Page 45 of My Darling Mr. Darling

Mr. Mitchell, who had been casting smug little glances at John since he had walked in, scoffed. “I hope Lady Granbury isn’t filling my sister’s head with such drivel,” he said.

Violet ignored the jab, continuing loftily as if Mitchell had not spoken, “One can learn a great deal about one’s partner during a dance. For instance, whether he bathes regularly or prefers instead to camouflage his poor hygiene with perfumes. Whether he speaks incessantly of himself, or listens to his partner. Whether or not they share any common interests.” Her bright gaze passed over each of them in turn. “If you would call upon a lady, chances are good that she will decide whether or not she wishes to accept you during a dance. You will improve those chances by making agreeable partners.”

“I’m not seeking a wife,” Mr. Mitchell cast out resentfully. “I can’t see how—”

“Mr. Mitchell, you’ve been disagreeable enough for the last few weeks thatIcannot see how you would manage to attract a wife even if youwereseeking one. Nevertheless, I am determined to teach this class to the best of my abilities. If you do not wish to learn, you are free to leave at any time you please.” Violet gave a flippant gesture toward the open door.

An awkward silence descended, but in the ensuing hush, Mr. Mitchell remained where he was—although his jaw tensed to the point that John would not have been surprised if he had cracked a tooth. John found himself impressed at her capable handling of the ill-mannered Mitchell, given that it had been a continual struggle forhimto resist the temptation to plant his fist firmly in the man’s face.

After an interminable silence—in which Violet allowed Mr. Mitchell to stew in the discomfort of his own embarrassment—she at last cleared her throat delicately and continued once more. “Unfortunately, it is highly unlikely that you will receive vouchers for Almack’s. It is an insular institution, and the patronesses are quite particular about and protective of their memberships. It is preciselybecauseof this that your behavior must be above reproach—for I assure that if you do not demonstrate the chivalry and deportment that will be expected of you, gaining admittance to Almack’s will be the very least of your concerns.” She pinned Mr. Mitchell with a stern stare. “You must behave like gentlemen, and give none cause to think otherwise of you. There can be little worse than to have it bandied about that you areungentlemanly, and certainly there can be nothing more injurious to your social aspirations.”

A hesitant chuckle rose from Mr. Green. “I’m certain there are worse crimes that a minor social faux pas. Murder, perhaps.”

Violet’s head swiveled toward him, her chin notched at that precise angle that John had swiftly learned heralded a swift set-down. “Are you familiar with the fifth Baron Byron, Mr. Green?” she inquired.

“I, ah—well, no. A bit before my time, I should think,” Mr. Green replied, his head drifting down until he resembled nothing so much as a child called onto the carpet for a round scolding.

“Please, allow me to educate you. He murdered his friend and neighbor, William Chaworth, and pleaded privilege when the case was brought to trial, escaping with only a fine. So, yes, thereisa distinct difference between a minor social faux pas and murder. That difference is that murder is a forgivable offense.” She canted her head toward the woman seated at the piano, who dutifully began to sort through the sheet music laid out before her, arranging the pages in some semblance of order.

“To that effect,” Violet said, with a sweeping gesture of her hand, “we will begin with general etiquette—which we will continue until such a time as I feel you can comfortably navigate the perils of a ballroom with ease.”

“Perils?” Mr. Simmons echoed.

“Yes, Mr. Simmons,perils. Reputations are made or tarnished in the ballroom. A careless word, a thoughtless act—any of these could see you banished from polite society in an instant. The eyes of theTonwill be upon you, and no small portion of them will be hoping for you to fail. It will be regarded as proof positive that you do not belong.” Violet softened her clipped tone with a smile—a smile which John noticed brought a flush rising to Mr. Simmons’ cheeks. “I intend to make certain that youdobelong; that your manners are so refined, so far beyond reproach, that none would think of issuing any but the highest of praise.”

How she intended to accomplish such a thing was beyond John’s ken; to the best of his knowledge, she had never once attended a ball. But then, he knew better than most how exacting the instructors at Mrs. Selkirk’s had been—and given the school’s reputation for turning out ladies beyond compare, he supposed that perhaps her confidence in her own abilities was not misplaced.

“Now,” Violet said, in the crisp, clear intonation of a woman who expected—and commanded—unquestioning obedience, “I have enlisted the aid of our housekeeper, Mrs. Bellwether, for the music. Fortunately for all of us, her talents extend far beyond domestic duties, as I can assure you that I have no particular talent for music.”

Mr. Collins furrowed his brow. “If not playing, then what will you being doing, Miss Townsend?” he inquired.

Violet favored him with a scintillating smile. “Dancing, naturally.”

Chapter Seventeen

For as long as Violet could remember, there had been a terrible little voice that lived in her head whose sole purpose—in her experience—was to get her into all sorts of trouble.

In her childhood, it had been innocent enough in its suggestions. Things like:Where is the harm in climbing that sturdy old oak in your newest dress?Or:It is a perfectly lovely day for splashing through mud puddles.Bits of childish mischief that had often earned her a scolding, but nothing more.

As she had grown older, so too had that voice grown more and more devious. Sometimes it worked in tandem with Violet’s conscience—a common occurrence when she had been at Mrs. Selkirk’s school, where, fueled with self-righteous fury, she had allowed it to convince her that she was practically honor-bound to fight back against the cruelty of the staff, to defend the other girls against the injustices committed against them.

But Mrs. Selkirk’s staff did notscold. Theybeat, or, if one was deemed to have trespassed too far, then they locked one away in that terrible little closet—the Coffin—down in that musty cellar that reeked of turnips and onions. And still, Violet had learned very little from those experiences, except that she would not yield to their attempts to break her down. In retrospect, she could see that John had rightly named her a hellion years ago, and that tendency had only been exacerbated by her brief tenure at Mrs. Selkirk’s. Goaded on by that horrible voice in her head, she had caused no end of trouble—mostly for herself.

And it had persisted still, even after she had run away. From position to position, that voice whispered wickedness. Lady Bellingham was not likely to notice her emerald earbobs had gone missing—at least not until well after Violet had left—and didn’t the staff deserve a little something, since she’d neglected to pay them their quarterly wages? Mr. Wright haddeservedto have his eye blacked for preying upon the maids. What did it matter if she had sent yet another excoriating letter to John through the post after his latest advertisement? He could hardly locate her at a position she had recently abandoned.

Even when she had heeded these ill-advised impulses, she had still made every effort to protect herself from the consequences of her actions. It was simple enough to do when one was living under an assumed name—manyassumed names—and one had no personal ties, no connections to a particular place. Each time she had given into the urge to listen to that wicked little voice, the simplest solution had been to reinvent herself and move on.

So well-accustomed was she to that voice and its wickedly whispered suggestions, that when its insidious murmur crawled from the back of her brain to the forefront, it seemed almost reasonable.

Where was the harm in kissing her husband? After all, John seemed to be quite proficient at it. In her limited experience, kissing was a rushed, hurried affair. Certainly Edward had never bothered to caress the nape of her neck, or to comb his fingers through her hair. He had treated kissing almost as a necessary evil; a task to be completed as quickly and efficiently as possible, just a brief stop on the way to the desired destination. But to John, the kiss hadbeenthe destination, and Violet—Violet had enjoyed it immensely.

Far more than she had expected. Perhaps more than was wise.

Still, it was hardly scandalous to kiss one’s spouse. It would bring neither ruin nor shame to Serena’s school, even if someonedidhappen to discover it. And she had learned the rhythms of the house well enough by now that she could virtually guarantee that they wouldnotbe discovered, and—

That had been the point where she had realized with quiver of concern that that devious voice had nearly had its way again. And might still, given that she had so rarely suppressed it. It could—and had—talked her into all manner of reckless actions.

Kissing her husband might just be the most foolhardy yet. This time, she could not easily reinvent herself and run off into the night as she had so many times before. Just the thought of it hurt viscerally, reminding her why she had spent so many years using the sharp edge of her tongue to keep people at bay. Why she had rebuffed every hand extended to her in friendship. It was easy to leave when she had had no one. But leaving now might well destroy her. She had found a life she loved, a friend she cherished.