by Jane Ashford
Violet swallowed to moisten her throat and tried to be philosophical. Was she not determined to have all sorts of new experiences? Obviously, not all of them would be as joyous as last night’s ball. Life had its ups and downs. Clearly, there were some ventures into the unknown that one did not need to repeat. Ever. And here was one of them. Violet nodded, and suppressed a moan at the resulting stab in her head.
With a soft knock, the landlady’s serving maid entered. She carried a tray holding a large pot of tea and a plate of dry toast. “His lordship told me to bring this up, my lady. When you didn’t come to breakfast.” The girl set the tray over Violet’s knees and went to open the draperies.
“Leave them closed!”
The maid froze in place, then let her arms drop. “Yes, my lady.” With a sidelong look at Violet, she went out.
There was a twist of paper on the tray too. A headache powder, Violet realized with a surge of gratitude. God bless Nathaniel. Moving with great deliberation, she poured tea, sipped, nibbled on a slice of toast, and swallowed the remedy. Thankfully, her stomach tolerated the lot. She emptied the cup of tea and poured another.
She was going to stay in bed. For as long as she wished. Until she felt better. There was no one here to tell her that this was evilly slothful. Her grandmother could not descend like the wrath of the Lord and scold her about the champagne. She was mistress of the house—the lodgings—and she would do as she pleased.
Gradually, her pains eased. Her head cleared. By the time the teapot and the plate were empty, Violet was once again able to consider all the outings she planned to savor in Brighton.
She would call on Marianne as soon as she found her direction. It was a delight to know she had a close friend in town. One of the ladies at supper last night had proposed an expedition to Donaldson’s Library later in the week. And she would certainly go. The same woman had also been full of advice on how to make the best of the Brighton season.
Thus, Violet now knew that the fashionable hour to stroll along the Marine Parade—to see and be seen by the leading lights of society—was nine o’clock in the evening. There was a theater in the New Road, and a regular program of balls and card assemblies at the Ship and Castle Inns on alternate evenings. She had hopes of an invitation to the pavilion as well; she’d been introduced to the Regent at her presentation in the Queen’s drawing room, as had Nathaniel. The Regent had never taken any notice of her after that, but technically they were acquainted.
Nathaniel had expressed interest in the race meetings held on the Downs just outside town. And of course, there was sea bathing. Violet was determined to try it, although the idea that she must prepare for her dip by drinking seawater for several days was a bit off-putting. Still, sea bathing was known to be healthful. And it was another of the many things that she had never done.
Finally feeling ready to face the day, Violet rose and rang for Furness. Here was another cause for cheer, she thought, as the new lady’s maid entered with a smile rather than a sour glare—and not the least thought of berating her. Instead, they conspired together to create a fashionable ensemble.
When she had washed and donned another of her new dresses, Violet felt thoroughly renewed. When she discovered Nathaniel in the parlor reading a letter, she gave him a grateful smile. “You were right about the champagne,” she admitted. “I won’t be drinking so much again.”
Nathaniel smiled back. He was glad to know that, like Robert at the gaming table, she’d had a salutary lesson.
“Is your letter interesting?” Violet asked, sitting down opposite him on the sofa.
He looked back down at the scrawled page. “That’s just the word for it. Sebastian seems to be having a rather odd time.”
“Isn’t he visiting Georgina Stane’s family in the country?”
Nathaniel nodded. When his next older brother had become engaged at the end of last season, it had seemed a very good match. Well, it was. But his letter was a puzzle.
“So what is odd about that?”
Nathaniel reread a paragraph. “Sebastian has never been the most lucid writer, but it seems there was an uproar involving a Hindu and a pack of lapdogs.”
“A Hindu?” Violet raised her eyebrows. “You mean a person from India? At the Stanes’s?”
Nathaniel nodded. “Sebastian’s handwriting is a disgrace. I thought at first he was talking about a hindrance of some kind, but later in the letter the word is definitely Hindu.”
“Who has lapdogs?”
He frowned at the page. “I don’t think the Hindu fellow has them. Sounds like they belong to Georgina Stane’s mother.”
“It must be that,” Violet said. “Ladies often have a lapdog. And Hindus…” She trailed off with a shrug.
“I know. But Sebastian seems to say that there are sixteen.”
“Sixteen lapdogs?”
Running his finger down the length of the letter, Nathaniel read, “A ‘deuced sea of furry, yapping little rats’ assaulted this Hindu fellow’s ankles and tripped him up. Apparently, he fell on his face on the drawing-room carpet.”
Violet laughed, then put her hand up to her lips. “I’m sorry, but it’s such a ridiculous picture.”
Nathaniel had to agree, although he was soon back to frowning over his brother’s missive.
“Is there something else?” Violet asked. “You look worried.”
“I’m just not sure what he expects me to do.”
“You? Why should you do anything?”
“If he’s in a scrape…”
“It sounds to me like the Hindu man is the one in trouble. If you can even call it that. Was he hurt?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “No mention of it.”
“Well then, Sebastian is just sending you news of his visit. Perhaps he thought to amuse you.” Violet smiled.
“My brothers don’t send news. They…report in…call for the troops to ride to the rescue.” Nathaniel turned over the pages to make certain he had read the entire letter.
Violet’s laugh trailed off. “Rescue?”
“When they’re in a fix.”
“But Sebastian is past thirty, isn’t he? And a cavalry major?”
“Yes.” Nathaniel wasn’t certain what these bare facts had to do with the case.
“Isn’t he well able to get out of his own fixes?” Violet cocked her head. “He seems quite a capable person to me.”
“He is,” Nathaniel replied.
“Well then?”
“I’m the eldest. My brothers look to me.” It seemed a self-evident point. He turned back to the letter. “If I can make out what he wishes me to do.”
There was a short silence. After a while Nathaniel looked up and met a quizzical gaze. “I suppose you must answer Sebastian’s letter and ask him,” Violet said.
“Yes.” He rose and went to the writing desk for pen and paper.
Violet watched him, thinking of the tray brought up to her room earlier. Nathaniel had analyzed her likely state and taken steps to ensure her comfort. He’d made certain she was…tended. And now he was determined to do the same for his brother, even though it was not at all clear—to Violet, at least—that any action was needed. This was part of his character, it seemed. Curious to learn more, she asked, “What do you do when you have, oh, a whole afternoon to yourself? Time for whatever you wish. No one else to consider.”
He turned from the desk and gazed at her. “What?”
“All the world before you and only yourself to please?” she added with a teasing smile.
Nathaniel frowned. “An afternoon?”
It was hardly a difficult question, Violet thought. She’d meant for him just to throw out an answer.
“In town, or the country?” he said.
She started to say, “either.” But he was already making heavy work of his choices. “Country.”
“Um. Good weather or bad?”
“Splendid weather, a glorious day.”
“And is it hunting season, or—”<
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“Is there nothing that simply—pops into your head?” Violet said. The query had been half a joke, and he was taking it so seriously.
“Pops?” The concept appeared alien to him.
“Apple tart or lemon ice?” Violet said then.
“What?”
“Just pick. Don’t think about it.” This was a game she and her friend Jane used to play, years ago. They tossed choices back and forth, vying to reply faster and faster. Violet smiled at the memory. Those contests were among the few times when she could be herself, without fear of censure. And they’d discovered interesting things about each other as well.
“Don’t think?” Nathaniel frowned. “I’m not terribly fond of sweets.”
“Roses or lilies then?”
“They each have their attractions…”
“No, you mustn’t consider,” Violet repeated. “Just choose in a flash.”
“Why?” He looked as much amused as puzzled.
“That’s the game.”
“And you win by answering quickly?”
“Not win, no.”
“But if you give the right answers?”
“There aren’t any ‘right’ answers.”
“Then how is it a game?”
Violet had to laugh. But she wasn’t willing to give up just yet. “It just is,” she insisted. She needed to think of choices more familiar to him, where he would have a distinct opinion. “Shooting pheasants or hunting rabbits?” she tried.
“Ah. Well, with the beaters and dogs you get more pheasants, of course. But it can be a greater challenge to—”
Violet waved her hands at him.
“Oh. Rabbit hunting,” he said. “But doesn’t one explain why one chooses—”
“Watch fob or tie pin,” Violet interrupted.
“Both,” he replied promptly, as if he was getting the hang of the thing.
Violet shook her head. He was right. That had been a poor pairing. “Morning Chronicle or Morning Post?” she tossed back.
“Chronicle.”
She congratulated herself on giving him a simple choice. The Langfords were known as solid Whigs. “Whist or billiards?”
“It rather depends—” He caught himself with a smile. “Billiards.”
“Newmarket or Ascot?”
“No, I cannot favor one or the other. They each have their distinct attractions.”
“White’s or—”
Nathaniel shook his head. “You must know the answer to that. And I do need to get back to my letter, Violet.”
He turned to the desk again, leaving Violet feeling that she’d been silly. She didn’t know him well enough to pose revealing choices, she realized. Their long social acquaintance had brought familiarity, but no true knowledge. So she’d appeared childish, not at all the way she wished him to see her. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. Should she apologize? No, that would just make it worse. And there was nothing to apologize for, in any case. This was a distance that only time would cure.
* * *
Before Violet managed to catch Marianne at home, or further her scheme of sea bathing, the hoped-for royal summons arrived. The Viscount and Viscountess Hightower were invited to attend a reception at the Prince Regent’s pavilion. Violet took this as the final stamp of approval on her Brighton season. So far, it had been all she could wish for in terms of society’s attention and admiration. Her plans for a new sort of life were unfolding wonderfully.
Accompanied by Furness, who had an acute eye for fashion, Violet visited the dressmaker again. She wanted a special sort of toilette for this occasion. Between them, they settled on a daring style with swathes of gauze cut on the bias, rippling down her body in varying shades of sea green. Like clinging waves; not like ruffles! She would wear only one petticoat under it, though that garment was to be sewn of sturdy satin. She did not wish to be quite transparent to the world. In a hushed little shop on the Steine, she and Furness found a hair ornament with a spray of tiny emeralds. It would rest in the cloud of curls that was becoming her signature look.
In the meantime, the Hightowers went to the theater and to another of the local assemblies. Several times, Violet persuaded Nathaniel to join the evening promenade, strolling along the seaside, nodding to acquaintances and stopping to chat with those they knew better. “Everyone walks so slowly,” he complained. “In fact, everything in Brighton seems to move at a dawdle.”
“There are the race meetings,” Violet pointed out.
“Where you stand and watch the horses run,” he replied. “This seems to be a lazy place.”
“It is summer.”
He gazed up at the scudding gray clouds, then back at her.
“You could sail,” Violet said, remembering how much he’d liked it. “I believe there are boats for hire.”
“Ocean sailing is quite a different matter from tooling about a small lake. The skippers won’t be giving the wheel to a stranger. I would be a mere passenger.”
As he seemed determined not to be pleased, Violet let the matter drop. But she moved closer, pressing the curve of her breast against his forearm, reminding him that Brighton included at least one delightful physical activity. Nathaniel looked down at her. Violet’s breath quickened as he slowly smiled. Their nights together remained a delicious shared secret, a hidden adventure of trailed fingertips and pounding pulses that underlay every other activity.
* * *
Nathaniel fidgeted on the parlor sofa, waiting for Violet to be ready to go out. It would not do to arrive too late at the pavilion. Whatever one might think privately of the Prince Regent, he was still royalty, and his invitations were not to be taken lightly.
Violet seemed to take longer and longer to dress as the days passed. Admittedly, the results were striking. Indeed, he wondered whether people who had not seen her since their wedding would easily recognize her now. As for her grandmother… Nathaniel almost winced as he imagined the old woman’s reaction to the change. He could practically hear that booming voice of hers deploring and condemning. He began to calculate when they would have to see her again. Not until the spring, surely, in London, if they went to town for the season. Perhaps they need not? But he knew Violet would wish to go. He decided that he would arrange to avoid the first encounter of his wife and her family.
“Nathaniel?”
He started. Violet stood before him, glowing and expectant. She wore some kind of green concoction that fell in curves and whispered around her, emphasizing the lovely lines of her body. Green and gold glittered in her hair. Her gray eyes held a vivacity that was equally alluring.
He was on his feet, with no memory of standing. He caught a hint of the flowery scent she always wore, and it transported him to other moments, of tantalizing touches and murmuring darkness. He offered his arm, and she took it with a saucy smile. It occurred to him that he was rather fortunate in his marriage, even though he had not been swept away by passion like his parents.
Nathaniel had visited the pavilion once before, years ago, in the company of his father. Since then, the famous building had become even more ornate and fanciful. Each year, demands on the nation’s treasury showed that the Regent would never finish embellishing the place.
Everywhere one looked in the succession of hot, crowded rooms there were lavish chandeliers and tented fabric and mirrors, many featuring coiling dragons. The reds and purples and yellows were almost an assault. It amused him to watch Violet try to keep her mouth from hanging open.
“Oh,” she said finally. “I know people say the decoration is overdone and…and excessive. But it’s rather magnificent, isn’t it?”
“Do you think so?”
His wife nodded. She gazed from side to side, seeming to drink in the lavish decoration. She appeared quite unconscious of the many pairs of eyes observing them, cataloging the demeanor and behavior of the Langford heirs. Nathaniel nodded to an acquaintance as they passed, his face showing nothing of his thoughts. Three months ago, he would have vowed that
Lady Violet Devere hated being on display quite as much as he did. More so, even, with her tendency to fade into the woodwork at large gatherings. He’d seen her as overly self-effacing. He’d even looked forward to bringing her out of her shell a bit, as he now remembered. Had he not been surrounded by the chattering crowd, he would have laughed at the idea. She’d brought herself out quite thoroughly. And surprised him in other, more…intimate ways as well. He had no complaints about that. None at all. It was just… Sometimes it was disconcerting to have been so wrong about a person he thought he knew.
The portly Regent greeted them in the archway of the farthest chamber with his customary jovial ease. “Hightower, ain’t it? Langford’s son?”
Nathaniel bowed. “Your Grace.”
“And who’s this?” Their host eyed Violet with blatant appreciation.
“My wife.”
“Ah yes, I heard about that. Moreley’s daughter, eh?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Violet sank into a curtsy.
With no pretense of restraint, the Regent looked down the bodice of her dress. His gaze was assessing, admiring, not too subtly lascivious. Suddenly, the gown seemed a little too daring to Nathaniel. “You’re a lucky man, Hightower,” the Regent said as she rose. Nathaniel didn’t appreciate the knowing look that accompanied the compliment. “Enjoying Brighton, Lady Hightower?” he added.
“Very much. There are so many amusements and such interesting people.”
“Amusements, hah. I’d be happy to show you some of the…best of them.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, chubbily suggestive.
Other people were arriving, waiting their turn to greet their host. Nathaniel urged Violet onward on the heels of her murmured acknowledgment. He noticed the Regent’s eyes following her as they moved into the crowd, and he didn’t like the leer in them. “The Regent…ah…” How to put this, here in public? “He sometimes takes a…strong interest in attractive women. His…attentions can be a trifle excessive.”
“He behaves that way to everyone,” Violet replied.
“Not quite everyone.”
Violet smiled. “It was mere reflex. I believe he may even see it as a sort of politeness.” Violet had heard her friend Jane say this. And she couldn’t believe the Prince Regent had any real interest in her. Looking around the room she could see a dozen women younger and prettier than she. She had new clothes, and a more fashionable air, but she would never be a Beauty.
