Page 24 of Again, Scoundrel

“Fine,” McGann acquiesced. “I’ll give another lass a whirl when we’re inside. But, Crawford, I’ll have that introduction.”

Alistair grimaced. “I know you will. It’s the only reason we’re here.”

Chapter

9

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Catherine whispered to Violet as they exited the carriage and viewed the scene in front of the townhouse where the Waverly Ball was being held. Gaslights illuminated the entrance, and the steps were crowded with the lords and ladies of the ton.

The crush of attendees thickened as more partygoers arrived—women who preened and posed on the arms of gentlemen in stark, black evening clothes, and shy young debutantes excited for their seasons, accompanied by ever-vigilant chaperones.

Around the side door spilled the gentlemen, who preferred smoking cheroots and a hand of cards to the formality of the dance floor. It seemed as if the entirety of London’s aristocracy had turned out for the evening’s festivities.

“It is lovely,” Violet said and meant it.

She could easily see how exciting it must be for a young lady in her season to enter a fête such as this. How one might get swept away by the romantic notion of it all and lose one’s head. It was, she supposed, the purpose of the chaperones. To keep the romance in the air from arousing foolish choices in the young men and women in attendance.

Violet had certainly made a foolish choice at her last ball in New York, the night that James had died. She shook her head and plastered a too bright smile on her face at the remembrance. She would not dash her cousin’s enjoyment of the evening just because it brought back memories she’d rather not dwell upon.

“So, what now?” she asked, although she knew very well what to expect.

“We make our way over to have some lemonade, and then we fill our dance cards,” Catherine said. “And we dance!”

“I’ll take you to the lemonade. But I leave the dancing to you.”

“They might also,” Catherine lowered her voice to a whisper, “have ratafia. I know how you like ratafia.”

“Hush,” Violet said. She’d made no secret of her distaste for the sickly-sweet beverage during her mini season. “I’d rather eat my own tongue.”

“I’d love,” Catherine whispered back, her eyes twinkling, “to see how you might try to manage that.”

Heads turned as the two cousins passed, arm in arm, and Violet was glad. Her cousin, the diamond of her first season and triumphantly returned to the marriage mart, would have no trouble making a match. And whether Violet liked it or not, a match was needed.

She’d already been in London for three weeks, and the season only lasted until Parliament was out of session in August. The new Earl of Chester could return in as little as a month, and he’d made it clear that Catherine was to marry. There would be no access to funds for her until a marriage contract was signed. She could be a pauper, or she could be a wife.

Violet and Catherine had barely made it to the lemonade stand when the first swain found them and requested Catherine’s dance card for the lively reel the orchestra had begun. Violet watched Catherine happily depart for the dance floor and poured her own cup of lemonade, before making her way to the potted palms to drink it in solitude.

A few gentlemen managed to find her there, but she refused their attempts at conversation and dancing.

“I’ve hurt my ankle,” she said politely to each one that asked for her card.

She knew it was rude to refuse a dance when it was requested unless she had an injury, and although she cared little for the ton’s restrictive rules of engagement for females, she did not wish to be rude. She just didn’t want to dance.

“If you sit down,” a voice whispered into her ear from behind the palms, “it will make your lie more convincing.”

She knew who it was immediately from the way his voice thrilled her, and his presence felt like a tangible thing at her back. His breath caressed her ear and sent a little trill of excitement up her spine. She arched toward him before she remembered herself and stilled her body.

“I’m not lying,” she replied, which drew a chuckle from the man standing behind her.

She turned her head slightly to confirm that it was indeed Alistair Crawford making her nerve endings prickle. It was. All six muscled feet of him.

“Come now,” he said. “We both know there is nothing wrong with your ankle. You’re putting weight on it. For your lie to be convincing, you must sit.”

“I’m not lying,” Violet insisted again, without much conviction. The idea that he’d been watching her made her heart beat a little faster. “My ankle is sore.”

“Oh, my apologies then.” He edged closer, and she could feel the heat of his nearness. “What has made your ankle sore? Ought you to have wrapped it? I am only a medical dilettante, unlike you, but it seems to me it would be wise to take the appropriate measures.”

“I—well. Never mind.” She gave up the ridiculous lie.