Page 1 of Again, Scoundrel

Prologue

London, 1850

Violet Goodwin stilled at the top of the long staircase above the ballroom. She watched the ladies dressed in brilliant colors swirl by on the dance floor beneath her, looking for all the world like the brightly plumed birds of the Hudson River Valley back home. The thought made her slightly wistful; she missed home.

This evening’s fête was magnificent, with glittering candlelight and overflowing flower arrangements, diamonds that glimmered at throats and rubies that sparkled on wrists, but Violet’s heart wasn’t in it.

She’d rather be outside exploring the various back alleys of Lower Manhattan with her twin brother James than inside a ballroom in England, dancing.

Violet was here for a practice season, to “smooth out the rough edges” as her mother called it before she returned to New York for her debut next year. She dutifully stayed by her mother’s side as the majordomo announced them, then descended the steps into the fray.

But as soon as her mother’s back was turned, Violet stole off. She was used to exercising a certain amount of freedom in her comings and goings—her parents were too busy running one of America’s largest and most profitable timber companies to keep the hawk-like view over her behavior as other parents of their social set did—and tonight, Violet wanted to be outside.

She headed straight for the patio, diverted first by the stars twinkling above and then by a cat stalking through the gardens below.

“Psst, kitty kitty,” she called, but the cat only turned its bright gold eyes to her, twitched its ears provocatively, and walked away.

“Asshead,” she murmured to its swishing backside and then shivered, her nerve endings prickling from the cold. It was early April, and she was dressed in only a ball gown.

“Excuse me?”

Violet turned at the sound of the voice, startled. The tendrils of unruly blonde hair that spilled out of her coiffure tickled the back of her neck, causing another prickle to vault up her spine.

She peered into the shadows, just making out a masculine profile leaning against the wall.

Man or boy?

She couldn’t quite tell. His voice was deep, commanding. It sent a little thrill through her, though he didn’t seem that much older than she was.

Twenty, perhaps. Or twenty-one?

She hugged her arms around her chest for warmth but didn’t go back inside the ballroom where she should be; she liked the sharp, electric feeling that pulsed through her too much to relinquish it now.

“Oh,” Violet said. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

A smile tugged her lips upward. “I’m not.” She shook her head and her mass of curls threatened to come crashing down altogether. “It’s you who should be sorry.” He was the one who had startled her, after all.

He laughed, a low rumble that did something funny to her belly, producing heat where it ought not to be.

“Should I?” He took another step out of the shadows toward her. “Then, pray tell, what should I be sorry for?”

Violet tipped up her chin and narrowed her eyes, despite the sparks of electricity racing through her. “For lurking,” she replied. “Where I cannot see you.”

He sauntered forward until he was bathed in the wavering light emitted from the ballroom.

“Better?” he asked, one sardonic eyebrow raised as if he already knew the answer; that the figure he cut was a great deal more than handsome and he should spend all of his time awash in candlelight so others could admire him for it.

Delicious was the word that came to her mind.

He was uncommonly tall but slim, as if he’d not yet filled out his frame, with broad shoulders and lean hips, chestnut curls and a fringe of dark, lush lashes surrounding eyes that were so deeply brown they looked almost black.

He stepped closer and Violet swallowed. “Now you’re prowling,” she managed to say, wishing her heart hadn’t begun to clang so loudly against her chest cavity she was certain he could hear it.

“Are you my prey?” he asked, his grin wide and wolfish.

“Asshead,” Violet replied.