"Er, yes," Violet forced a smile, "I was wondering if you—if you—"
Violet had never been particularly adept at lying, and she felt her face flush under Julia's confused stare.
"If you had finished reading Glenarvon?" Violet blurted, referring to the book that they had assigned for discussion at last week's meeting of the Wallflowers. Well, the book that Charlotte had assigned. The running theme of most meetings was that Julia and Violet never quite managed to get around to reading the prescribed text.
"No," Julia blinked in confusion, "Is that what you wished to discuss?"
"Oh, it's really very good," Violet fibbed, though she could see Julia's mind quickly switching from perplexity to suspicion.
Thankfully, the door to the drawing-room swung open, and Lady Cavendish came bustling in, mercifully interrupting Violet's attempts at deception.
"He's here," the marchioness cried with delight, her face falling slightly as she spotted Violet, perched upon the chaise, "Oh. Hello, Miss Havisham."
"Good morning, my lady," Violet replied in return, trying not to feel too insulted by the disappointment in her tone, "I was just leaving."
"Oh," Lady Cavendish perked up most notably, "What a pity."
Violet ignored Julia rolling her eyes behind her mother's back as she bid the pair goodbye. She made her own way down the hallway toward the front door, where the butler was only too keen to assist with her exit.
As Violet tripped down the front steps, she tried not to peer too keenly at the gentleman who was exiting the carriage that had drawn up alongside Henry.
He was tall, muscular, and—Violet gave a little gasp—devastatingly handsome. As he passed, he offered Violet a polite smile, and Violet's fear for her friend eased somewhat. A man who handed out friendly grins to strangers could not be so bad.
Henry had fallen asleep in his perch, and it took Violet a good five minutes to rouse him. Once awake, they set off, circling the square before setting off toward home.
"There you are, Violet," Aunt Phoebe cried, swinging the door open before Violet had even had a chance to knock, "I have been searching all over for you."
"I told you at breakfast that I would visit with Julia," Violet reminded her, with a wry smile. Aunt Phoebe was oft distracted by grand ideas and regularly forgot any conversation which was not stimulating enough to retain.
"Did you?" Lady Havisham frowned, "I must not have heard you. That reminds me! Where on earth is your brother? I feel I haven't seen him in an age."
"He called, just yesterday," Violet replied swiftly, "When you were out. Was there something you needed me for, Aunt Phoebe?"
Violet nodded at the letter which her aunt held in her hand, and luckily it served as a distraction from any more talk of Sebastian.
"Oh, yes," Phoebe beamed, "We have received an invitation to a small gathering with Lord and Lady Lloyd. Iris is a dear friend, and she invites the most interesting people to dine with her."
"Oh," Violet felt a surge of relief that it was not an invitation to another musicale. Why the mothers of society thought that forcing people to suffer through butchered performances of the greats would win their daughters a proposal was anyone's guess.
"She is last-minute, as always," Phoebe clucked disapprovingly, despite her own legendary impulsiveness, "So if there is any dress that wants washing, you must tell Dorothy at once."
"Are we to attend this evening?" Violet smothered a groan; she had been looking forward to an evening of painting.
"Yes," Phoebe sighed, "Iris is a dear, but she can be quite commanding. She's so like her father that way. And, I suppose, her brother. You were not at all taken by him at Almack's, were you dear?"
For a moment, Violet felt as though all the world was spinning, and she worried that she might faint. Aunt Phoebe couldn't mean..?
"Oh, Orsino just looks fearsome," Phoebe cried, mistaking Violet's pallor for fear, "He's like a puppy underneath, you mark my words. A quick pat on the head and he'll soon come to heel."
"I don't want to bring the duke to heel," Violet protested, "In fact, I don't think I wish to accompany you at all, Aunt Phoebe. I feel really quite ill."
Aunt Phoebe's wrinkled her—already wrinkled—brow thoughtfully, as she assessed her niece. Violet tried to muster the look of one who was gravely ill, but under her aunt's scrutiny, she found herself flushing.
"I'll have Dorothy prepare you a nostrum," Phoebe decided, with a glint in her eye, "That ought to perk you up before supper. Now, away with you, child. I can't suffer the complaints of the youth when my old bones are aching."
"I am sorry, Aunt Phoebe," Violet replied, suitably chastised until Dorothy appeared, moments later, clutching two battledores and a shuttlecock.
"Are you going out to play?" Violet queried, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.
"I'm going out to win," Lady Havisham grumbled mulishly, with a frown, "That little madam from next door bested me yesterday evening, and I need to beat her today so that I can regain my dignity. Come, Dorothy, we shall leave Violet to recuperate."
Violet felt a stab of affection as she watched her septuagenarian aunt march down the hallway toward the drawing-room, which led to the gardens. She could think of no other peer who would do battle with the neighbour's children for the title of Battledore and Shuttlecock champion. Or any other peer who would take it quite so seriously...
And Phoebe's mission seemed to have distracted her from having Dorothy prepare one of her unpalatable nostrums for Violet's supposed illness. Violet would far rather suffer the duke's company than try to ingest one of those vile concoctions.
Iris, Lady Lloyd had the same colouring as her brother. Her dark hair was complemented by piercing green eyes, but unlike her brother, she was diminutive in stature.
She was almost like a bird, Violet thought, as Lady Lloyd cocked her head curiously to the side, as Aunt Phoebe introduced her.
"Miss Havisham," Lady Lloyd smiled, her grin warm and infectious, "How kind you are to attend my little gathering."
Lady Lloyd waved a lazy hand around the entrance hall, which was filled with guests of all descriptions. Violet spotted a well known Whig, an opera singer, and several of society's more notable lords and ladies. Given the glamour of the other guests, Violet was glad that Dorothy had insisted on dressing her in one of her better evening gowns.
"How kind you are to invite me," Violet replied sincerely, for, even though she suspected Orsino's hand in her invitation, she was quite taken by his charming sister.
Violet moved on, to allow Lady Lloyd to greet her other guests. Aunt Phoebe had disappeared, no doubt to the card room and Violet was left to wander alone.
She smiled shyly at people she vaguely recognised but felt too timid to join any of the chattering groups. Not for the first time in her life, Violet wished that she was in possession of an easy manner, which would allow her to converse with complete strangers. Instead, she found her cheeks burning, as she imagined that the gathered guests were eyeing her with pity or ridicule.
Oh, if only Sebastian were here, or Charlotte and Julia. Violet always felt far more confident when she was part of a group, rather than a stray sheep apart from the flock.
And a stray sheep was more than just lonely, it was a target for wolves...
Violet gave a little shiver, as she felt someone's gaze upon her. She lifted her eyes and sighted the Duke of Orsino, towering head and shoulders above the other guests, his eyes fixed intently upon her.
His lips quirked in a smile, as their eyes met, a silent greeting which felt wickedly intimate. Again, Violet shivered, but this time from longing.
He was decidedly handsome, Violet thought with a pang. Not handsome in the way of the Romantics, who were all floppy hair, delicate features, and mournful eyes. Nor was he handsome in the way of the dandies, who were as shiny and polished as a new pair of boots. No, Orsino's beauty lay in his masculinity, which Violet guessed was difficult to tame. Even tonight, though he was dressed as elegantl
y as all the other men, there was a hint of wildness to him.
His dark hair curled over his collar, the cravat at his neck was loosened, just a tad, and his strong square jaw showed a slight shadow, even though he had probably shaved only hours before. His skin was tanned and glowed with health, and his form—Violet bit her lip—was pure muscle.
Yes, there was something dangerous in Orsino's beauty, in his sheer masculinity...
But then his eyes, Violet sighed, his eyes were soft, which negated any of the hardness which his form projected onto the world.
Like poor Bagpipes, Violet decided, thinking upon her poor, misunderstood cat. People were frightened of the ferocious feline, but underneath his scraggly mane and sharp claws, he was really a kitten who longed to curl up in her lap.
Stop that, her inner voice cautioned sternly. If there was one thing that Violet adored, it was a misunderstood soul, and if she started feeling any sort of empathy toward Orsino, her future—as well as Sebastian's—was doomed.
He's a duke, she reminded herself with a sniff, he's hardly suffering the same loneliness and despair as an orphaned street Arab.
During all her musings, Violet had failed to notice that the duke had begun to make his way toward her from the opposite side of the room. It was only when he was in front of her—towering so tall that he near blocked out the light—that Violet realised she was trapped.
"Miss Havisham," the duke gave a neat bow.
"Your Grace," Violet tried to avert her eyes from his intent gaze but found that she could not.
"I was hoping to catch a word with you," Orsino continued gruffly, the tips of his ears burning red.
Was he nervous? Violet was faintly fascinated that such a large, powerful man could feel any fear in front of her.
"Oh?" Violet queried politely, praying that he was not studying her too closely and finding similarities between her and her "brother".
"Yes," Orsino paused, his face now burning as brightly as her own, "I—ah—I wondered if you...if you..."
Violet waited patiently for him to finish his sentence, her heart near bursting with a strange need—the need to comfort. As someone who oft stumbled on her words, or became tongue-tied when nervous, she felt a tremendous amount of empathy for the duke. He might hold one of the grandest titles in the land, but it was clear he was not accustomed or easy with expressing his feelings.
"I wondered if you thought it might rain?" Orsino finished, rather flatly.
Surely he had not walked all this way to discuss the weather? Violet stifled a smile, as she recalled their first conversation at Almack's, in which she had instructed him on the art of small talk.
Despite her vague disappointment at the banality of his query, she did feel rather touched that he had listened to her instruction.
"I see you have been practising the art of small talk, your Grace," she commented, rather mischievously, and Orsino's face relaxed into a smile.
"Perhaps I need to practice a little bit more," he replied with a grin.
"You might branch out from the weather," Violet suggested, "Perhaps offer a titbit on your hobbies or interests."
A heavy silence fell between them, as Orsino narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at her words. Despite her earlier vow not to be affected by him, Violet found that she could not help but be. His presence was overwhelming, and she found it difficult to breathe.
"Right now, I have only one interest," Orsino replied, after a pause, his eyes dark with intention, "And that is you, Miss Havisham."
Drat.
Oh, why had Violet decided to tease him? She should have offered him a polite, but very cold shoulder instead of an opening for further conversation. Time seemed to have stopped completely, and Violet realised that the duke was awaiting a reply—or any reaction at all.
Thankfully, fate intervened, and the gong for supper sounded out, breaking the heady spell between them.
"Supper," Violet trilled, not even trying to disguise the relief she felt.
Orsino quirked an amused brow at her blatant cowardice, before offering her his arm.
"I don't expect you to announce that you feel the same way," he continued, in a low voice, as he led her toward the dining room, "I simply wished for you to know my interest, and my intent to pursue that interest."
Violet gulped, too startled by his frank admission—and her own reaction to it—to offer a reply. Orsino silently escorted her to her seat, his gloved hand taking hers momentarily before he released her.
"My thanks, your Grace," Violet whispered, as she gratefully sank into her chair. The duke nodded silently in reply, before disappearing to his own seat near the head of the table.
Violet's shoulders sagged with relief, as he departed. She was not cut out for either romance or subterfuge, she thought sadly. The first made her knees week and the second made her heart pound with nerves—or, perhaps, it was the other way around?
She did not have time to ponder her conundrum for long, for the other guests began to take their places, and she was forced into socialising. Mercifully, Lady Lloyd had placed her near the top of her end of the table, and Violet had little to do except smile and laugh as the marchioness regaled her guests with her many tales.
After the first course of onion soup, Violet stole a glance down the table, to where Orsino was seated, next to Lord Lloyd, who sat at the head of the table. The duke, unlike his sister, ate silently, listening rather than talking to those around him.
"Ah, His Grace is the strong and silent type," a voice observed.
"Oh, I was not looking at His Grace," Violet objected quickly, "I was—I was admiring the chandelier. Such excellent craftsmanship."
"Ah-ha," Maria Grazia, the famous opera singer who sat to Violet's right, gave a throaty laugh, "You English are so puritan. He is a good looking man; it is no shame to appreciate beauty."
"Oh, I—I—I," Violet stammered, "Truly, I was just admiring the chandelier."
Maria Grazia laughed again, her warm brown eyes eyeing Violet affectionately. She was a striking woman, with sallow skin, raven black hair, and deep brown eyes that reminded Violet of her morning cup of chocolate.
"If you say so," she said, flashing Violet a smile, "Though I fear that looking at His Grace is as far as we mere mortals shall ever get. He is promised to another if the rumours I hear are true. And he is far too honourable to stray."
Judging from the irritated sigh which followed Miss Grazia's announcement, Violet assumed that she had some interest of her own in the duke. Violet was no green girl; she knew that powerful men kept beautiful mistresses. Though Maria Grazia's interest in the duke was not the only thing that had caught her attention.
"I had not heard that His Grace was engaged," Violet said, feigning nonchalance, though inside her mind was racing.
"Not officially," the opera singer dropped her voice to a low whisper and leaned closer to Violet, "But a little bird tells me that His Grace did the honourable thing after his brother's death and offered for the late duke's fiancée."
Lud. For the first time in her life, Violet wished that she kept up with the ton's gossiping. She wracked her brains to try and recall just who it was Orsino might have proposed to but found her mind was blank.
"Lady Olivia Cardigan," Miss Grazia helpfully supplied, perhaps sensing Violet's ignorance, "She was engaged to the late duke—a love match, no less. Rumour is that Orsino proposed the moment he assumed the title, but Lady Olivia has not been in a hurry to wed, given the recent loss of her brother. Whatever her reason for dallying, Orsino is not allowing himself to be caught in anyone else's net."
Maria Grazia gave a pout, leaving Violet to wonder if the alluring artist had attempted to snare the duke in her net. The opera singer turned away from Violet to converse with the gentleman beside her, leaving Violet to mull things over.
Orsino had proposed marriage to another; despite her vow to not be affected by the duke, Violet was astonished to discover that she was tremendously disappointed. Her heart,
the treacherous thing, was sore and wounded. She had thought Orsino misunderstood and shy, but he was just another rake.
The supper was endless; eight elaborate courses, prepared by a French chef, followed by a selection of sweetmeats, cheeses, and wine. It was a sumptuous feast, though every mouthful tasted like chalk to Violet, whose stomach churned with anxiety.
Once the supper came to an end, the men retreated to the library to smoke cheroots and imbibe brandy, whilst the ladies repaired to the drawing-room for tea. Violet sat bolt upright on the chaise, beside Aunt Phoebe, willing time to pass so they could return home.
"What ails you, child?" Aunt Phoebe queried, prodding her gently with a bony finger.
"I do not feel well, aunt," Violet replied, and, unlike earlier, Lady Havisham appeared concerned.
"We shall away," Phoebe said decisively, rising to a stand with the assistance of her cane.
"Aunt Phoebe, it is far too early," Violet hissed, but the baroness paid no heed.
"When you reach my age, dear," she replied, without lowering her voice, "You may do as you wish. People don't tend to upset the elderly in case it finishes them off, and they come back to haunt them in revenge. I-RIS!"
Violet winced as Aunt Phoebe bellowed at their hostess. Lady Lloyd, to her credit, did not even raise an eyebrow. Instead, she crossed the room with a serene smile to see what Phoebe wanted.
"Thank you for a lovely supper, dear," Aunt Phoebe said, "But I must take my leave. These old bones need their rest."
"Pah," Lady Lloyd waved her excuse away with an airy hand, "If you of all people are leaving early, it means that I have failed in my mission to entertain. I will not listen to any excuses about age. Tell me, are you so bored, my lady, that you feel you must flee?"
"Oh, no," Violet interjected, not wishing to hurt Lady Lloyd's feelings, "It is I who am forcing her to leave early; I am not feeling well."
"Not the food, I hope?"
For a moment, Lady Iris did look genuinely nervous; nobody wished to be the hostess who left their guests running for the water-closet.
Never Fool a Duke Page 7