Page 29 of Again, Scoundrel

Those were the last of Pembrooke’s words that Alistair heard, for as soon as they stepped out of doors and onto the garden landing, the sight before him froze the reply on his tongue. His eyes widened in alarm, and his heart began clanging against the inside of his chest cavity.

Violet!

He didn’t immediately notice she was kneeling next to Miss Jenson, holding her. That it was the young miss in trouble and not Violet herself. Alistair pushed his way through the crowd, leaving Pembrooke to follow behind. He reached Violet in just a few strides and before either of them knew what was happening, he’d dropped to his knees beside her, panic in his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded of her, reaching for her hand. “Violet, are you hurt?”

She didn’t struggle against him immediately. He felt her squeeze his hand for a moment, but only for a moment, before she pulled away.

“Let go of me.” She tried to wiggle her fingers free from his.

He only held her hand more tightly still, his heart hammering through the skin of his palm.

“Unhand me,” she said, and when he still didn’t respond, she forcefully ripped her arm away from his.

And then realization after realization thudded into his mind, as it began to make sense of the situation.

He was holding Miss Goodwin’s hand.

On the ground.

In the middle of Pembrooke’s garden.

In the midst of a ball.

Surrounded by half of the ton.

Who were staring.

He rose as formally as he could muster and gave her a slight bow. “I apologize, Miss Goodwin,” he said. “I thought you needed assistance.”

“I do not need assistance. I was providing assistance, as you can see.” She gestured to Miss Jenson, who was still seated on the ground, practicing the breathing exercises Violet had been showing her. “Miss Jenson is an asthmatic.”

“Oh,” Alistair said. It was all he could think of to say at the moment.

“Oh, indeed.”

Violet smoothed out her skirts with as much dignity as she could muster. She sounded like an extremely competent governess then, which he found arousing in a way he knew he probably shouldn’t, given the situation.

“Lord Alistair Crawford.” Mrs. Jenson said finally broke away from Catherine and cornered him. “I am glad to see you here. Have you had the opportunity to meet my daughter, Miss Sarah Jenson?”

Alistair looked at the woman, startled. Was she truly trying to introduce her daughter to him now? When the poor girl’s lips had turned blue?

“I don’t believe now is the time,” he said firmly, casting an eye at the crowd that was gathering.

Somerville was there and McGann was too. Alistair groaned inwardly. Somerville would repeat the whole incident to his father and McGann… hell, McGann ought to serve him with that facer after all.

He’d denied before that there was anything between him and Violet, and he’d just proven that to be a complete falsehood. He just hadn’t been able to help himself when he saw her there on the ground, and he thought she’d been hurt.

Help her was all he could think or say or do.

“Now is certainly the time,” Mrs. Jenson said, her voice growing louder. “You must do something, my lord. This… this…” She looked at Violet in disgust. “This person is causing a scandal, and I will not have her ruin my daughter’s chances.”

Violet was gently rubbing the young woman’s back again and murmuring to her, seemingly oblivious to the antics of her mother.

“And which chances might those be?” Alistair asked icily.

“Why,” Mrs. Jenson replied, her voice going quiet again. “Her chances of making a match, of course. It is her first season, you understand. And it is,” she paused for emphasis, “the Waverly Ball. I saw you approaching with Pembrooke. He is on the hunt for a wife, is he not?”