side door, as was his habit, so the majordomo would not announce him. He didn’t want to cause a scene or make Violet uncomfortable. He just wanted to watch her, once more, while he could. Tomorrow, he set sail with McGann in the first venture of his new life.

The coincidence wasn’t lost on him. How he and Violet had been at a ball once before, on the eve of his departure. And how then, like now, what could have been slipped through his fingers.

He’d told himself when he’d accepted the invitation it was to congratulate Pembrooke, but he’d known that wasn’t the whole truth all along. He’d accepted for one final glimpse of her, and there she was, tapping her slippered toe surreptitiously to the music.

He watched several potential partners approach her and walk away after she declined. He smiled to himself. Violet Goodwin didn’t dance at balls. That was one of the mysteries about her that he’d never unraveled.

Violet eventually made her way outside to the balcony and stared out over the railing at the stars. It was unusually cloudless, and the night sky was bright and beautiful above her head.

“It’s almost like being on the prow of a ship, is it not?” said a voice from the shadows.

She knew him immediately, as she always did. Her spine tingled, her skin tightened, and her breath exhaled. She was simultaneously more relaxed in his presence than at any other time in her life and drawn as tightly as a bow.

“It is,” she replied.

“I sail tomorrow.”

“I know. I heard from Esmee.”

Violet wanted so much to turn to him and stare into the dark pools of his eyes, but she did not dare. She was too susceptible to his presence; her fingers even now twitched for want of touching him. He was moving on with his life, and she was glad for him.

Stay where you are, Violet Goodwin, a voice inside her said.

She heard his deep inhale behind her; the one he often made before he spoke.

“Don’t,” she said in the same careful, polite voice they used with each other now. “There is no more to say.”

“But there is, Violet. I’d like to apologize. To your face.” He waited for her to turn around, but she didn’t. “Or to the back of your head, if I must. I want you to hear me say that I was an arrogant arsehead who will regret the way I treated you for the rest of my days.”

“Asshead,” Violet corrected.

“Asshead is not a word.”

He’d edged closer to her, so she could feel the heat of his nearness, although he did not touch her.

“I never asked you,” he said, “what you wanted. I declared us bound to be married. I blathered on about my past and my future and all my hopes and dreams, and I never once asked you what it was you wanted to do with your extraordinary talent. Who you wanted to be when you looked into the future.”

“I never told you either,” Violet said. “And I could have.”

Alistair paused. “I should have asked anyway. And I should have told you that I would stand by your side in any way you wanted me to. That I’d have happily been your friend or your lover or your husband.

That I’d have been a barnacle on the side of your ship, if you let me.

One you couldn’t scrape off no matter how hard you tried. ”

Violet laughed. “A barnacle?”

“Aye. A barnacle. A barnacle for a violet. A picture of our truest selves.”

“It’s only a pretty name. Nothing to do with me, really.”

“On the contrary.” He took another step closer to her. “Violets are your perfect namesake. Lovely creatures with delicate, soft petals and beautiful eyes. But it’s their constitution that sets them apart.

“Do you know I’ve seen violets in every place I’ve sailed?” he asked. “They are tough creatures. Very hardy. Cosmopolitan, in the botanical sense.”

Violet felt her body’s familiar reaction to his proximity—the jolt along her spine, the weakness in her knees. How her heart squeezed with wanting.

“I admire them for that, their toughness,” he said. “I think you could plonk them down just about anywhere and they’d bloom. Just as you do.”

“It’s a kind thing to say.”

She wished he would stop talking. Wished he would leave so that whatever this sparking electricity was between them that she could not control would be gone too. She hated how just being close to him put him in danger.

“It’s the truth.” He paused. “Will you look at me, Violet?”

Her feet turned her to face him, and the intensity of his gaze felt like it was burning a hole through her insides.

“Thank you for saying so,” she said, forcing herself to hold his stare. Forcing her voice to be steady and clear. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

“It was important to say all the same.”

The first bars of a waltz wafted through the air. “Violet,” he lifted his hand and held it out to her in invitation, as he had on that very first night. “Perhaps you might consider dancing with me?”

She shook her head no.

“I don’t dance.”

There was little space between them, but he stepped closer anyway, cutting the small distance in half.

“There is no reason not to dance. And if there is, let go of it. It isn’t so hard, letting go of what doesn’t serve you.”

“There is a reason,” she said, meaning the words as a rejection. But her hand moved anyway and placed itself in his outstretched palm.

“People will talk,” he murmured as he pulled her close and they began to move. “Does it bother you?”

“No.”

“Then tell me.” He pulled her even closer still. “Why do you never dance?”

She felt so warm and comfortable in his arms. Their bodies moving together in synchronicity as they always had. Their hearts and minds were so often at loggerheads, but their bodies—they were in accord.

He turned her in time to the music, and she let herself remember the night that James died.

“I was eighteen,” she whispered. “Just home from England and beginning my season. I wanted a beau who would thrill me, as you had.”

He pulled her even closer still. Too close to effect the actual steps of the dance, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she could feel his body pressed to hers. And that he let her talk.

“I wished for someone who would make me feel alive and wanted and precious. And one evening, I thought I found such a gentleman. He asked me to dance not once, not twice, but three times.”

“Ah,” Alistair said into her temple. “It signified.”

“It did. So, I begged my parents to stay. Just one dance more, just a little longer. And then a little longer still. What did it matter if we arrived home late? James was eighteen too, my twin, not a child that needed looking after.”

“And?”

“And by the time we finally made it back home, James had tired of waiting on me and had taken the stallion out alone. We often rode out at night together. He was a fine horseman, but the animal must have startled for some reason and thrown him.

“We found him hours later. His collarbone was broken, protruding from the skin, and the fever that would kill him had already set in.”

“And you stopped dancing,” Alistair said.

“Yes.”

“What’s done is done, Violet. You must know that denying yourself is not redemption.”

“It’s not denial so much as a lack of want. I haven’t wanted to dance, not since that night.”

“And now?”

“Don’t ask me that.” The music ended but they still clung to one another. “There is no way for me to answer that will do either of us any good.”

She pulled herself away from him. “I should go back inside. They’ll make the announcement soon, and Catherine will want to be able to see me.”

Violet peered through the French doors and paused, craning her neck.

“Alistair,” she said, her brow furrowing. “Is that Williams? I believe he’s looking for you.”