"Er, no," Violet replied to her aunt's mild remark on her imminent death, "You did not tell me. But there is no need to call on Sebastian. He called yesterday."
"I did not see him," Phoebe frowned.
"You were out," Violet lied, then sensing that her aunt needed more persuasion to stay away from Sebastian's empty rooms, she fibbed even further. "Though he did mention that he would be attending Lord and Lady Jacob's ball tomorrow evening. No need to go out of your way, when you will see him there."
"Very well," Phoebe sighed, "Anyway, he is probably still abed. He is like a bear with a sore head when woken too early for his liking—and then there might be a risk that I become confused and attempt to have him fashioned into a coat."
On that note, Phoebe took her leave, followed by Dorothy, who was all too happy to abandon her work.
As the door closed behind them, Violet threw herself down on the chaise with a sigh. Helping her brother chase his dream was a far more complicated task than she had first imagined, she thought, as she nervously wondered how the next evening would fare. She would have to spend the night pretending to Aunt Phoebe that Sebastian had just stepped out, all while trying to avoid the Duke of Orsino—though she did not feel truly committed to her second task. Unconsciously, Violet cradled the hand that the duke had held against her heart, as she pondered the coming ball.
Lord and Lady Jacob had invited half of London to their ball, Violet surmised the next evening. The grand ballroom, whose cathedral-height ceiling was supported by a dozen marble columns, was filled with the bodies of the ton.
Beneath the three, glittering chandeliers, the great and good of the aristocracy mingled together, laughing, dancing, and drinking, and taking up lots of space.
Violet, who detested a crush, instantly felt herself freeze as she was confronted by the mass of people.
"La," Aunt Phoebe sighed, as she too took in the sight of the crowd, "How uncouth of Honoria to invite so many people. Has she no respect for my corns? I shan't find a seat out here, Violet; I shall repair to the card-room."
Violet, who had been bracing herself for a faux-search for Sebastian, held back a sigh of relief, though this relief was short-lived.
"Send Sebastian into me, once you find him," Phoebe instructed, before squaring her shoulders and disappearing into the crowd.
Although diminutive, Violet was able to follow her aunt's progress through the room thanks to the plume of feathers on her turban, which added nearly a foot to the five she could lay claim to. Once Aunt Phoebe had safely reached the card room, Violet began to scan the room for somewhere she might hide.
She sighted a shadowy corner, behind one of the marble columns, and had begun to push her way toward it, when a hand reached out and tapped her shoulder.
"Miss Havisham," a voice called, and Violet turned to find that it was Lady Olivia who had greeted her.
"How lovely to see you," the young woman said, and Violet had no choice but to offer similar sentiments.
Once that was done, an awkward pause fell, during which both girls eyed each other warily.
"Ah," Lady Olivia eventually began, rather awkwardly for one so assured, "Is your brother in attendance?"
"Yes," Violet nodded, wishing to escape, "I think he said that he was headed for the terrace, to smoke a cheroot."
"Wonderful," Lady Olivia beamed, her smile so bright and warm that Violet felt a stab of guilt for her deception, "Ah, must dash. Terribly nice to meet you again."
Lady Olivia departed immediately, no doubt headed in the direction of the terrace, where she might "bump" into Sebastian.
Violet, who hoped that the girl would not spend the entire evening on a fruitless search, continued on her path to the alcove. Once there, and when safely hidden in the shadows cast by the marble column, Violet leaned her back against the wall, and let out a sigh of despair.
She was not certain that she had the skills to keep up her deception for the whole night—not when it seemed that the whole world was keen to sight her missing twin. She was just pondering whether she might somehow fashion a Sebastian from straw—like the effigies of Guy Fawkes, which were burned on bonfires on Gunpowder Treason Day—when an interloper arrived at her hiding place.
"Violet," Charlotte smiled as she spotted her hiding in the shadows, "Fancy meeting you here."
"I thrive in the shade, not the light," Violet replied, in reference to their preference for playing the wallflower.
Charlotte grinned, before making enquiries after Aunt Phoebe, and finally Sebastian.
"Pfft," Violet sighed irritably in response to her second question, "All I ever hear are questions as to Sebastian's whereabouts. I am not his keeper, I'll have you know. I don't note his every step. How should I know where he is?"
She had, Violet realised too late, spoken rudely to her friend. A cascade of guilt washed over her as she realised that she had taken her irritation with herself out on Charlotte, a perfectly innocent party.
"I do beg your forgiveness," Violet said, her gaze meeting Charlotte's, "I am afraid that Sebastian has been causing me quite the headache these days and I find that even the mention of his name sets me off like a cannon. Can you pardon my ugly outburst?"
The wonderful thing about Charlotte was that she was not one to take offence.
"There's nothing to pardon," Charlotte gave her a smile, "I know something of frustrating siblings."
Talk then turned to Penrith, and after some attempt at feigning indifference, Charlotte finally admitted to having fallen in love with the man.
As Charlotte despaired over her deception of Penrith, Violet thought on her own deception. At least Charlotte had presented herself as the right sex to her duke—her cause was hindered, but not lost completely.
"Most affairs begin under false pretences," Violet soothed, as she attempted to rally her friend's spirits "In fact, most social interactions are entirely false and contrived. Do men not seek to be seen as affable when they are first introduced? Do women not strive to give the appearance of a winsome coquette when presented with an eligible gentleman? I think you'll find that most everyone is wearing a mask, and the fact that you wish to remove yours and reveal your true self to Penrith before he is bound to you by duty and law is admirable."
Far more admirable, and far braver than Violet, who was trapped behind the mask she had made for herself, hoping not to be caught out in a lie.
"What type of trouble has Sebastian made for you?" Charlotte queried, seemingly suspicious of Violet's uncharacteristic loquaciousness.
"Oh, nothing untoward," Violet replied, pasting a smile onto her face, "I am lucky that he is not like most young-bloods, and that he is not making a fool of himself at the gaming tables. He is simply being Sebastian; nothing more, nothing less. Come, let us forget our troubles and go to save Julia—I have just spotted her in Lord Horace's greasy clutches."
Violet linked arms with Charlotte and escorted her through the crowds toward Julia, who was battling against yet another would-be suitor. As well as being legendary for his dull conversational skills, Lord Horace also infamously suffered from halitosis so bad that it almost warranted a formal invitation to events.
Once they reached her, Julia excused herself from her conversation with Lord Horace, and the trio departed for the refreshment table.
Charlotte and Julia chattered between themselves, but Violet soon lost track of their conversation when she spotted a familiar face, towering above the other guests.
Orsino, who stood a good head above the crowd, was wearing his customary scowl as he scanned the crowd. Violet was momentarily distracted by the beauty of his face in profile, and though she was supposed to be trying to hide from him, found that she could not help but stare.
She gave a little start as Orsino—perhaps sensing her eyes upon him—turned his head to catch her longing gaze. His green eyes widened, before he frowned with intent, and began to excuse himself from the group he was attached to.
Dash it, Violet tho
ught, as panic and desire caused her stomach to flip-flop. Her attempts at remaining invisible to the duke had lacked somewhat in the enthusiasm department.
Oogling a man with one's mouth hanging open is hardly discreet, Violet chastised herself, as she pondered her next move.
Beside her, Charlotte and Julia had noted that another duke—Penrith—was making his approach. As Charlotte flustered, she ran a hand through her hair, catching the buttons of her glove in some of her curly tresses. Panic thusly ensued, and as Julia struggled in vain to free her friend from her predicament, Violet quietly absented herself.
Coward, she thought, as she slipped through the crowds, in search of somewhere to hide. There was nowhere suitable for her purpose in the ballroom, whose every nook and cranny was now filled with people, so Violet made for a set of double doors. These opened onto a darkened hallway, lined with portraits and suitably deserted of people.
As she traipsed down the hallway, Violet bit her lip, afraid of intruding into one of Lord and Lady Jacob's private parlours. But as she hesitated, the doors which she had just come through opened, and she realised that Orsino had followed her.
In a mild panic, Violet quickly rushed to the nearest doorway, opened it, and threw herself into the room. She closed the door quietly behind her, resting her head against the solid wood as she willed her heart to still.
In a moment, her panic had subsided, replaced now with an overwhelming feeling of shame. She was two and twenty years of age—a grown woman. Yet, here she was, playing hide and seek with a gentleman who did not deserve to be treated so shabbily.
"Gemini," Violet whispered aloud, as she steeled her resolve, "Be brave, Violet. Meet your fears face on."
Squaring her shoulders, in the hope that it might give her courage, Violet placed her hand on the handle and threw the door open, prepared to face her duke.
Unfortunately, her duke had been standing on the other side of the doorway, and as the door swung open, it met with a very solid mass.
Lud, Violet thought, as she emerged from her hiding place to find that she had not just faced her duke head-on, she seemed to have knocked him unconscious.
Chapter Ten
It was a point of pride for Jack Pennelegion that, in all his thirty years, no man had ever managed to knock him down. In Eton, he had never been the brightest student. At home, he had never been the favoured son. But, since his birth, Jack had been the sturdiest of men, well able to weather any blow.
Until today, that is.
The force with which the door had swung open had taken Jack somewhat by surprise, and though it had hit him, it was his own feet which had tripped him up and caused his fall.
Thus, when Miss Havisham's worried face appeared over him, like a vision of heaven, and she profusely apologised for her actions, Jack brusquely brushed her off.
"No need to apologise," he blustered, as he scrambled to his feet, in a vain attempt to regain some dignity, "You did not knock me down, 'twas my own two feet which did that."
Although it was something of a Pyrrhic victory to claim that it was his own actions which had landed him on the floor, Jack took some comfort from knowing that he was still the sturdiest of men. And he sensed that he might be required to grasp for whatever comforts he could, for now, more than ever, he was certain that Miss Havisham had won in her battle against her attraction toward him.
Why else would the chit have run when she spotted him making his way over to her?
Jack opened his mouth as he prepared to offer to escort Miss Havisham back to the ballroom, but she spoke before he had the chance.
"Oh, you're bleeding," she cried, with a startled glance to his forehead.
Jack touched a gloved hand to his brow, and it came away stained with blood. It was, he deduced, just a nick; he had certainly endured worse over his lifetime.
Miss Havisham, however, appeared to think him at death's door.
"We must staunch the bleeding," she said firmly, as she placed a hand on his arm and steered him toward the room she had just—so dramatically—exited.
"It is just a cut," Jack argued, unused to being the object of female fussing.
"A cut that is bleeding profusely," Violet countered, her voice firm, "You might not be hurt, but imagine the scandal if you were to re-emerge in the ballroom with a bloodied cravat. People might think you had engaged in a bout of fisticuffs."
"The ton does enjoy making babbling gossip of the air," Jack agreed, surprised to find that Violet had somehow managed to—gently—frogmarch him toward a chair, in what appeared to be one of Lady Jacob's private parlours.
"Do sit down," she ordered, in a voice which brokered no argument.
As a military man, Jack was as adept at following orders as he was at doling them out, and his posterior—almost of its own volition—hastily found a seat.
"You were right—it's just a graze," Miss Havisham observed, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the cut upon Jack's brow, "Though there's an awful lot of blood, for something so small."
Jack, with one eye closed against the aforementioned blood, which was dripping from his temple, watched as Miss Havisham reached into her reticule to retrieve a handkerchief.
"Hold still," she said cheerfully, as she stepped forward and placed her handkerchief against his brow.
"I can do that myself," Jack protested, rather feebly, for he was enjoying having Miss Havisham attend to his wound. And he was enjoying, even more, her close proximity.
Her scent surrounded him, floral and light and utterly delicious, leaving Jack feeling slightly light-headed. Though this dizziness could also be attributed to the blow to his head, he reminded himself sternly.
Jack was not accustomed to feeling vulnerable—or rather, allowing anyone else to witness his vulnerability. He was a man. A military man, no less. As such, he demonstrated a stiff upper lip and courage in times of adversity, never allowing anyone to guess at the turmoil that might rage inside him.
He had faced worse than a tiny graze on the fields of Waterloo and Friedland; he had bandaged his own wounds and the wounds of his comrades without blinking an eye.
But today, in a warm and well-appointed room in London, Jack found that, for once, he did not want to look after himself. He wanted Miss Havisham to tend to him. No, he needed her to.
"Poor lamb," Miss Havisham soothed, idly stroking away a strand of his hair with a soft touch. It seemed that she had acted unconsciously, for a fetching blush stained her cheeks as she realised the intimacy of her action.
Jack shivered a little, with a longing that was not base—not anywhere near it. He yearned, deep in his belly, for her to continue stroking his hair, to continue comforting him.
Very few people ever offered Jack comfort; it had, he guessed, something to do with his size. And his manner. The world viewed Jack as a rock, a sturdy man on whom they could lean for support. A man who would protect them at all costs.
And while Jack was happy to play this role, he realised—as Miss Havisham continued to tend to him, humming under her breath—that, for once, he wanted someone to support him. He also wanted to curl up in Miss Havisham's lap and purr like a kitten, but that might be taking things too far, he reasoned.
Dash reason.
"There we go," Miss Havisham said after a few minutes, gently removing the handkerchief from his brow, "It has stopped. We just needed to staunch the bleeding."
"My thanks," Jack replied, feeling the loss of her touch quite keenly. It must have shown on his face for Miss Havisham peered at him in concern.
"Are you certain you're alright?" she asked, her violet eyes holding his, "You did give yourself quite a knock."
No, I am not all right, Jack longed to reply. I want you for my wife. I want you to touch me lovingly every day, caress my cheek as I fall asleep. I want you to birth my children and allow me to provide for you, so you might care for them as lovingly as you care for me. I want to hear you hum in the morning, and gasp with pleasure in the darkness of the night. And
when I die, I want the last thing that I feel on earth to be your touch. The last sound I hear to be your voice...
Of course, Jack had never been very adept at giving voice to his feelings. So instead of a romantic outpouring of love and longing, he simply delivered a curt, "Perfectly fine, thank you."
"Oh," Miss Havisham jumped a little at his brusque response, "All right."
Dash it; Jack cursed inwardly. He was making a mess of things. Why could he not be like Montague? Why could he not deliver flowery prose when it was required of him? Jack nearly groaned aloud with dismay, as he realised what his next thought was.
What would Montague do in this situation?
Thankful that his friend would never know his thoughts—for Jack would never hear the end of it—he paused to consider what the charming marquess might do next.
"Women appreciate being appreciated."
Montague had spouted this nugget of wisdom once and for some reason it was now all Jack could think of. Miss Havisham had tended to him, had ruined her handkerchief for him, and all he could say to convey the depth of what it had meant to him was a short "thank you"?
"Sincerely," Jack continued, his voice sounding more like a growl than anything else, "I cannot express how grateful I am for your help."
"It was nothing, your Grace."
It was Miss Havisham who now looked nervous, her porcelain skin staining pink at his words. She lowered her eyes, perhaps to escape the intensity of Jack's gaze, and he near howled with displeasure. He did not want her to detach from him. He wanted her closer.
"It was everything," he replied, reaching out his hand to take hers and pulling her gently toward him.
Miss Havisham's eyes opened wide, her breath slightly laboured, as she watched Jack turn her hand palm up and deliver a kiss to her wrist.
It was possibly the most romantic gesture that Jack had ever made in his life, but as he lifted his lips from Miss Havisham's arm, Jack realised that he wanted more.
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