Page 1 of My Darling Mr. Darling

Prologue

Kent, England

October, 1820

Violet Townsend had imagined her wedding a thousand times since childhood, refining details until it played out perfectly in her head: a dream of a day, full of summer sunshine, orange blossoms for her hair, a dress made of acres of silk and lace, and wedding bells pealing merrily.

For many years, the groom had been fuzzy in her mind, but when she had been younger she had not considered him of any particular import. He might’ve beenanyone, really. She had always assumed that she would have met him during her upcoming first Season, that she would have a courtship to be envied among her peers. It had only been in the past few months, as the Season—her first—had crept closer that she had begun to consider what she would prefer in a prospective groom.

A sense of humor was paramount, for she dearly loved to laugh. Pleasing to look upon was also preferable, because if onehadto have a husband, he might as well be handsome. An amiable temperament was a necessity, since she could not bear to spend the rest of her life with a man given to sulking or to contrary moods. She would have preferred intelligence, but it was not, strictly, a requirement, given that she supposed she possessed enough of it herself to mitigate whatever might be lacking in her husband—though it would be a boon if he were not a complete simpleton.

There had never been a doubt in her mind that her requirements would be met. Though her blood was decidedly less than blue, her father’s fortune all but guaranteed that she would have her pick of suitors—and Papa had denied her nothing in the whole of her life. He certainly wouldn’t have denied her her choice of husband, nor would he have forced her into marriage with a man not of her choosing.

Or so she had thought.

Until Papa had been brought low by consumption. It was a long, lingering sort of death. A death by inches, by incremental degrees. Slow enough that Violet had noticed the progression of the disease only in retrospect, struggling to reconcile her strong, vibrant Papa with the wasted figure confined to his bed. Even then, she had never really believed he would die. It had seemed to her that death was a tragedy that befell other people, that within the hallowed halls of their country manor in Kent they were untouchable.

Time had put the lie to that, and everything else besides. Death had crept in one evening in late September on the back of a chill breeze, and had taken not only Violet’s beloved Papa but all of her dreams and illusions as well. The dream of a London Season. The dream of a beautiful wedding at St. George’s, with orange blossoms in her hair and the most beautiful gown she could imagine.

The illusion of a father who had loved her enough to let her choose her own husband.

Instead of a gown of shimmering white silk and lace, she had worn black crepe. Instead of orange blossoms and a sunny June morning, she had had pouring rain and dreary October. Instead of pealing bells, she had had the howl of the wind and a droning, long-winded reverend.

Her husband was a stranger. He, too, had been trapped by the provisions of Papa’s will, the provisions of which had disinherited both of them unless they married, and he had been no happier than she of it. There would be no London Season, no courtship to be envied. If her husband had ever smiled a day in his life, she saw no evidence of it upon his face. He seemed hardly able to bring himself to look upon her—and in the rare moments he did, heglowered. As if it had been her fault that she had been orphaned at seventeen, that Papa’s will had disinherited both of them—daughter and business partner both—unless they married.

John Darling was not a man Violet would have chosen for a husband. Though she had known him only an hour, he seemed a dour sort. He was but five years her senior, but for all his severity he might as well have been fifty. Everything about him bespoke a rigid self-control—he had dragged his hand through his close-cropped tawny hair half a dozen time in the last ten minutes, but the locks had always settled straight back into place as neatly as if his fingers had been a comb. And then at the conclusion of the marriage rites, he had sent her off upstairs, like a child to the nursery, without so much as a word.

But Violet had never been terribly good at following commands. It was as if there was a little voice that lived within her head, encouraging her reckless nature. Where was the harm, it whispered, in just a bit of eavesdropping? And so she had crept from her room, secreting herself away to spy.

“What in hell,” her new husband snapped to Papa’s solicitor as he paced a tight circle in the foyer, “am I supposed to do with awife?”

Violet, hidden from view on the landing where she was crouched down behind a statue of some minor Roman goddess, suppressed a flinch.

The solicitor, Mr. Jameson, coughed into his fist. “Take her up to London, I suppose,” he said. “I daresay her mourning period should give her time enough to catch her bearings.”

Mr. Darling fairly careened to a stop in his pacing, turning on the man incredulously. “And where, precisely, should I keep her? The boarding house I live in?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Jameson replied. “Mr. Townsend kept a townhouse in St. James’ Square. Of course it now belongs to you, along with the Kent estate, the house in Bath, the box at the opera, the—”

“All I wanted,” Mr. Darling interjected, and though Violet could notseehim scowl from her position, she could hear it in his voice, “was the damned company I helped to build.”

Uncomfortably, Mr. Jameson cleared his throat. “Yes, well, now you’ve got it—along with everything else.”

“Including his damneddaughter!” Mr. Darling resumed his pacing, the sharp click of his boots on the marble floor of the foyer resounding through the room like gunshots. “Did he think me a fool? I’ve heard his stories—I can only assume he suspected his hellion of a daughter would not take on the marriage mart.”

Hellion? Violet bit her tongue against the urge to denounce the epithet. Papa had always called her free-spirited—but ahellion?

“Now, Mr. Darling,” Mr. Jameson said, “you cannot blame the girl for that. She’s been long without a woman’s gentling influence.”

A harsh laugh burst forth from Mr. Darling and ricocheted straight up to the soaring ceiling, cracking against rafters. “She’s not had a governess since she was ten, because she drove them all off!Hopeless, Townsend called her—fondly!As if it were a virtue!”

Violet flinched in earnest.

“And now he’d have me make awifeof the hoyden? She’s still a child! I can’t unleash her upon London society—I’d be sent straight to Bedlam. No. No, absolutely not. She’s got no social graces to speak of, no manners, no poise or elegance. She’ll have to gosomewhere.” Mr. Darling stroked his thumb along his jaw, considering. “A finishing school,” he said. “She’ll have to go to a finishing school.”

“Sir, I’m certain there’s no need for that. Why, the girl could be educated here—”

“I think not. Her record with governesses leaves something to be desired, and I’ll not have the time to see to her education myself. No, what she requires is a firm hand and a situation she cannot manipulate to her advantage. A finishing school will teach her discipline, self-control, and proper deportment.” Mr. Darling jabbed a finger at Mr. Jameson. “I want her sent to the most rigorous finishing school there is to be had—make the arrangements. She’ll leave in the morning.”