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 elegantly 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 weak 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.
"A headache," Violet quickly fibbed, though it was not a lie, as such, for her head had begun to throb, "Perhaps from the excitement of it all."
"You do look pale, dear."
To Violet's surprise, Lady Lloyd reached out and took her hand, giving it a maternal squeeze. Her green eyes--rimmed with dark lashes, like her brother's--were kind, as she smiled at Violet.
"I can't deny that I am upset at not having had a chance to talk more," she said, "But now we have an excuse to meet again. The theatre, perhaps; Orsino rents one of the best boxes in Drury Lane. I shall write to let you know when."
Violet muttered a quick thanks, hoping against hope that no invitation would be forthcoming. She had no desire to be trapped in a small box with that great dolt of a duke.
Aunt Phoebe led the way from the drawing-room to the entrance hall, where the butler fetched their cloaks and called for their carriage. Violet's hopes that she might escape without having any further encounter with the duke were dashed when a familiar voice called out her name.
"Miss Havisham."
Orsino appeared, concern etched across his handsome face. Beside her, Violet felt Aunt Phoebe bristle.
"My niece is not the only lady present," Aunt Phoebe huffed, brandishing her cane in an alarming manner. Violet felt a stab of affection toward her aunt who, unknowingly, had lifted Violet's spirits. If only she had a cane of her own to brandish, she thought longingly.
"Excuse me, Lady Havisham," Orsino gave a neat bow in her direction, before returning his gaze to Violet. "I heard you were unwell."
"Yes, your Grace," Violet snipped, ignoring his confusion at her abruptness, "I shall return home."
"Ah," Orsino was obviously wrong-footed by her change of humour, "Might I be of assistance?"
"My aunt has called for our carriage," Violet shrugged, "Though thank you for your offer, your Grace."
Violet was not sure if it was bull-headedness or misplaced arrogance which caused Orsino to ignore her obvious coolness to him, for he persevered against her best efforts at subtle rudeness.
"I am sorry that you are leaving so soon," he said, his gaze sincere, "With your permission, I might call on you soon, to ensure that you are well."
Pah! Violet longed to poke her tongue out at the duke, who had the temerity to ask to call on her when he was promised to another.
Aunt Phoebe had also taken umbrage with the duke's request, for she cleared her throat irritably, and cast him a scowl.
"'Tis I you need to ask permission of, Orsino," Lady Havisham said, in her thick Scottish burr. Despite her diminutive stature, Aunt Phoebe could be quite terrifying. Violet was almost certain that Orsino paled, as Lady Havisham cast him a coolly appraising glance, her blue eyes traversing him from top to toe like a prize-fighter.
"You may call," Lady Havisham decided, having evidently decided that if it came to fisticuffs, she would win. "Then it's up to Violet to decide if she is at home when you do. Good evening, your Grace, our carriage has arrived."
Aunt Phoebe took Violet's arm and steered her toward the door and their means of escape. Violet made a pointed effort not to look over her shoulder as she left, though she could feel the eyes of the duke on her like a flame.
Her momentary happiness at having witnessed Aunt Phoebe put Orsino in his place, soon vanished as their carriage began the journey back to Jermyn Street. Although she had vowed not to encourage the duke in his apparent affections toward her, it still hurt to know that his affections had not been honourable--not even close.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Violet thought darkly. She had never been a great admirer of the Bard, but having now experienced the pain of being disappointed in love, she could understand better why so many of his works ended in bloodshed.
Chapter Six
While Jack knew that he had little experience with the ways of women, even he had the nous to realise that something was amiss with Miss Havisham.
On the first day that he had called on her, and she was not at home, he chalked it up to bad timing. When on the second day he presented his card, only to find that Miss Havisham was again "out", he decided that it was sheer bad luck.
On the third day, however, when the wizened gentleman who opened the door told him that Violet was not at home, Jack began to think that, perhaps, something had happened.
"Is she always this elusive?" he queried of the butler--who was so old that surely he was decades late for his appointment with St Peter.
"No," the butler answered, scratching his head thoughtfully, "And she never usually instructs me to tell people she's not at home, for no one really calls except her two friends of a Wednesday."
A-ha. Jack felt a moment of triumph, as he realised that he had been correct in assuming that Miss Havisham was avoiding him, which was swiftly followed by a feeling of gloom. What on earth had he done to earn her ire?
As Jack made his way back to his carriage, he cast his mind back to his evening
at Iris' supper. In his eyes, the tête-à-tête that he had enjoyed with Violet--in which he had managed to remove his foot from his mouth long enough to profess his interest--had been the highlight of his romantic career thus far.
Miss Havisham too seemed to have reciprocated some of his desire. Jack was not so blind that he had missed her blushing--and it had entranced him completely. Nor had he missed her slight breathlessness and heaving bosom--though, of course, as a gentleman, he had categorically not been sneaking a glance at her bosom.
Everything had gone swimmingly; he had escorted her to supper--relishing the feeling of having her clutch his arm--and had deposited her at her seat. Her seat beside...
Lud. Jack groaned with annoyance; Violet had been seated beside Maria Grazia.
At the beginning of the season, the opera singer had made clear--on several occasions--her interest in becoming Jack's mistress. Maria had assumed that she was vying for a vacant position, when, in fact, she had been vying for a position which had never existed.
Jack had no mistress. Most aristocratic men did, well the ones with the means to provide for one did, at least, but not Jack.
He had gently--but firmly--informed the beautiful singer that he was not interested, but perhaps she had let slip to Violet her plans for him.
Though, Jack frowned, that was hardly the type of thing one would reveal to a stranger at a civilised supper. His mind wandered, as the carriage trundled from Jermyn Street toward St James' Square--a ridiculously short journey, but the nature of social calls necessitated a carriage. Jack cast his mind back over his few conversations with Miss Grazia until he recalled his last meeting with her.
"No," Jack groaned, dropping his head into his hands with despair. He had told Maria Grazia that he could not take her on as a mistress because he was promised to another--Lady Olivia. The love-life of a duke, especially one sitting at the same table, would, of course, be gossiped about by the guests. Jack groaned again; he had only used Lady Olivia's flimsy promise to consider his proposal as an excuse, though perhaps he had garnished the truth a little to dissuade Maria Grazia from her mission.
Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3 Page 24