Page 33 of Again, Scoundrel

The door swung open, and Violet exited first, extending her hand to the footman. It was, she couldn’t help but notice, the wrong hand. She wondered if Charles, their usual footman, had somehow been replaced during the course of the Waverly Ball. The fingers that clutched hers now were far too large and far too warm. And they were holding her hand far too tightly, such that she felt an inappropriate shiver at the contact.

“Charles?” she asked in confusion. “Are you alright?”

She ducked her head out of the carriage and came face to face with a man who was very much not Charles. This man had chestnut curls and almond-shaped eyes so brown they were nearly black. He made her belly tingle and her temper flare in equal measure.

Violet reared backward at the sight of Alistair Crawford standing in front of her, nearly tumbling down the carriage step. He reached his arm out to steady her, grasping her about the waist and placing her lightly on her feet.

Violet stepped away from him as soon as she’d regained her footing.

“Good evening, Miss Goodwin,” he said.

“No.” Violet shook her head. “No, no, no.”

He arched that eyebrow at her. “You are not Miss Goodwin?”

“I will not stand here in the middle of the street and hold a polite conversation with you, Lord Alistair, no matter—” Violet waved her hand in the general direction of his face, “whatever it is you are doing with that eyebrow. I’ve had quite a long evening in which untold damage has been done to myself and my cousin’s reputation. And,” she glanced down in dismay, “I look like I’ve been trampled by a carriage. So please do me the favor of telling me why you’re here in the most succinct way possible, so I can take your leave and go directly to bed.”

“I didn’t realize you had a care for your reputation,” he said.

“Not my reputation as a virgin. My reputation as a nurse. Which you were kind enough to destroy before I’d even begun to build it here.”

“I’d like to explain,” he said. “If you’ll let me. I am here to apologize.”

Violet sighed. “And you’ll leave afterward?”

“Yes. I give you my word.”

“Then go ahead.”

Alistair was quiet, and she watched the muscle tick in his jaw.

“Lord Alistair,” she said after a long moment. “You do know what it is you’re apologizing for, do you not?”

Bollocks!

He really should have thought this through. He’d jumped onto the back of the carriage without giving a great deal of consideration to what he would say to Miss Goodwin when he caught up with her. Except that he was sorry. He hadn’t expected her to ask for details.

All he could think was that he’d seen the look of hurt and anger in her eyes when he’d called for the surgeon, and he regretted being the cause of that look. And that regret was now tumbling around with a good portion of anxiety in the pit of his stomach and making him feel slightly nauseous.

But he couldn’t say that. That wasn’t substantive; it wasn’t what she wanted to hear from him.

She narrowed her eyes, and he watched their color turn from bright blue to a dark sapphire. She was angry. Or aroused. He’d seen that same color then too. He didn’t think she was aroused now.

“Well, sir?” she asked, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Damnit!

He couldn’t very well say he was sorry for calling the surgeon. He had been protecting her from Mrs. Jenson, and he wasn’t sorry about that. Whether she wanted his protection or not was irrelevant. He’d been born into this world of the ton. And while he cared nothing for its values or prejudices himself, he wouldn’t let them slander her or her cousin if he could help it.

“I apologize for everything,” he said. It was the best he could do.

“Not good enough. Specificity, please. What are you sorry for?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, an idea coming to mind. “Do you really want me to speak of it here?” he asked, his voice low.

“I do.”

“Then I will elaborate.”