"Mama has written to say that she and Papa wish to take me to town for the little season," Violet said one evening, to Aunt Phoebe and Sebastian, who had returned for the island in August, once Summer-half had ended.
"She wishes me to make my come-out in the season proper, and hopes that I will secure a proposal by next May."
"A proposal?" Sebastian looked aghast, "Why on earth would you want one of them?"
"Well, one usually needs a man to propose before you have the banns read; otherwise, you look quite pushy," Aunt Phoebe replied mildly.
"Marriage?" Sebastian, again, looked aghast. Although the twins had long forgotten their youthful determination to marry each other, they had both longingly looked forward to spending more time together once Sebastian had served his time in Eton.
"Your father," Aunt Phoebe glanced fondly at Sebastian, "Expects you to go to Oxford and take up a position in Whitehall. He is less invested in your sister's future, but no doubt, he expects her to find a suitable husband who will take Violet off his hands."
"I don't want to work in stuffy old Whitehall," Sebastian groaned, "I want to be an actor. And, Violet has no wish to marry some damp-squib; she wishes to paint. To perfect her craft in Paris, and Venice, and Florence."
"If you were my children, I would allow you both to do as you please," Aunt Phoebe shrugged, "But as you are not, we must wait and see which way the wind blows. If Violet goes to town and finds a man that she would like to marry, then I will not stand in her way. On the other hand, if her father tries to force her down the aisle, I will be more than happy to stand in his way."
Violet was cheered by this thought; though her aunt was small in stature, she was quite wide and more than adept at brandishing her cane at anyone who dared cross her.
Aunt Phoebe decided to relocate from Hebrides Hall to London to assist with Violet's first season. She did not take up residence in Waldo's leased house on Grosvenor Square, preferring instead to re-open the family's townhouse on Jermyn Street.
It was in the house's cluttered drawing-room that Violet found sanctuary during her first few months as a debutante. There, she was free to paint to her heart's content, which helped to ease the anxiety of her most recent failure. Before coming to London, Violet had feared to get married--now that she was here, she was beginning to worry that she might be un-marriageable. She was asked to dance at Almack's by many eligible gentlemen, but few thought to repeat the request and none sought to call on her.
"I don't know what is wrong with the girl," Georgette wailed to Waldo, as the season neared its end.
"Perhaps we expected too much from Violet," Waldo offered, though he was hesitant to use the word "we", for he had never expected anything from Violet. Though his daughter was pretty enough, with an admitted talent for painting, she had no fortune which might entice a man to offer for her hand or make her stand out from the crowd.
A sensible marriage to a second, or third son would suffice for Waldo, and as Georgette's patience was beginning to wear thin, he felt that this might please her too.
Besides, there were other more pressing matters to which Waldo needed to attend.
"My dear," he cleared his throat, "I have been offered another position in Vienna. The government requires my diplomatic tact and language skills."
Georgette was forced to use all her diplomatic tact as she struggled not to snort with laughter at Waldo's remark on his language skills.
"Mmm?" she murmured, pressing her lips tightly together.
"Yes," Waldo drew himself up imperiously, "The war is at an end, and with Napoleon exiled on Elba, the four great powers of Europe will hold a congress to decide the continent's future. Viscount Castlereagh has personally requested that I attend."
"He has?"
"Yes," Waldo flushed, "And he has also offered me a generous pension, a knighthood, and a position for Sebastian if all goes to plan."
Georgette's eyes lit up at the thought of her beloved Sebastian being rewarded with a government position. She doted on her son, who was handsome, charming, and far easier to manage than her daughter.
"It is your patriotic duty to go," Georgette declared, "And as your wife, it is my duty to accompany you. My only concern is...Violet."
"Well..." Waldo cleared his throat again, "If she were going to make a fantastic match, she would have done it by now. We can leave her in Aunt Phoebe's care for a year or two, and perhaps some second son might snatch her up while we're gone. I fear you'll have to decide soon, Georgette, if you are to have a new wardrobe made up by the time of our departure."
A new wardrobe? Visions of balls and dances with various dignitaries and heads of states filled Georgette's mind, pushing out any concern for her daughter.
And so, it was decided that Waldo and Georgette would away to Vienna, leaving Sebastian and Violet in their aunt's care. Waldo attempted to strong-arm Lady Havisham into moving into the far more luxurious Grosvenor Square residence he had leased, but the old lady was recalcitrant.
"There is only one person in this room who is a peer in their own right," Aunt Phoebe growled, as she poked Violet's father in the stomach with the head of her cane, "And I think you'll find that's me. Sebastian and Violet will stay here, or they will stay nowhere at all."
Thus, it was decided that Violet and Sebastian would reside with their aunt in Havisham House, on Jermyn Street. Though this was only settled after the twins made two solemn promises. Sebastian swore that he would not set one foot inside The Gun Tavern, which was a noted hotbed for Revolutionary activity. And Violet promised that she would not seek the company of artists amongst the French refugees who resided in Grenier's Hotel at the top of the street.
"Ah, my dear Violet," Georgette sighed, as the time came to say their goodbyes, "How much I will miss you. Do take care of your brother. He is far more handsome than you, but I fear it has made him arrogant and liable to walk himself into trouble."
"Voyage sécurisé, Mama," Violet had replied, ignoring the veiled barb, "I promise that I shall keep an eye on him."
"And try to find a husband, dear."
"I shall," Violet promised, though she crossed her fingers behind her back as she did so. Love was not something that interested Violet, not now that she was finally free to live her life as she chose.
Chapter One
Wednesday was, in Violet's opinion, the most insufferable day of the week, for it meant one thing:
Almack's.
For three seasons, Violet had suffered through long evenings at the famed cattle-mart, inwardly marvelling at the repetitiveness of it all.
Every week, without fail, the patronesses of the much-vaunted assembly rooms provided their guests with stale cake, bitter lemonade, and dry conversation.
That vouchers for the ball were amongst the most coveted things in London seemed ridiculous to Violet, who found the event to be exceedingly dull. But then, she reasoned, she was not looking for a husband, and if one was marriage-minded, Almack's was the place to be.
As she trailed her aunt into the assembly rooms that evening, Violet found it crowded with flocks of white-dressed debutantes, each vying to glitter more brightly than the girl next to her. Meanwhile, well-dressed gentlemen roamed the room, speculatively eyeing their prey whilst braying loudly at each other.
The girls in their dresses reminded Violet of sheep--fluffy and innocent, whilst the gentlemen put her to mind of wolves. Had she a pencil, Violet would have sketched a quick caricature, but alas one did not come to Almack's to draw--one came to find a husband.
It was a never-ending circle, Violet thought despondently, as she followed her aunt to their usual spot underneath the balcony. Young women blossomed like flowers each season and were plucked by the first gentleman to take a fancy to them, never to be seen again. Unless, like Violet, they were not plucked at all, and were forced to return each year to watch the whole charade play out, season after season.
Thankfully, Violet was not alone in being a weary perennial amongst a city full of bright
annuals. As she and Aunt Phoebe approached the seats under the balcony--the unofficial seating place of wallflowers and chaperons--she spotted her good friend, Miss Charlotte Drew, already taking up residence on one of the chairs.
"La, Violet," Charlotte called cheerfully, "Fancy spotting you here."
"An utter surprise, I'm sure," Violet responded, as she deposited herself on the seat next to Charlotte.
Beside them, Aunt Phoebe clucked with disapproval at their dryness, though Violet rather thought she did it for show more than anything else. Her aunt had been tasked with doing her best to find Violet a beau, though thankfully Lady Havisham had decided her best consisted only of the bare minimum--escorting Violet to Almack's once a week.
Violet glanced across the room, where her other friend--Lady Julia--stood beside her parents, Lord and Lady Cavendish. Julia's parents were determined to find her a husband by the end of the season and were painstakingly intent on filling her dance card for the night. Thank goodness Aunt Phoebe was not so forward, Violet thought, as she observed Lady Cavendish push Julia forward to converse with a young man.
Above on the balcony, the orchestra struck up a tune, signalling the first dance of the night, and the trio fell into silence as they watched the familiar scene unfold.
"Is she?" Charlotte whispered in Violet's ear, a few minutes later, with a nod toward Lady Havisham.
Violet glanced affectionately at her aunt, who had drifted off to sleep on her chair. The ostrich feathers of her turban had slipped, to conceal her slumbering state from the room, and Violet thought it best to leave her.
"I once overheard her tell Dorothy that she always felt revived after a night at Almack's," Violet whispered to her friend, "Now I know why."
The two women giggled conspiratorially together and began to chat between themselves. There was much to discuss; Charlotte's father had recently delivered an edict that his eldest daughter must snare a duke, in order for Bianca--Charlotte's younger sister--to be allowed to make her come-out.
Violet, Charlotte, and Julia had, after much discussion, narrowed Charlotte's choice of available dukes down to one--the Duke of Penrith. He was one of the so-called "Upstarts", a trio of aristocratic friends who were renowned for their power and fortune.
"Thank goodness they never deign to set foot in Almack's," Charlotte said cheerfully, as she reached into her reticule to retrieve some biscuits, which she had wrapped in a handkerchief. Almack's offerings of refreshments were notoriously poor, and Charlotte quite often brought her own to stave off hunger during the long night. "I don't think I would have been brave enough to come tonight if I thought there was a chance I might run into Penrith so soon. I must prepare myself for battle before I attack!"
No sooner had Charlotte finished speaking, than the room erupted into furious whispering. Violet watched with interest as the assembled crowd turned their heads, almost as one, toward the door.
"Gosh," she muttered, accepting one the proffered biscuits with a smile, "I wonder if it's Prinny? I don't know why everyone gets into such a fuss about that man--he's a rake. And worse, he's a poor one. No Mama would think of allowing him to even look at their daughter if he wasn't a prince."
"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 at
tention 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.
Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3 Page 19