Page 21 of Again, Scoundrel

Alistair’s eyebrow shot to his hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

“The difference,” she went on, “other than the ability to saw bones quickly, is that men are physicians and women are nurses. Anatomy and nothing more than that. If men were nurses, it would be that profession you value more highly.”

Alistair’s eyes glinted with mischief. “You, Miss Goodwin, are a radical in hiding.”

A shiver bolted up her spine in spite of herself. She liked the way he was smiling at her, cocky and sweet, like the man she recalled from the balcony three years ago. And what’s more, the respect in his eyes when he called her a radical pleased her. She liked the idea of it, even though she wasn’t entirely certain of its truth.

Violet Goodwin, radical, at your service.

She grinned back at him.

“Alistair!” the Marchioness called as she made her way into the medical exhibits.

Alistair stepped away from Violet at the sound of his mother’s voice. He’d been standing too close to her.

Again.

There was something about her, the way she smelled sweet and fresh in a room full of fusty medical exhibits. And the way her blue eyes had grown wide while she discussed her commitment to medicine and the poor was inspiring. Inspiration was a feeling that had been in short supply in his life of late. And when she had brushed his arm with her hand, instinctively providing him what little comfort she could, his heart had squeezed painfully in his chest. His world had been devoid of comfort for as long as it had been devoid of inspiration.

And more than that, the woman was a firebrand, shaking him like a tempest would shake a boat at sea. If it hadn’t been for his mother’s sudden entrance into the room with Catherine West, Lord knows what he would have done. Grabbed her hand, perhaps, and run.

It was ridiculous, the urge he’d felt to grasp her callused palm and escape London together. For that fleeting moment after he’d called her a radical and she shot him that delighted smile, all he’d wanted was Violet by his side. The two of them together, escaping the heavy weight of expectation they each separately faced. And then his mother had entered the room, and he’d remembered himself and his agreement with McGann. Violet Goodwin had no place by his side, not now.

Not ever.

“Hello, Mother,” he said and turned to the Marchioness. “Did you enjoy the diamonds?’

His mother slipped her arm into his and patted his hand. “I did. And you need not sound so put out, dearest. There is nothing wrong with a little glitter and glamour. Is there, Lady Catherine?”

Catherine smiled. “Certainly not to my way of thinking. I’ve heard that Empress Eugenie glittered her hair for the theater. Can you imagine anything more wonderful?” She turned to Alistair and curtsied. “Lord Alistair, good to see you again.”

Alistair gave her a slight bow and smiled at his mother. “It was not my intention to sound put out. I’m glad you enjoyed the exhibition. Shall we move on?”

“Yes, let’s,” his mother said. “Since you’ve indulged me with this day out, I request we head to Gunther’s for an ice. Perhaps the ladies would care to join us?” His mother ducked her head, but he saw the devilish smile she was trying to suppress, nonetheless.

Alistair swallowed his groan. He had more patience for his mother than his father, certainly, but he had as much intention of participating in her matchmaking as he’d had in Mrs. Somerville’s.

“What a kind invitation, Mother,” he said before either lady could answer. “But Miss Goodwin was just telling me that she and Lady Catherine are otherwise occupied for the afternoon.”

“Are we?” Catherine asked, turning to her cousin with gleefully wide eyes. “Violet, is there an appointment you failed to mention?”

Violet looked at him, her expression unreadable. He kept his eyes cold and hard, despite the queasiness in his stomach. He couldn’t spend the afternoon with her cozying up at Gunther’s with ices. It would give his mother ideas. It would be in opposition to his plan with McGann. It would be too–

Idyllic.

“I’m afraid so,” Violet said, and though he’d driven her to the words, he wished she hadn’t said them. “Don’t you recall, Catherine? We’re to meet mother and Aunt Lydia at the modiste.”

Chapter

8

Violet Goodwin stood in front of the mirror at Madame Tremaux’s, the shop of London’s most fashionable modiste. Her mother and aunt were seated behind her, and Catherine stood to her side, her eyes dancing with the same glee she’d had earlier in the Crystal Palace.

“I cannot believe I let you drag me here,” Violet muttered.

“You told Lord Alistair we had an appointment,” Catherine said innocently. “So, I sent a note right away to Mother to be sure Madame Tremaux could fit us in. You would want to be true to your word, wouldn’t you?”

Violet glared at her. “Of course, I would.”