Page 67 of My Darling Mr. Darling
Violet avoided his gaze, staring intently down at her food. Sacrificing a single pea to the tines of her fork, she pushed it around her plate. Had he been tempted, even a little? Had he regretted the fact that her very existence had effectively doomed that particular prospect? The thought was disquieting—and disheartening.
“Oh,” Serena said. “Oh, dear. Well, Catherineisa lovely girl—”
“I declined,” John interrupted. “However, that did not stop Mitchell from approaching my grandfather instead, and since my grandfather is of the opinion that I should bow to his every whim, he effectively sold me. Naturally, I advised Mitchell to recoup his funds as quickly as possible, as I have no intention of marrying at my grandfather’s command.” His eyes landed on Violet. “I suspect that is the reason Mr. Mitchell has been absent. It was never your tutelage he desired; he wanted only to keep an eye on his investment.”
“Keep an eye on his investment?” the duchess repeated. “John, do you mean to say that you have been enrolled in this class as well?”
“He has,” Violet offered, pleased to get out at least one response that did not consist of unintelligible muttering.
“But for what purpose?” the duchess asked, her dark blonde brows pulling together in confusion. “John has the finest manners of anyone of my acquaintance.”
This time it was Serena that shifted in her seat amidst the heavy silence, and Grey that muffled a little grunt of pain as she kicked him beneath the table. “Naturally,” he began, in a somewhat stilted tone as he created an excuse on the spot, “the strictures of propriety are somewhat different between men and women. Violet, being charged with a task such as this, was meant to benefit from the wisdom of John’s experience. As a favor to Mouse, to safeguard the success of her school, John volunteered to be placed within the class to ensure that the curriculum accounted for these differences.”
“How fascinating.” The duchess took a sip of her wine. “And, Violet, did you find it challenging to keep the gentlemen in line? In my experience, men are often given to blathering on about their own consequence—I can only imagine how well some men would take to instruction by a woman.” Both her tone and expression conveyed the same judgement, which was:not very.
Before Violet could formulate a response, John spoke up instead. “On the contrary,” he said. “Despite Mr. Mitchell’s efforts to disrupt lessons, Violet handled each interruption firmly, and with the utmost grace and tact.” He paused to peel apart a flaky dinner roll. “There was never any doubt as to who was in control of the class. Somehow, even when admonishing the gentlemen for some infraction or another, still she commanded their respect.”
Violet, who had never once considered that she might be accused of being in possession of graceortact, could only attempt to arrange her features into what she hoped approximated a bland expression, as if his assessment hadnotsurprised her.
“High praise indeed,” the duchess said, dimpling her approval at Violet. “Well, I will not be surprised if your school is a resounding success. Do you think I might sit in on a lesson or two? I should like to learn how it is done.”
John’s gaze cut to Violet. “I’d recommend you wait until the next group, Your Grace,” he said. “Now that the rest of the class has, more or less, mastered dancing, we spend our lessons in improving our conversational skills—which usually devolves into Mr. Simmons focusing his attentions on courting Violet.”
Violet gasped, horrified at the implication. “That isnot true—”
“He’s half in love with you already, and you’re blind if you can’t see it.” John made a grand, sweeping gesture with his fork that would have ended up with the tines tangling in Serena’s hair, had she not ducked. “Mark my words, one day that puppy will come calling with an armful of flowers, spouting Byron—”
“Byron?” This from the duchess, who had leaned closer, enthralled.
John cleared his throat, his eyes darting about the table, recovering his proper posture as he seemed to realize that all gazes were settled firmly upon him. “He seems the sort,” he muttered, picking at his food.
The duke made a grumbling sound of displeasure deep in his throat. “If we could do away with any talk of courtship, I would appreciate it. It gives Mother ideas, and it givesmeindigestion.”
“Alex,” the duchess chided. “See that you mind your manners, or I shall enrollyouin dear Serena’s school to refresh your memory.” With a saccharine smile, she added, “I have it on good authority that our Violet is particularly adept at dealing with difficult gentlemen.”
Our Violet. Somehow, that phrase warmed her to the tips of her toes—as if she had been granted her own place amongst them, like they were willing to claim her as one of their own. Almost a family.
The duke pulled a petulant face, and Violet wascertainthat he had only barely resisted the impulse to launch a forkful of peas at her, irrespective of his mother’s gimlet eye trained upon him. But he subsided with a truculent murmur, as if the threat of being consigned to further education had been enough to cow him—evenifhis mother could hardly force him to attend.
Despite their bickering, Violet suspected that the duke harbored a great deal of love and affection for his mother, with whom he seemed to spend much time. She’d seen countless men speak of their mothers dismissively, and with great venom—but the duke never seemed to actuallymeanhis irritable comments. It was more like they were force of habit; a ritual of pokes and prods that could only come of a comfortable, loving relationship.
“Actually, Your Grace,” Serena said, addressing the duchess, “as the Season is fast approaching, I have been thinking of…performing a test of sorts, to ascertain the skills of our pupils. A practical examination, after a fashion.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’d like to host a dinner party and merge our classes for the evening. There will be conversation, dancing—the usual sort of entertainments. I would like to see how they perform in a controlled environment. If they perform well, it will be their graduation celebration.”
“Best instruct the ladies to wear boots,” John muttered beneath his breath. Violet kicked him beneath the table—because,really, the gentlemen had improved a great deal in their dancing—and earned herself a glare in return.
The duchess pressed her palm to her chest. “And are you extending an invitation to me?” she inquired of Serena.
“I can think of no one more qualified to judge their readiness,” Serena said. “If our students meet with your approval, I will know they have been adequately prepared—if you are willing to lend your assistance.”
“Ofcourse,” the duchess said, reaching out to clasp Serena’s hand in hers. “I’m so pleased you’ve asked.”
“Violet? Do you think the gentlemen will be prepared in, say, two weeks’ time?” Serena asked.
Two weeks? The gentlemen had made significant progress, but to be ready to attend aTonfunction within a fortnight? It seemed unthinkable. Instinctively, she glanced across the table to John, whoshrugged, damn him. In retaliation, she kicked out at him beneath the table—but instead of connecting with his shin, her toes caught the leg of the chair instead.
The bastard had shifted his legs to avoid it, and he muffled his snicker behind his napkin as she winced.
“I’ll make certain of it,” Violet said in a hard, fierce little voice; only partly because her toes were still stinging. The rest was pure determination—she would make John eat his words if itkilledher.