"Yes," Charlotte grinned in return, "But he is a prince, so he can do what he likes and still have the pick of the bunch."
Violet was about to argue that the reprobate regent could never have her, but then her eye caught on just who it was that the crowds were whispering about, and she suddenly lost her voice.
It was the Duke of Orsino; toweringly tall, fearsome, and one of the infamous Upstarts they had just been discussing. Violet gulped down her biscuit, worried that she might choke, for her mouth had gone suddenly dry.
She had seen Orsino once before, riding in the park and had thought him petrifying then. But here, in the sedate confines of the assembly rooms, he looked even more unnerving. He was tall of height, broad at the shoulder, and wore both these things with powerful, masculine ease.
Orsino commanded attention, though his green eyes were disdainful of all and sunder as they swept across the room.
For one, brief, second, his eyes locked on Violet's, and she felt a shiver of something—was it fear?—shake her body.
"Lud," Charlotte growled, through a mouthful of biscuits, "What on earth is he doing here? I thought the Upstarts never attended Almack's?"
"Eh?" Aunt Phoebe was awake now and peering—most blatantly—across the room. "Is that Orsino I spy? Must be in mind to find a wife, for I've never seen him here. Not once."
The other Mamas must have had the same thought, for they began to swarm around the duke in alarming numbers, and despite his height, Orsino quickly disappeared from view.
"Are you acquainted with the duke, Aunt Phoebe?" Violet asked curiously; her aunt was most unusual, in that she could claim acquaintance with a most varied array of people. Lady Havisham had dined with kings and criminals during her travels around the world, and she was oft quoted as saying that the latter were far more fun. If she were somehow acquainted with the terrifying duke, Violet would be far from surprised.
"Indeed, I am," Aunt Phoebe said, pulling her fox-stole—complete with head—around her shoulders, "I knew his late father. As a matter of fact, when I was in INN-JA—"
Violet felt her eyes glaze over as Phoebe began a long and detailed tale of her travels through India which, though interesting, had no relevance to the question she had just asked. Beside her, she heard Charlotte stifle a yawn, for she too had oft been treated to Aunt Phoebe's outlandish tales.
Both girls were so lost in trying to appear interested, that they did not notice two gentlemen approaching until they were standing right before them. And even then, Violet only noted their presence when their bulk blocked out the light from the chandeliers above her head.
Violet looked up to find none other than the Duke of Orsino standing above her, accompanied by a handsome gentleman, who though tall, was no match in height for the towering duke.
"Lady Havisham," Orsino gave a deep bow, his greeting directed at Aunt Phoebe, "How pleased I am to see you again."
Violet nearly groaned in dismay, as she noted the look of mischief in her aunt's eyes. Lady Havisham abhorred social niceties and was a firm believer in plain, Scottish speaking. If she sensed that someone was placating her in any way, she was not afraid to call them out on it.
In fact, Violet rather thought she enjoyed it.
"Poppycock. It is not I that you are pleased to see, Orsino, but my niece and her friend. Don't pretend you walked all the way over here just to speak to this old lady."
A part of Violet died a little inside, as her aunt added injury to the insult of her bald reply, by poking the duke very firmly in the gut with the head of her cane—which was shaped like a Highland cow.
"And who is this grinning addle-pate?" Aunt Phoebe continued, with a scowl to Orsino's companion, as Violet felt another part of her shrivel and die with embarrassment.
Nobody spoke to a duke in such a manner—even a fellow peer.
Violet stole a glance at Orsino certain that he would be livid at such rudeness, but to her surprise, she saw that he was trying not to laugh as he introduced his friend.
"This would be the Duke of Penrith," Orsino said, and Violet stifled a gasp. The haughty looking gentleman was none other than the duke whom Charlotte needed to snare—what were the chances?
Violet glanced at her friend, who was studiously inspecting the ceiling above her head, whilst her hands twisted nervously in her lap. For someone who had just had a much-needed prize land in her lap, Charlotte looked awfully glum.
Poor Cat, Violet thought; it was quite obvious that she found the prospect of "snaring" Penrith most unappealing. And Violet could not blame her; while his face was handsome, it wore a look of practised hauteur, and he held himself aloof, as though his presence there pained him.
"...Allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Violet Havisham, and her good friend, Miss Charlotte Drew."
Violet's attention was drawn back to the two interlopers, who offered both her and Charlotte courteous bows at her aunt's introduction.
To her surprise, despite Aunt Phoebe's outrageous tonoure, and the gaggles of eligible young misses eagerly awaiting their attention, Penrith requested that Violet and Charlotte grace he and Orsino with a dance.
Dancing with anyone—let alone a petrifying duke—was the last thing that Violet wanted to do, but in the name of friendship, she rose and accepted Orsino's proffered arm.
Gemini, she thought, as her hand made contact with a band of steel muscle; it was like touching a rock. A pair of questioning, green eyes met hers briefly, before looking away and Violet felt herself shiver once more. There was something so disconcerting about the duke, she thought, as he led her toward the dancefloor.
For his part, Orsino seemed entirely disinterested in her, avoiding her gaze as they waited for the current dance to come to an end. His posture was rigid, back straight as he scowled around the room at the curious faces who glanced at them.
"Do you like to dance, your Grace?" Violet ventured, for the silence was beginning to press on her.
"As much as the next man," Orsino answered curtly, his self-assured abruptness igniting Violet's Celtic temper.
"I'm afraid that does not really answer my question," she snipped, surprising herself at her boldness, "Unless I was to ask the next man if he likes dancing too. Perhaps you might tap Sir Dudley on the shoulder and enquire on my behalf, your Grace?"
Orsino glanced down at Violet, his expression rather startled. "I beg your pardon," he stammered, his green eyes finally meeting hers, "I did not mean to sound rude. I'm afraid that I do not get out much in polite society, and my repertoire is not what it should be."
"This is England, your Grace," Violet replied, "If you cannot manage witticisms, a comment or two on the weather will suffice. There's a reason why it's called small-talk."
"The weather?" Orsino raised a bushy brow, the eyes beneath now sparkling with interest. He was, Violet guessed, on the verge of smiling. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips twitched, as though he was suppressing a smile. It was strange that a man could look so fearsome one moment and almost adorable the next.
"Yes," it was Violet who now looked away, for a kaleidoscope of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. "It is a common feature in polite conversation. It looks like rain. It doesn't look like rain. If this rain does not let up, I'll eat my cravat. Et cetera et cetera."
She was blabbering, she knew, but the funny feeling in her stomach made it impossible for her to concentrate on what she was saying. Thankfully, the dance they were watching came to an end, and it was time for Orsino and Violet to take their place on the floor.
Violet said a silent prayer of thanks as she discovered that the next set was to be a Quadrille. The dance involved four sets of partners, and as such, she had to spend but a little of it with Orsino. When he did touch her—a clasped hand, or a touch on the small of her back as they changed partners—it made her feel most peculiar. Not to mention that when his eyes caught hers, and he half-smiled at her, she almost tripped over her feet.
When the music came to
an end, Violet allowed her shoulders to sag with relief; her ordeal was over. That other ladies might covet the idea of dancing with an eligible duke did not cross Violet's mind—she simply needed to be away from Orsino and the queer feelings he inspired in her stomach.
"I apologise," Orsino said, as he came to claim her hand, "With all that dancing, I did not have a chance to discuss the weather any further. In my opinion, however, it does look like rain—et cetera, et cetera."
Violet frowned slightly in confusion; had he made a joke? She glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, saw that his easy smile had disappeared, replaced instead with a fearsome glare, and decided that he hadn't.
A man like Orsino did not jest, Violet thought, as she tried to quash the topsy-turvy emotions which threatened her equilibrium.
Orsino offered her his arm, and with the eyes of the room following their every move, led her from the floor toward Charlotte and Penrith.
Charlotte wore the look of a fox who had been encircled by a pack of hounds as she stood beside her own duke, and Violet felt a stab of pity for her friend who would be forced to pursue a man she quite obviously disliked. At least Violet might bid Orsino adieu and never have to set eyes on him again.
Charlotte gave a smile of relief as she spotted Violet approaching, and once Violet had reached her side, she determinedly linked arms with her friend.
"Well," Charlotte cried gaily, quite obviously glad to be on her way. "Thank you for the dance, your Grace. I am sure that there are a dozen other girls waiting in the wings to take my place."
"Yes, thank you," Violet echoed, her eyes nervously avoiding Orsino's gaze as she allowed Charlotte to lead—nay, drag—her away.
"Should you not try and engage Penrith further?" Violet whispered as she and Charlotte pushed their way through the crowd. Curious faces peered at them as they went, striving to catch a glance of the two girls who had managed to attract the attention of the two elusive dukes.
"Oh," Charlotte wailed, her face a picture of anxiety, "I know that I should, but I cannot. Not when he took me by surprise."
Violet felt a pang of sympathy for her friend, who seemed most overwrought. "Don't worry," she said reassuringly, "Men are strange creatures; Sebastian often says that when he thinks he cannot have something, he wants it even more. I'm sure that by making yourself unavailable, Penrith will tie himself in ribbons trying to get you."
Her words did not do much to soothe Charlotte's nerves; in fact, she seemed even more put-out by Violet's assertion. It was almost as though she did not wish to succeed at the plan they had earlier hatched. They soon reached the chairs beneath the balcony, and Charlotte threw herself down into her seat, with a sad sigh.
"Ladies," a voice called, quickly followed by the figure of Lady Julia, "Did my eyes deceive me, or were you both dancing with dukes in my absence?"
"We were," Violet replied, patting the seat next to her for Julia to sit down.
"My mama is in a quandary," Julia continued, her beautiful face near split in two with a mischievous smile, "She has spent the evening forbidding me from visiting the wallflower corner—as she calls it—and then the two most eligible men in the room decide that this is where they will pick their partners from. Needless to say, she sent me over to you both post haste, so that I might bask in your reflected glory."
"I would hardly call dancing with a snoot a glorious occasion," Charlotte grumbled, "Penrith has all the charm of condensation related damp."
"And Orsino is most fearsome," Violet added, not to be outdone, "' Twas like dancing with a particularly irritable mountain."
"I rather think that there is nothing wrong with a man who looks like he could wrestle a cow if he had to," Julia replied, giving Violet a knowing glance, as though she could see through her facade of indifference.
"Pray tell when might that particular occasion arise?" Charlotte queried with a laugh.
"One never knows," Julia shrugged and offered Violet a wink, "But if it did, would it not be grand to have Orsino there to protect you from a bovine-related catastrophe?"
Charlotte and Julia descended into gales of laughter, and Violet pretended to join them, though inside her heart was hammering a nervous tattoo.
There was something about the duke which made her feel most peculiar, and she was glad that she would never have to see him again.
As Charlotte and Julia chattered betwixt themselves, Violet experienced the strange sensation of feeling as though she was being watched. She turned her head and her eyes settled upon Orsino, who though chatting to Penrith, and another man Violet did not recognise, was glancing her way.
Her eyes met his, and she quickly looked away, as a pleasurable shiver made its way down her spine.
Orsino was dangerous, she decided firmly, as she turned her attention back toward her friends. And no level-headed woman would even think of entertaining any fantasies about him. But even as she had decided this, Violet felt her fingers twitch, and she realised that her hands were aching to put to paper the image of the man that was now emblazoned upon her mind.
Drat.
Chapter Two
Gideon Michael Jack Pennelegion, the sixth Duke of Orsino, and Jack to his friends, frowned slightly as he considered his appearance in the mirror.
His valet, Johnson, whom he had inherited from his late brother, had insisted on tying his cravat in a complicated knot which had taken a half-hour to complete.
That the end result was the height of fashion was beyond doubt; what was doubtful was that Jack was at all taken by said end result.
"It's a bit..." Jack trailed off as he considered himself now from the side.
"Yes?" Johnson's tone was tetchy, for he realised in what direction his master's mind was headed.
"It's just a tad..."
"Yes?"
"Well, it's pink, Johnson. And not a little bit. Nor a tad. It's very, very pink."
"Campion rouge, your Grace," Johnson replied with a well-practised sigh, "Men are bashing down doors on Bond Street in an attempt to secure a cravat in that very colour."
"They are?" Jack did not quite manage to keep the tone of disbelief from his voice.
"They are." Johnson was definite.
"And," Jack continued, despite knowing he would exact the man's ire, "It's a little bit frilly."
"A little bit?"
"It's very frilly," Jack gave a sheepish grin, "I look like a macaroni. I know you said that the Waterfall knot was the done thing this week, but perhaps we might try something simpler—and in white."
Johnson gave another sigh and began to remove the offending garment, all the while muttering unintelligibly under his breath. Jack did not quite catch what it was that Johnson was saying, but he understood the gist of it. Even more so, when he heard the wounded valet whisper his brother's name.
"You're correct," Jack said, startling poor Johnson from his mutterings, "It would have suited Frederick perfectly. And what's more, he would have been far more grateful for your efforts than I. But we must remember that Frederick is gone, Johnson. It is I you are dressing now, not he."
A hesitant sniff greeted this declaration, and Jack averted his gaze from his valet's watering eyes. There was a lump in his own throat, and if he were to see Johnson's tears, he might dissolve into blubbering himself.
Which would not do, for Jack Pennelegion never cried.
"He was a fine man, your Grace," Johnson finally said, clearing his throat as he began work on tying a fresh, white cravat, "So fashionable, elegant, and refined. A man such as he was so easy to dress."
"As opposed to a man like me?" Jack queried dryly, though he took no offence from Johnson's slip.
It was universally agreed that his brother Frederick had cut a very dashing figure. The papers had oft said that his stature and looks had been pleasing enough to give even Beau Brummell a run for his money. Tall, slim, and fashionably pale, the late duke had been the very epitome of male perfection—especially when contrasted with Jack.
&
nbsp; Jack stood at over six foot three—so tall that his brother had once joked he ought to be measured in hands and not inches. His height, when coupled with his broad shoulders and muscular frame, gave the impression of a prize-fighter, or a manual labourer—not a member of the aristocracy.
To add further offence, Jack's skin was tanned from his years spent on the continent with the army. No amount of Olympian Dew or any other concoctions that Johnson tried to slather him with would ever make it pale again.
Which, Johnson often said, was a pity, for if Jack's dark locks had been coupled with alabaster skin, he just might have been able to pull off the look of a Romantic.
Though probably not. Most Romantics looked as though they might collapse under the weight of a quill, whereas Jack—like his good friend Lord Montague often said—was so large that a bull might baulk if challenged by him.
"'Tis perfect, Johnson," Jack said, once his gentleman's gentleman had finished for the second time.
"It's the Irish knot, your Grace," Johnson sniffed, with a modicum of distaste, "Simple enough to suit a Hibernian. Make of that what you will."
"I have never had any trouble with an Irishman," Jack laughed, as he allowed Johnson to assist him with shrugging on his coat.
"Then you probably haven't met many," Johnson muttered, as he brushed nonexistent specks of lint from his master's broad shoulders.
Once done, the older man took a step back to survey his work, gave a reluctant sigh and pronounced Jack ready.
"It will have to do."
"It will," Jack grinned, "For I cannot stand another minute's fussing, Johnson, and even if I could tolerate it, I wouldn't want to be late."
Jack grabbed his hat from the dresser and raced out the door, afraid that if he lingered any longer, Johnson might find something else to do—like cut his hair. The valet's eyes had been longingly glancing from Jack's curly locks to the scissors by the wash table, but Jack had no desire to submit to yet another shearing.
He was beginning to feel like a sheep, he thought, as he clattered down the stairs of Orsino Hall. Having a valet tend to his morning ablutions—not to mention his afternoon, evening, and night-times ones too—was not something that Jack thought he would ever become accustomed to.
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