Page 2 of Again, Scoundrel

She had spent enough time with her brother to know how to handle the youthful arrogance of men. It was best countered head on, no matter the weakness she seemed to be feeling in her knees at the sight of that grin.

His eyes widened in surprise, a flash of humor dancing across them. “Asshead is not a word,” he said, leaning against the balcony rail and crossing his long legs at the ankles. “I believe you mean arsehead.”

His eyes moved up and down her frame as he spoke, seeming to luxuriate in what he saw there. She shivered again under his perusal. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

Violet pursed her lips. He wasn’t as easily cowed as other young men of her acquaintance, and his self-assurance delighted her. She wanted to stay outside on this balcony and trade barbs with him, relishing the excitement and cold and something else she couldn’t quite identify that shimmied across her skin.

She couldn’t do that, of course. She shouldn’t be out here alone with him, whoever he was. She should definitely go back inside the ballroom.

But she definitely wasn’t going to.

She leaned forward instead, and her nose twitched, picking up his scent of balsam wood and sea wind and adventure. He watched her move, his dark eyes intently focused, causing the newfound warmth in her belly to spread through her limbs and core.

“Is the arsehead still lurking about? I don’t see him.” He looked around then, as if ascertaining they really were alone. “Presuming, of course, it’s a him.”

“Assheads usually are. But if you must know, this one was a cat. He heard me call and instead of coming to me, he turned tail and walked away.”

“I see.” His long legs moved, poised to prowl even closer still. “And you?” he asked, holding out his hand at the last moment instead, as if extending to her an invitation. “What will you do?”

Violet’s fingers lifted of their own accord and settled themselves into his palm. The ridges of her fingertips hummed at his touch, even through her kidskin gloves.

His hand closed around hers and he tugged lightly, stepping backward into the shadow of the wall. She followed, pulled closer, until they were mere inches away from each other and swathed in darkness.

Violet’s heart raced as she stared at him, his features softened by the shadows, taking on the diffuse, unreal quality of a charcoal drawing. She placed her other hand on his chest, wanting, needing, to know if his heart was beating as wildly as hers.

It was; she could feel its frantic thumping in harmony with her own.

At that moment, she understood the need for proper introductions. They were a safety net, carefully cradling a stranger within the social order so one could know how they related to one’s friends and family and self. Without an introduction, a stranger could be anyone. They could do anything. And one might become unmoored by the possibilities.

She was unmoored.

“I am,” she whispered, scrambling to ground herself again, “Violet. From New York.”

“You are,” he held her gaze, “intoxicating.”

Violet could feel her pulse reverberating in the thin skin of her wrists and neck. Her chest, amply displayed at her mother’s urging, heaved, and she was sure he heard the small gasp she made as she forced air back into her lungs.

She would not, she scolded herself, forget to breathe. She blinked instead, pulling her eyes down and away.

She wasn’t trying to be coy or seductive; she only wanted a moment to catch her breath. But too late she understood it was the most seductive thing she could have done, that slow drag of their eyes coming apart and then the quick snap as they looked back to each other. The impact when their gazes met again was explosive, causing some basic failure of her spine. Her body felt soft and languid, incapable of properly holding her up.

A cool breeze lifted a single dark lock of wavy hair from his head and dropped it into his eyes. She reached toward him without thinking and swept it away, her fingers brushing along the skin of his temple.

He stilled at her touch for a long moment. When she dropped her hand back down to her side he reached for it again, as if loathe to let it go.

He was going to kiss her. She’d never been kissed before, but she knew what was about to happen with certainty, nonetheless. And she wanted, quite desperately and against all reason, for him to kiss her. She closed her eyes and waited.

But instead of his lips, she felt him release her hand and step away. Her eyes opened at the sound of rustling fabric and departing footsteps, leaving in their wake a sudden chill where his body had just been.

She watched his retreating figure, feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief only a moment before the loud creak of the balcony doors opening ricocheted through the night.

“Violet?” she heard her mother call into the darkness.

“Hello, Mama,” Violet said, stepping back into view to greet her mother’s approaching figure.

“What are you doing out here, Violet? It’s so cold!”

“Just looking at the stars.”