Page 8 of Again, Scoundrel

She had changed as well. She glanced down at the severe blue dress she wore and flexed her callused fingers.

She’d developed those calluses from her work with the charitable nursing brigades that provided free medical care to the needy in the poorer districts of Lower Manhattan. They were a constant source of irritation for her mother, but Violet wore them with pride. They were emblematic of her life as it was now; a life that didn’t have room in it for men like this one.

He was from before, when James was still alive. Before she’d hovered over the feverish body of her twin brother and promised him she would devote her life to keeping as many others from dying of fever as she could. Before she’d forsaken balls and gowns and marriage altogether in favor of chasing that promise with a singular focus.

This man, she reminded herself as those long legs strode toward her and her heart began to beat wildly of its own accord, is only a relic from the past.

Just the dunderhead who abandoned you on a balcony.

He’s nothing to do with your present at all.

Still, she licked her lips subconsciously at the thought of that almost kiss.

“Good evening, ladies,” Alistair said as Lady Catherine dropped into a graceful curtsey.

“Now,” he heard her whisper to the rather green-around-the-gills looking Miss Goodwin, who dropped into her own clumsy version on the command of her cousin.

He stifled a smile and turned his attention instead to the ample glimpse of Lady Catherine’s bosom that her curtsey allowed him. While he had no interest in the obvious matchmaking of Mrs. Somerville, he was more than happy to take in the sight of a lovely bosom when such a sight was offered.

But for some reason, he couldn’t concentrate on Lady Catherine West. He was distracted by Miss Goodwin and her dress. Its high neckline and modest fit were an affront to bosoms everywhere.

Why, he wondered, would any woman choose to wear that dress to dinner?

Why would she even own such a dress?

It was a botheration.

“Miss Goodwin,” Mrs. Somerville was saying as Alistair remembered himself and bent down into a low bow, “has graced us with her presence from across the sea. This is Lord Alistair Crawford, recently returned from his own sea voyages. Although we hope he’s in London for good. Isn’t that right, Lord Alistair?”

He rose and smiled at the two women. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, ignoring Mrs. Somerville’s last remark.

“Likewise,” Catherine replied.

“I must see to my other guests,” Mrs. Somerville announced and departed.

“And what brings you all the way across the Atlantic, Miss Goodwin?” Alistair asked and wondered as soon as he did why he’d addressed his first question to her instead of to her companion. The woman was hollow cheeked and slightly green and was looking at him strangely, narrowing her eyes as if she were angry at him.

Has she reason? Have we met before?

He wracked his vaguely whisky-addled brain.

No.

Not that he could recall anyway.

But there was something about her and her obvious distaste of him that was as bothersome as that dress. He felt a slight discomfort in her presence, which was surprising, as he generally didn’t care much what the rest of the beaumonde thought of him.

But there it was, nonetheless, some kind of irritation. Like a bur in his stocking, nettling him when he wished to concentrate on other things, like Lady Catherine’s bosom.

Catherine cast a sidelong glance at her cousin, who had not yet answered Alistair’s question. They all stood awkwardly for another moment and waited for her response, which never came.

“She’s come to visit me,’’ Catherine said finally. “Haven’t you?”

“I have,” Miss Goodwin agreed, still staring at Alistair with those pursed lips.

“Well, I do hope you have a pleasant time here in London.”

He wondered if she wasn’t a bit addled. She clearly didn’t know how to make polite conversation at all, and her face was still set in an angry scowl. He should turn away from her and find his father and his brother.