by Sabrina York
“I do.”
“Odd that.” Granger grinned. “Our family has a hunting lodge in St. Andrews.”
“Is that so? I’m from Dundee. I have my home now in Perth.”
“Ah. Perth.” They both took a sip of their drinks. “Beautiful area.”
“Indeed.”
Silence riffled and then William broke it. “Well, do go on. You were saying you slipped through the woods…”
“Yes. So. Met by the privateers, we made our way through the woods…” He continued the telling as though he had shared the tale a hundred times before. But his mind reeled.
He had no idea who this Granger was to him, no idea what kind of connection there could be between them, but his gut told him it was a significant one.
And his gut was never wrong.
Ewan had disappeared.
Violet hovered behind a potted palm and scanned the ballroom once again, barely able to restrain her impatience. Hiding had become necessary to avoid Lord Dittenham, who had upon meeting her determined she was the woman of his dreams. He had haunted her ever since. And then there were the others. Barkley and Ponce and Sheffield. All handsome men and, from all accounts, eligible partis. She wanted nothing to do with them.
For one thing, their perfume turned her stomach—it was probably the scent of their pomade but it hardly mattered. The stench was revolting. Their soft white hands made her want to laugh. Their effete expressions and oh-so-proper conversations were deadly dull. Not a one of them set her heart to racing with a look, a word, a touch.
They hounded her in veritable herds, forcing countless glasses of lemonade upon her. If she drank each one, she would explode. She hoped she hadn’t killed any of the palms Hortense had been so delighted to bring in. They were now all swimming in lemonade.
And still they stalked her, those men bearing glasses of vile brew.
Hence, her skulking.
“There you are.”
Violet nearly leapt out of her skin. Her heart chattered as she whirled on Kaitlin. “You scared me half to death.”
“Sorry, darling.” Her gaze narrowed. “I take it you’re not having a good time?”
“These men! They’re like hounds with a scent.”
Really. There was no reason for Kaitlin to laugh. “Did you expect something different? You are rather lovely. And the cousin of a wealthy duke.”
“I’m hardly a tasty rabbit.”
“I beg to differ. You are quite the prize here tonight.”
“But Sophia—”
“Sophia is lovely as well,” Kaitlin said as an older gentleman spun her by in a reel. She fairly glowed; her gown belled out around her. “But we both know your connection with Edward is what these men are after.”
Violet snorted. “So flattering.”
Kaitlin grinned. “You know what I mean. On your own you’re quite a catch, but with a duke behind you…you’re irresistible. Sophia’s brother is wealthy but not a lord. He doesn’t have a title. She will have to work a little harder to attract a Dittenham or a Sheffield.”
Violet wrinkled her nose. “I shall advise her to be lazy.”
“Hmm. That bad?”
“Hideous. Although Dittenham assures me, when I am his wife he will allow me to buy any dress I like, so long as his mother approves.”
“Quite generous.”
“And Sheffield has expressed a keen desire to teach me how to speak like a true English lady.”
“Oh?”
“Without the savage brogue.”
Kaitlin nibbled her lip. “So they’re both top contenders then?”
Violet tried to swallow her growl but failed. “Have you see Ewan?”
“I was wondering if you’d ask. I saw the two of you head out to the garden.”
“So, apparently, did Ned.” Violet crossed her arms.
“Oh my. Well, he’s in the study with Edward.”
“Coward.”
“All men are when it comes to evenings such as this.”
Although Edward had stood by Kaitlin’s side, proudly presenting her as his new duchess to all the harpies. Harpies who had come to gawk at the woman who had finally tamed the Dark Duke. And to appraise her waistline. They’d been sorely disappointed. Kaitlin was still extraordinarily trim. But to those who knew her well, the new glow was unmistakable.
A man—one who was not a coward in the slightest—spotted her and scurried in her direction. Violet tamped down the urge to run.
“Ah, Miss Wyeth. There you are.”
Her eyes crossed as Dittenham bent over her hand and his fragrance wafted to her nostrils.
“May I beg another dance of you? Oh, do say yes.” He glanced at Kaitlin. “With your permission, Your Grace.”
Kaitlin—the traitor—dipped her head. “Naturally, Lord Dittenham. I am certain Miss Wyeth would be delighted to dance with you.” There was truly no call for her to say those words accompanied by such an evil smirk.
She began to wonder if Kaitlin was, indeed, a friend at all.
Chapter Eighteen
Ewan knew he should probably be out in the ballroom but he couldn’t dance with Violet—not without making himself look like an utter fool—and clearly he couldn’t take her for another walk in the garden. On top of that, he would rather put out his own eye than watch her dancing and laughing with other men. So he stayed in the study, engaged in a conversation with William and Granger, and thoroughly enjoyed himself instead.
Granger was a sensible man with solid ideas, and a sharp wit to boot. More than once his keen observations and clever repartee had him and William howling with laughter. That he had little patience for the pomposity of their fellows didn’t hurt.
When one man pranced into view—a dandy named Dittenham—Robert, or Robin as he bade Ewan call him, likened him to a fluttering bird.
In all due respect, it was probably bad form to snicker.
Ewan didn’t care.
By the time they emerged from the sanctity of the study, it was late—or early, as it so happened—and the evening was drawing to a close. Sophia, he discovered, had already gone to bed and many of the guests had left.
Violet, he noticed with a sharp lurch to his heart, was still there.
It was only polite to pay his respects to his host before he took his leave. And as Violet happened to be standing next to the duke and his duchess, naturally he headed their way. Perhaps there would be a chance to speak with her again after all.
But no. As he approached, Ned changed directions and homed in on them, not faltering in his step until he stood by her side. He dropped his arm around her shoulders and shot Ewan a nasty smile. “Lovely evening, wasn’t it?” he said.
“Charming.” Ewan nodded. He turned to Edward and Kaitlin. “Thank you for everything.”
The duchess laughed. “It was all Aunt Hortense. I assure you.”
“Ah. Thank her for me as well.”
“I shall.”
His gaze flicked to Violet. As though it had a choice. “Miss Wyeth.”
She put her hand in his and he pressed a kiss on her glove, holding her as long as he thought he should. Still, when he released her, Ned was glaring.
“May I call on you tomorrow?”
She blushed prettily. “I should like that.”
He nodded and stared at her. She stared back.
Ned cleared his throat.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
Though he hated leaving her, he walked away with a smile on his face because the evening had gone well. He’d had a nice time chatting with Granger. And he’d held her in his arms again and kissed her. Most importantly, she’d let him.
* * * * *
Violet barely slept all night. She couldn’t. The excitement was far too sharp. She kept replaying her interlude with Ewan over and over in her head. The look in his eyes. His touch. The taste of his lips.
It had been glorious.
And even more glorious? The knowledge
that he still wanted her. More than that, he was wooing her. The thought made her deliriously happy.
When Mary scratched on her door, bearing a tray of cakes and chocolate, Violet was not ready to rise. But when she tried to wave her maid away, the girl protested.
“You must get up, miss,” she said. “Callers have already begun to arrive.”
Violet shot up in the bed. A skirl of exhilaration clenched her gut.
But wait. Not exhilaration. Nausea.
She kicked off her covers and bolted for the chamber pot. After she finished retching, she turned to find Mary staring at her.
“Are you all right, miss?”
She sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “I’m just tired, I think. Last night was exhausting.”
“Hmm.” Mary nodded and glanced away. “I’ll leave this here then and be back in a bit to help you dress.” She took the chamber pot with her.
As Violet nibbled on the cakes—which didn’t help the churning in her belly—she thought about what today might bring and her anticipation rose again. Ewan would come. He’d said he would come. Maybe they could slip away together. To the library. Or the billiards room. Or the garden. Somewhere they could continue their…conversation.
Mary returned with a nice pot of tea, which Violet sipped as the maid dressed her hair. It soothed the churning considerably. The nausea kicked up again as she descended the stairs and then her stomach roiled when she entered the morning room.
It was filled with flowers. Roses and hothouse orchids and blooms she’d never seen before. She gaped. “What’s all this?”
Kaitlin, who had been chatting with a young man Violet danced with the night before, leapt to her feet. As did he. “There you are, darling!”
Sophia and the three other men perched on the dainty furniture around her rose as well. Hortense did not. But she did grunt. She was in the process of wolfing down a biscuit. Ned stood sentry by the mantel, leaning against it lazily, every inch of him a Corinthian.
“Look!” Sophia trilled. “We have visitors. They brought flowers.”
Ah, yes. The reason for her queasiness. The fragrance of the blooms was overwhelming. Stifling.
Kaitlin took her arm and pulled her into the fray, whispering, “Many of them are for you.”
“Lovely.”
“You remember Lord Steven.”
She did not. But she offered a smile and a nod.
“And Berkley…” Kaitlin went ’round the circle, pattering the names of these men as though they mattered. Violet couldn’t care less what their names were. She had no intention of talking to them.
But talk she did. Endlessly and for hours it seemed, about utterly banal nonsense. All the while her attention kept drifting to the door in hopes that a tall, handsome Scotsman might come striding through.
There was a moment when a man with the certain turn of a cheek stepped into the room, when her heart leapt. It wasn’t Ewan but he looked very much like him. He was introduced to her as Robert, Lord Walsham. She enjoyed talking to him very much. Much more than the torturous conversation she shared with Dittenham, who appeared shortly after, strutting like a coxcomb.
Polite hours for morning calls were nearly over when the door opened and Ewan entered. His friend William Winslett was with him. Ewan scanned the company, frowning at the other men. Though she knew it was bad form, she rose and crossed to him, holding out her hands. He kissed them.
“You came,” she whispered.
He glanced down at the small box he held and winced. “I should have brought flowers.” When he shot a glare at his friend, Winslett only shrugged.
“I hate flowers.” It was highly impolite to hiss like this. She didn’t care. His brow arched. “Oh, I love flowers…in a garden. In a room like this, they are rather overpowering.”
“Lord Winslett. Mr. St. Andrews. Welcome,” Kaitlin cooed from behind her.
Ewan nodded at the duchess but then his attention snapped to Violet. He thrust the box at her. “I brought you strawberries.”
Violet’s eyes widened. She paled. Her belly roiled. “Why ever did you do that?”
“Malcolm told me you liked them. At dinner last night.”
Kaitlin snorted a laugh. “She cannot eat strawberries. They give her spots.”
A flush crawled up his face.
The duchess grinned. “A suggestion, sir?”
“Please.”
“Don’t take any more advice from her brothers.” Kaitlin smirked. “I, on the other hand, love strawberries.” She took the box. “Thank you so much, Mr. St. Andrews. Very thoughtful.” Her voice rose as she headed back to the others, dragging Violet with her.
Violet sat at the far end of the divan, away from Dittenham. To her delight, Ewan sat next to her. His thigh grazed hers as he settled himself.
“Would you care for tea, Mr. St. Andrews?” This, Hortense warbled with an amused glint. She clearly enjoyed the subterfuge.
“Thank you, no.” But when Violet passed him a plate of cakes, he took one, and the opportunity to stare soulfully at her. From that angle, no one else could see his expression. No one but Ned.
Her brother strolled over to the divan and gusted a sigh. “It is so heartening to see so many men paying their respects to my sister.” Then, to her horror, Ned insinuated himself between her and Ewan on the divan, tossing an arm over both their shoulders.
“She is quite lovely,” Dittenham purred.
“Quite.” Like lemmings, they all echoed the word.
Violet forbore from rolling her eyes, but only just. “Sophia is quite lovely too.” There was a measure of satisfaction in dressing them down. And then amusement as they all scuttled to compliment Sophia as well.
“Did you know your brother was in a French prison during the war?” Berkeley—or was it Bingham?—asked. This sent the conversation into a whole new direction but Violet was fairly oblivious. She was stunned at this revelation.
Ewan had been in a French prison?
She leaned around Ned to send Ewan a searching glance. He tendered a sheepish smile in response.
For the next while, the men talked amongst themselves and plied the women with effusive compliments and ate all the really nice cakes. Violet made it a point to gore Ned regularly with her elbow but he didn’t take the hint and move, so Violet—again—didn’t have a chance to speak with Ewan.
When Aunt Hortense peered at the ormolu clock and sighed, the visitors, all well-trained in the politesse of the morning call, came to their feet. Ned sprang up and led the way to the door. Violet stood as well, though she might have stood too quickly. Or the flowers really were a touch too much. Or she should have had more to eat. Because all the blood rushed from her head and wooziness assailed her.
She put out a hand. A tiny sound passed her lips.
Ewan’s head whipped around. Their gazes tangled and concern flitted across his face. “Violet? Are you all right?”
She opened her mouth to respond but no words came out.
The giddiness rose. Her vision went cloudy. And she felt herself falling.
He caught her.
Of course he did.
He was her Ewan. He would always catch her.
That was the last thought she had before everything went black.
* * * * *
“You must call a doctor.” Ewan stormed from one side of the room to the other.
“I already did.” Edward frowned. “And will you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.”
“We don’t need a doctor.”
Ewan spun around to gape at Kaitlin. “Are you mad? She just fainted. Women don’t just faint like that.”
Edward nodded. “It’s true. I mean, they might like men to think they’re fragile but you rarely ever see a woman truly swoon.”
Kaitlin crossed her arms and pinned her husband with a hard glare. “I swooned. And her maid told me she was ill this morning.”
Ewan’s heart hitched. “She was ill?”
But neither Edward nor
Kaitlin paid him any mind. Edward stared at his wife; he paled. As one, their heads swiveled, skewering Ewan with sharp perusal.
“What?”
Edward stood. Bristled. “How’s the wooing going?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How. Is. The. Wooing. Going.” Surely there was no need to spit.
“Terribly.” Ewan raked his fingers through his hair. “Her brothers are worse than a battalion of trolls. Can’t even get close.”
“I suggest you try harder.”
“I’m trying, but—”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Kaitlin snapped. “You’re Ewan McCloud. Kidnap her again if you have to.”
“That wasn’t me!” How many fucking times did he have to say it?
“Do whatever you have to do. Just get it done. Propose to her.” Something in the duke’s eyes gave him pause. He turned toward the fire as the thoughts filtered through his head. Violet had been ill. She fainted. There was some reason he should hasten to claim her—
Oh God.
He suddenly felt a little faint himself.
It couldn’t be.
But when he thought back on all the times they’d made love—he knew it could. “You don’t think…”
“I do.”
Ewan’s knees failed him. He plopped down on the couch and buried his face in his hands. Twin shards of excitement and dread skirled through him. If it was true, if Violet was carrying his bairn, she’d have to marry him.
Kaitlin fixed him with a speaking look. “We’re all attending the Grantham musicale tonight. I suggest you put in an appearance as well.”
“And finish this,” Edward added on a snarl.
Oh, he would. He would finish this once and for all.
Chapter Nineteen
Ewan winced as the reed-thin girl dressed in a blowsy gown hit a note that was not quite human. It brought to mind the warbling cry of a vixen in labor. He’d winced quite a lot this evening. And not just because the singing—if one could call it that—had been atrocious.
He hadn’t been able to get close to Violet. She’d been surrounded at every turn. Edward had done a credible job of distracting Ned, but Violet had been plagued by suitors and engaged in conversations with other girls and boxed in by matrons all evening.
