A Lady's Formula for Love

by Elizabeth Everett

  She set down her biscuit. Grantham, with input from Phoebe, had decided the Thornton-Hammersmith ball was well suited to Violet’s need to appear at an event and to reassure everyone of the club’s respectability while trying to recruit new members. She’d arrived an hour ago and was waiting for Grantham to make his appearance before she’d attempt to socialize. Happily, Violet recognized some familiar friendly faces from before she went into mourning.

  There were others, however . . .

  Peering around the column, she spied a thin blond woman with a regal nose and stern-looking eyebrows. Mrs. Fanny Armitage.

  “Such goings-on,” another woman lamented.

  When Violet leaned over more, the second lady came into view. Aha. Lady Olivia. She and Fanny had come out a few years before her.

  “A social club for ladies?” Lady Olivia continued. “What a ridiculous—why, even dangerous—notion. Those women would be better off tending their homes and children.”

  “I’m not surprised Lady Greycliff conceived of the idea, seeing as she never accomplished either of those things,” Fanny opined. She’d aged since Violet had seen her last. A picket fence of wrinkles bisected her mouth, the result of pursing her lips so tight with unremitting disapproval.

  Lady Olivia tittered, her dyed purple plumes hanging over one ear, her bulbous eyes perusing the dance floor, in search of someone else to judge. “She cannot be blamed for the latter, Fanny. Greycliff was three times her age when they wed.”

  Fanny disagreed. “Greycliff had a son. The fault must have been with her.” As an afterthought, she added a sickly sweet lament: “Poor woman.”

  Violet wasn’t surprised at Fanny’s indulgence in such gossip. She was prone to picking over the most salacious of rumors under the guise of concern for the person in question.

  “It may be for the best she never had children.” Lady Olivia’s words were sympathetic but laced with a thread of disdain. “Not everyone can create a model home in the way we can. Still, she might have appeared to try.”

  Whipping back out of sight, Violet leaned against the column for support, setting a hand to her churning stomach, eyes closed tight against the pain.

  Violet had found Daniel’s steady presence, quiet life, and reserved demeanor attractive. His assertiveness and practicality had captivated her after an upbringing surrounded by dreamers and thinkers. She had wanted so much to be worthy of his regard.

  Hours were spent writing invitations to dinner parties, memorizing the names and habits of Daniel’s guests, and overseeing the domestic staff instead of pursuing her work. When he’d left her bed, she’d gone through ridiculous lengths to lure him back, until his illness put an end to those dreams.

  She’d outgrown that youthful optimism, bringing her energy to bear on creating a place where other women wouldn’t suffer as she once did.

  Violet had hoped the pain would fade over time.

  Some hurt never healed.

  “Hello, Lady Greycliff. What a pleasure to see you here.”

  Violet opened her eyes to behold Miss Althea Dertlinger. A tall, bespectacled young woman with an adventurous taste in turbans. She was a second cousin to Lady Potts and shared her kinswoman’s love of science. Fortunately for the rest of their family, Althea confined her interest to nearly invisible animals, in the form of bacteria.

  “My cousin and I enjoyed the lecture on care and cultivation of orchids at Athena’s Retreat the other night,” she said. “In fact, I have asked Mama”—here, Althea wiggled her fingers at an older woman standing near the orchestra—“and she has given permission for me to attend the upcoming Evening of Education.”

  “This is wonderful news, Miss Dertlinger,” Violet replied, swallowing her hurt.

  “Miss Dertlinger, you may wish to reconsider. Does your mama know what goes on at that place?”

  Violet and Althea turned in unison to confront the sight of Fanny and Lady Olivia, staring down their noses at them with identical sneers.

  Lady Olivia issued a thin sigh and fluttered her fan. “A day doesn’t go by without the club and Lady Greycliff’s name in the popular press, and lately there have been other rumors too salacious to mention. You are young and innocent,” she said to Althea. “It might affect your reputation to be written up in such a manner.”

  “Indeed.” Fanny’s thin fingers clenched in glee at Althea’s bewildered dismay, like a stringy old lioness regarding a nice, plump doe before supper. “Your mama has gone to great trouble and expense to bring you out, my dear. It will be for naught should you cultivate a reputation for eccentric behavior and radical views.”

  Althea’s spectacles slipped while she twisted her reticule strings. “Mama is a high stickler,” she mumbled.

  Violet suppressed a burning urge to slap the feral expression from Fanny Armitage’s face. How many times had Fanny sat across the table and gobbled Violet’s discomfort and embarrassment as though ill feelings sustained her?

  “Do be reasonable, Lady Greycliff. She’s no beauty,” said Lady Olivia, waving her fan in Althea’s direction. “Throwing in with your club brings her chances down even further.”

  Before Violet could stop and consider, she shot her hand out to the side, grabbed the arm of a vaguely familiar young man, and pulled him to her side.

  “What a delightful coincidence,” Violet said to the youth. “How have you been keeping since we last saw each other?”

  The sandy-haired young man stared at Violet in shock, but good manners prevailed. “Good evening. Delightful, indeed,” he stammered.

  God bless the youth of England, carrying on the tradition of politeness in the face of even the most absurd situations.

  Violet pulled out her most brilliant smile as she tried to remember the boy’s name. “I haven’t seen your godmother in ages. How is she?”

  “Oh.” The man’s brows drew together in consternation. “My godmother? She’s . . . she’s dead.”

  Fanny, Lady Olivia, and Althea’s heads swiveled between Violet and the man, with identical expressions of confusion.

  Drat.

  “Of course, I was sorry to miss the funeral. And how is your aunt?” Violet willed the man to help her.

  “Do you mean my father’s sister, Mrs. Penelope Forthbright, or my mother’s—”

  “Yes, exactly,” Violet cheered. “The Forthbrights. We’re close, as I’m sure you remember. You are named for Penny’s husband, are you not?”

  “Ahem . . . You misremember,” he stammered. “I’m named for my mother’s brother, Robert Fish—”

  “Robbie,” Violet declared with relief, “you must know Lady Olivia and Mrs. Armitage if you’ve been in the vicinity of the punch bowl at any ball the past three seasons.” She mimed the throwing back of a few drinks. “However, I’d wager you haven’t met Miss Althea Dertlinger. Her cousin Lady Potts is excited to bring her out this season.”

  “Erm,” Althea ventured, “this is my second—”

  Violet stepped on her toe. “I am charged by her mama to protect her from the ne’er-do-wells who might be fortune hunting tonight. However, seeing as you come from such an excellent family, I will grant your request to partner her in the next dance.”

  At this point, Robbie’s stricken face brightened with interest.

  “I say,” Robbie exclaimed. “Would your cousin be the same Lady Potts who authored a letter to the editor in the latest edition of the Journal of Arthropods?” he asked Althea.

  “If you mean the letter decrying the current subclassification system of Opiliones, then yes,” Althea replied.

  Lady Olivia dropped her fan in surprise, and Violet held in a sigh of relief. The young people headed off toward the dance floor while Fanny transferred her scrutiny back to Violet.

  “Accosting strange young men won’t help your reputation.”

  “My reputation is sterling, Mrs
. Armitage,” Violet countered. “As someone who spends a prodigious amount of time keeping watch over everyone else’s behavior, you are well aware of this.”

  Lady Olivia stepped forward and locked arms with her friend. “You may not have been discovered in a scandal, but this club of yours pushes the boundaries. You admit women like Lady Phoebe—and we all know the type of crowd she runs with. And there are rumors that some members of your staff have unsavory pasts.”

  Violet didn’t give a fig about the scurrilous gossip Lady Olivia chose to spread. Her staff were under her protection, and she’d defend them tooth and nail.

  She swallowed a nasty retort and pulled her lips into what she hoped wasn’t a grimace. “If you are so interested in what happens at the club,” Violet said, “you are welcome to attend our Evening of Enlightenment and . . . And there will be lemonade and a presentation by a well-respected authority from the British Museum. You will find our members to be congenial and amenable. Unlike some.”

  “And will you be serving langoustines?” Fanny’s gaze widened in mock curiosity.

  A tremor of red-hot rage shook Violet from toe to head. Streams of unforgettable and unforgivable curses pushed against her clenched lips. As she opened her mouth to deliver them, a low voice prevented her from such folly.

  “My lady. Please forgive my tardiness. If you would consider honoring my request for this dance.”

  He did not wait for an answer. Before Fanny’s eyebrows could hit her forehead in surprise, Arthur had swept Violet onto the dance floor and into a waltz.

  “I didn’t require rescuing,” she told him.

  A twitch of his lips down and to the side was his eloquent response.

  At her scowl, he pulled her closer and took a soft, round turn, spinning them away from the nasty prying leers of Fanny Armitage and her petty friends.

  His hand, warm and firm against the small of her back, soothed her. She relaxed into his arms as the crowd swirled around them. He’d accompanied her to the ball, then melted away the instant she set foot in the oversized entrance hall, blending in with the crowd without a word of goodbye.

  Why should he have said anything? He was there to guard her, not dance with her.

  Or so she’d thought.

  “You look quite handsome,” she told Arthur. Indeed, the deep burgundy of his cravat made a dramatic contrast with the brilliant white of his shirt collar and the brassy gold of his waistcoat. Unlike most of the men here tonight, he did not need any padding to fill out the broad shoulders of his evening jacket.

  The golden threads in his deep brown eyes flickered in the buttery candlelight. He dipped his head and cleared his throat. “You look fine tonight as well,” he told her.

  Liar.

  Across the dance floor, hundreds of tiny sparks from glittering gemstones winked in and out as the couples made their turns. Purple, pink, white, and blue blossoms of watered silk unfurled to the pure crystal notes of a composition by a talented Polish composer, Chopin. Beneath a ballroom chandelier, everything appeared richer—colors deepened, and even the cheapest of jewels could be blinding.

  Violet had forgotten how sensual it could be to dance the waltz. Silk glided against her skin, and she relished the freedom of letting a partner push her through space. The press of his palm sent tingles down her spine and the backs of her legs.

  As she swayed in Arthur’s arms, the aftereffects of her confrontation with Lady Olivia and Fanny muted her pleasure.

  “You are trembling,” he said, lips close to her ear.

  “I suppose I am cold,” she lied.

  “Aha. I thought you were angered by what the ladies said.”

  “Angry?” Her forced laugh grated against the backdrop of the orchestra. “You misread my expression.”

  She fixed her attention on the cheap brass pin holding together his cravat.

  A jarring note of reality amid the finery he wore tonight, it reminded Violet that Arthur had no one who took care of him and might have gifted him with something nicer. No doubt, he’d purchased the pin out of expediency, thinking only of its function.

  Never in a million years would it be appropriate for her to buy him a cravat pin. Some other woman would take care of this man when the job was finished. A different set of hands would brush the shoulders of his jacket and push back an errant lock of hair.

  Tonight, though, Violet was his partner, if only for a minute or two. As the music hit a crescendo, she leaned into his arms and relished her stolen time.

  * * *

  ARTHUR HAD BEEN on a ramble once with his wee sister, Deoiridh, when they’d spied a grouse caught in a snare. Deoiridh had cried out in dismay and pointed to the trapped bird. Too young for words, she’d flapped her arms in distress, mimicking the animal. Wild thing calling to wild thing. Unable to deny her, Arthur had clipped the snare. He and Deoiridh had then watched the bird claim its freedom in silent joy.

  The same distress lived in Violet’s gaze when she’d stood at the side of the dance floor, crowded by two sharp-featured women. An urge to rip open the ballroom doors for her had propelled him out of the shadows. The crowd wasn’t the snare she struggled to free herself from, however. Instead, the words of a dead man kept her from flight.

  He’d been punished for clipping the snare; the grouse was to be someone’s dinner, after all. The relief on Deoiridh’s face had been worth the punishment.

  There would be similar consequences for what he did here tonight. No good reason existed for him to sweep Violet onto the dance floor. How to explain the urgency firing in his veins when he saw her struggle to protect herself? They were words, not slaps.

  Groping for the answer, he beheld the woman in his arms. Despite, or perhaps because of, her drab dress, she held an undeniable allure amid the garish gowns and sparkling jewels. Her low bun had come partly undone. Ringlets had escaped the confines of her pins to brush the gentle dip of her shoulders. He strained to see his reflection in her irises, which lightened from chocolate brown to the color of tea.

  “Ah yes, a lady never gets angry,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Violet said.

  They spun once more, into a sharp turn, and he splayed his fingers, holding her closer than necessary.

  “I suppose they don’t get furious, either?” he asked.

  Her nose scrunched. “Furious? Never.” Two lines between her eyebrows smoothed away. Arthur took note.

  “Livid?” he asked.

  “Out of the question,” she countered.

  “Wrathful.”

  An upside-down curl appeared at the corner of her mouth.

  “That sounds almost biblical. I’m afraid certain excesses in the Old Testament are considered unseemly, so the answer is no.”

  This piqued Arthur’s interest. What might be unseemly in the Old Testament? He left his curiosity unsated and returned to the matter at hand.

  “Corybantic?”

  “Cory . . . ?” The simple tilt of her head caused his chest to constrict. Her smile had a powerful effect on that circulatory system she talked about so often.

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Violet answered. “That one I wasn’t expecting. Corybantic. Well played.”

  A ridiculous gush of pride filled him. “Means ‘frenzied,’” he explained.

  “So it does,” she said. They beamed at each other.

  The last few notes of the waltz plucked at Arthur’s conscience. “Shall I escort you to the refreshment table, my lady?”

  “Oh, no, please. Just . . . take me home.”

  The sadness in her voice had him hustling her out of the ballroom as though they were being followed by armed marauders. Within moments, he had plucked their groom from a huddle of gossiping servants and had Violet ensconced in the carriage, pulling out from the long lines.

  She sat across from him, staring out the window as
they moved forward in small fits and jerks, the roads crowded with strident London traffic. Ten minutes went by in silence, the longest he’d been in her presence without her speaking. A curious discomfort pulled at his chest at how forlorn she appeared.

  Not that her distress was any of his concern. Worrying would divert his attention. Fiddling with the carriage locks, he let another five minutes pass before he could no longer stand it.

  Clearing his throat, he stepped over the border between a bodyguard and something more.

  10

  SHALL I DIRECT the coachman to take you to another venue? Lady Phoebe did mention she would be appearing at a nearby rout this evening.”

  Distracted from her brooding, Violet shook her head.

  “If I tell Phoebe what happened, I fear for Fanny’s safety. Not that I like the woman, but sometimes Phoebe does go too far.” She sighed. “I shall never speak to Grantham again for leaving me to those biddies—and leaving it to you to rescue me.”

  When he would speak, she held up a hand. “I know it’s your job. You remind me of that daily. I hope Grey’s paying you a pretty penny for the trouble I put you through.”

  Arthur shifted in his seat. “He doesn’t . . . I didn’t dance with you out of obligation.”

  “Well.” A trickle of color stained her cheeks. “That’s nice to hear.” She sighed and glanced at her skirts. “I am a crow in a field of poppies. I suppose I must purchase new gowns for these dratted parties.”

  “You would do this again?” he asked. “Go back and subject yourself to the pecking of those hens? Why?”

  “What should I do? Stay home? I am the public face of Athena’s Retreat. According to Letty, it inspires respectability and trust for me to go out and speak with the ton about what we do.”

  Arthur frowned. Why hadn’t Grantham come and helped her tonight? What else was the man good for? “You could send the earl in your stead. Or Lady Phoebe.”

  “Lady Phoebe? I think not.”