Page 23 of Again, Scoundrel

“I’d rather not,” Violet said, but her mother was already waving back over the modiste, and she knew there was nothing to do but acquiesce.

And after all, she thought, what harm can a single ball gown do?

“What will you wear, Mother?”

“About that. Your Aunt Lydia and I will be otherwise engaged that evening, so you’ll have to escort Catherine yourself. As her companion.”

Violet squashed the roll of her eyes. It was clear to her that her mother hoped that by sending her alone she might give in to the urge to mingle or flirt or dance from sheer boredom, if not for any other reason. She would not. No amount of time spent on the sidelines of the Waverly Ball while her cousin danced and made merry would change her mind. Violet Goodwin would not marry.

“She’s not here,” McGann whispered to Alistair as he fidgeted in the slightly too-tight evening clothes he had borrowed. Alistair was not a small man, he was far from it, but McGann was even larger still, and the borrowed suit strained against his broad shoulders and threatened to burst the seams with his every movement.

“Stop fidgeting,” Alistair whispered. “You’re like a child.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” McGann said but settled down all the same. “You said they’d be here.”

“They will be. You said you had evening attire.”

“I did,” McGann replied. “I do. I just haven’t brought it out in a while. Turns out, it wasn’t acceptable.”

“Surely anything cut to you is better than wearing another man’s jacket.” He eyed the straining seams across the shoulders of his coat. “Another man’s jacket that is too small.”

“Moths got in. Wreaked havoc, the wee bastards. Are you sure Miss Goodwin will arrive?”

“I’m certain.”

Alistair endeavored to keep his voice from reflecting his foul temper, but every mention of Violet Goodwin made by Andrew McGann rendered his reaction harder to control. He wished he hadn’t left his pocket flask at home. But he’d done so on purpose, and there was no remedying it now.

He’d promised himself he would cut back on his drinking so that he could concentrate on building his partnership with McGann. The two had met several times over the last weeks, and they’d hammered out a plan. Now, they just needed the capital. McGann had his idea to marry it and Alistair his to get his father to invest. One of them, surely, would come through. Both, if they were lucky.

Alistair and McGann took another step forward toward the side entrance where they would enter the ball. Like a great many other gentlemen attending, they had no intention of being announced by the majordomo and thrown into the fray of marriage-minded mothers.

They were instead sidling in through the side door, where they could partake in the gentlemen’s smoking rooms before they entered the ballroom for the requisite tittering and promenades.

The line inched forward, and Alistair felt McGann’s eyes on him.

“Why do you look like a storm cloud has taken up residence on your face?” McGann asked.

“I can’t even imagine what you mean.”

“Aye, you can. You look like you’re sucking on a lemon every time I mention Miss Goodwin. Is there anything you want to tell me before we go inside to meet the lass?”

“Other than the benefit of keeping your metaphors straight? No.”

There was nothing to tell, except that he couldn’t eradicate Violet Goodwin from his mind no matter what he tried. And he’d tried everything. Unfortunately, cards no longer held his interest, drinking too much gave him a headache like Satan’s own the next morning, and he found himself wholly apathetic toward the women in his favorite brothel, so much so that he left without partaking of their offerings. Miss Goodwin had gotten under his skin, and he could not get her back out again.

Not that the botheration of Miss Goodwin, with her blue eyes and rough hands and feisty temperament, would change his plans. He would still introduce her to McGann this evening. He would just have to find some other way to take his mind off her than what he’d already tried. Some activity he hadn’t discovered yet. Fencing perhaps. Or grouse hunting.

Anything.

These last two weeks had only served to remind him that nothing good would come of his time in town, and the sooner he could be away from it the better.

“I don’t think she’s coming,” McGann said again, causing Alistair to turn to him, angrier than he ought to be.

“She will be here. No one having a season will miss the Waverly Ball, and last I checked, Catherine West was indeed having a season. If she’ll be here, Violet will be with her. I suggest you find another lady to dance with while you wait. I daresay you need the practice.”

“Sod off,” McGann muttered. “I’m an excellent dancer.”

Alistair shrugged as the line moved forward. “Do as you wish, but to my understanding, heiresses dislike having their toes crushed by overly large Scotsmen.”