Page 10 of How to Start a Scandal

He lifted his head and glanced behind him, through the glass-paned doors and into the ballroom. Violet was in there somewhere, abandoned by him in the middle of their conversation.

He pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to make his way inside once more. To face the social responsibilities of an earl and to face his error with Violet.

Except she could not be found, not even among the wallflowers.

Violet made her way up Fleet Street with her maid, Susan, and a sack of coins secured in the confines of her reticule. Her collections from the print shop were larger than anticipated. Of all times to receive such a boon, she was most glad for it now—when she had true need of funds.

She had secured an audience with Lottie for that evening, well past the time her parents would have retired, an hour that seemed to come earlier as they grew older. It would be easy to sneak past the servants, secure a hackney, and make her way to Lottie’s residence at Russell Square in Bloomsbury. Surely the money Violet had collected, as well as what she’d been setting aside, would be sufficient to afford her a proper number of lessons.

A giddy flicker of excitement rippled in her chest at the idea of putting her plan into motion. She, Violet Lavell, muted wallflower, plump spinster, would be attending the highly coveted lessons with Lottie.

Two gentlemen were approaching them in the opposite direction and she nodded politely as she and her maid passed.

Yes, she could have had the carriage bring her directly to Fleet Street rather than pretend to have turned down the road while out shopping. Except the carriage driver was not as discreet as Susan.

Part of Violet—a tiny, minuscule part of her—wondered what Lottie’s edification might do regarding her interactions with the men of the ton. Or, at least one in particular.

Lord Dalton.

No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she tried quickly to push it away. He had been rude the evening before, abandoning her after having invited her to dance. Granted, he had not looked well.

Regardless, he was a man who did not keep his promises. Not six years ago. And not last night when she changed her mind and was finally giving in to the temptation to accept a dance for the first time in nearly six years.

Then he’d walked away.

Just like the night of her debut.

But she wouldn’t think of him and his dark, soulful eyes or how the way he looked at her made her knees go soft. She wouldn’t think about how he’d returned from the war with a hardness to his masculinity she shouldn’t find appealing. Which she did. Oh, she did.

She was so busy not thinking of him that she actually heard his voice in her thoughts. ‘Lady Violet.’

Violet could have rolled her eyes heavenwards if she weren’t on the streets of London. Would she never be free of Lord Dalton’s grip on her?

‘Lady Violet, may I walk with you?’

That voice was apparently not in her head. Her cheeks went hot as she glanced over her shoulder to find Lord Dalton walking towards her at a brisk pace.

Susan caught her eye and suppressed a smile. The maid had been with Violet long enough to understand the impact of Lord Dalton on her mistress.

‘What are you doing on Fleet Street?’ He caught up to her and offered her his arm. He wore a black jacket with a brown waistcoat and buckskins. The latter fit him perfectly against his snug thighs and muscular calves, as if the entire fad of wearing the more casual clothing had been designed entirely for him.

Heavens, if every man wore buckskins like he did, even Almack’s might be willing to soften their dress code.

Violet pulled her musings, and her stare, from his well-made legs and held up a folded copy of the most recent instalment of the Society Journal, which had been turned to the Lady Observer column. ‘You’ve caught me.’ It was the excuse she always had prepared in case she did get caught on Fleet Street, an occurrence that had not happened until that very moment. ‘I was at Fleet Market and figured I might wander down this road to obtain a paper.’

He peered at it as though she held up a dead rat. ‘A scandal sheet, Lady Violet?’

She let the flirtation in his tone burn her cheeks in an effort to allow herself to look slightly remorseful at the guilty pleasure. ‘Well, it is rather a nice day to be out walking.’

And that was her folly. For even as the words were emerging from her mouth, she glanced up at the grey sky as flecks of rain spattered at her face. ‘Or rather, it was nice earlier.’

‘It was storming earlier,’ he offered with a smirk.

‘I meant, after that.’ Her reticule was terribly heavy and cutting into her wrist. She fiddled with the strap while considering a way to spin the conversation on him. ‘It’s quite fortunate to run into you in any event. I’d intended to thank you.’

He looked at her, wary, clearly smelling the trap she’d laid at his feet. ‘Thank me?’

She hummed in soft agreement. ‘For the dance last night.’ It was snide of her, yes, but she wasn’t feeling especially generous. The wonderful thing about being beyond caring about marriage was not having to always tiptoe so delicately around her words.