Page 28 of Again, Scoundrel

“I believe you may be an asthmatic,” Violet continued, “and it is imperative that you stop moving at once. Please stay absolutely still.”

Violet’s focus was entirely absorbed by the young miss now, as it had been moments ago absorbed by Alistair. She was so caught up in her work that she hardly noticed as Catherine exited the ballroom doors with Pembrooke’s father, the Viscount Waverley; Somerville; and a great many other guests.

Catherine immediately joined Violet in easing the young asthmatic to the ground, while Violet muttered curses under her breath at the constricting nature of evening wear.

“Well,” Catherine whispered, “I suppose I was wrong about you being a nurse this evening. Perhaps your blue gown would have been better after all.”

Violet shot her cousin a look before she said, “Go calm the girl’s mother, would you please? My hands are too full at the moment for her to have apoplexy.”

“Gladly. I have no interest in ruining my lovely ball gown if I can help it.”

Catherine patted the young woman reassuringly on the hand before she left. “You’ll be just fine, Miss Jenson. Violet is my cousin and quite knowledgeable about medical matters.”

Violet knelt beside Miss Jenson, ignoring the rip she heard in her own gown as she dropped to her knees. She had to stabilize the girl’s breathing as quickly as she could, then get her somewhere indoors and private where she could unlace her stays.

Miss Jenson’s diaphragm was far too tightly constrained, a corset being the worst possible mode of dress for an asthmatic. Violet was uncomfortable in her own corset too, and there was nothing at all wrong with her diaphragm.

“Slowly breathe in,” she coached the girl while holding her hand. “And slowly back out. Close your eyes and don’t see anything else. Don’t hear anyone else. There’s nothing in the world but you and me, breathing in and breathing out. There you go.”

She’d noticed the presence of the elder Mrs. Jenson made the younger woman’s symptoms worsen and was endeavoring to keep them apart. But the young woman had her eyes glued to her mother and continued to struggle for air.

“Close your eyes, Miss Jenson. Right now.” The young woman obeyed, and Violet carried on. “There you go. Just like that.”

The spasms began to ease, and Violet rubbed her back in slow, comforting circles. “Breathe in and out. You and I are the only people here. Don’t worry about anything else. That’s good. That’s perfect.”

The elder Mrs. Jenson stood a few feet away from Violet, her eyes shooting daggers, while Catherine stood beside her, valiantly trying to keep the woman at bay through conversation. Violet glanced up, for once grateful for Catherine’s place in the aristocracy as an earl’s daughter. Despite the poisonous looks Mrs. Jenson shot in her direction, she could hardly give Lady Catherine West the cut direct by walking away while she was talking.

“Keep going,” Violet said to Miss Jenson. “Keep your eyes closed. Don’t think of anyone or anything else but your breath. In and out. There you go. Good girl.”

Alistair stood, startled and alone, looking at the empty place where Violet had just been. She’d been such an enthusiastic, passionate partner in their embrace.

Not partner. Instigator.

It was thrilling. And then she was suddenly gone. It was usually he who departed, not her. He found he disliked it immensely when the tables were turned and had been about to chase after her when he heard the gathering commotion outside of the balcony doors.

Blast.

He couldn’t follow her now. It would not do to arrive on Violet’s heels, her disheveled and he at half-mast. So, he hurried deeper into the dark gardens and crossed over the mews so he could re-enter the ball from the side door.

He was certain he could fall into a crowd headed outdoors to see what the commotion was, and sure enough, the partygoers that had been surging into the ballroom earlier were now surging back out.

Like moths to the flame, the members of the ton were drawn to scandal and incident, and their faces were gleeful as they made their way outside toward the latest event. Each of them hopeful for a first-person glance at tomorrow’s on-dit.

Alistair slipped through the smoking room and joined several gentlemen who were making their way out to the gardens. He looked around for McGann, who he hadn’t seen since he’d abandoned him to the dance floor, but caught sight of the son of the hosts, his old friend from Eton instead.

“Pembrooke!” Alistair called, falling into step beside the man. “What’s happening?”

Pembrooke grinned at the site of Alistair. “Crawford! It’s been an age. Where have you been?”

“Recently?” Alistair asked as they crossed through the ballroom. “Out having a stroll in the gardens.”

Pembrooke laughed. “I meant for the last decade, you devil. But really, Crawford, the gardens? Did you bend some poor chit over a garden hedge? Be more careful or you’ll be married off before me.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Alistair said, although he had of course. Or almost had. The way he’d acted around Violet was exquisitely stupid. “What’s the rush to the altar?”

Pembrooke sighed. “Father’s orders, not that you would care anything about that. Last I heard, you’d run off and joined the Navy. And then something or other about the Company. Is it true that women love the uniform?”

He nudged Alistair in the ribs. “I’m sure they do. They’ve always had a tendre for you. But no need to settle down yet. That’s my motto. Not if you don’t have to, that is. Unfortunately for me, I have to.”