Page 83 of Again, Scoundrel

She knew him immediately, as she always did. Her spine tingled, her skin tightened, and her breath exhaled. She was simultaneously more relaxed in his presence than at any other time in her life and drawn as tightly as a bow.

“It is,” she replied.

“I sail tomorrow.”

“I know. I heard from Esmee.”

Violet wanted so much to turn to him and stare into the dark pools of his eyes, but she did not dare. She was too susceptible to his presence; her fingers even now twitched for want of touching him. He was moving on with his life, and she was glad for him.

Stay where you are, Violet Goodwin, a voice inside her said.

She heard his deep inhale behind her; the one he often made before he spoke.

“Don’t,” she said in the same careful, polite voice they used with each other now. “There is no more to say.”

“But there is, Violet. I’d like to apologize. To your face.” He waited for her to turn around, but she didn’t. “Or to the back of your head, if I must. I want you to hear me say that I was an arrogant arsehead who will regret the way I treated you for the rest of my days.”

“Asshead,” Violet corrected.

“Asshead is not a word.”

He’d edged closer to her, so she could feel the heat of his nearness, although he did not touch her.

“I never asked you,” he said, “what you wanted. I declared us bound to be married. I blathered on about my past and my future and all my hopes and dreams, and I never once asked you what it was you wanted to do with your extraordinary talent. Who you wanted to be when you looked into the future.”

“I never told you either,” Violet said. “And I could have.”

Alistair paused. “I should have asked anyway. And I should have told you that I would stand by your side in any way you wanted me to. That I’d have happily been your friend or your lover or your husband. That I’d have been a barnacle on the side of your ship, if you let me. One you couldn’t scrape off no matter how hard you tried.”

Violet laughed. “A barnacle?”

“Aye. A barnacle. A barnacle for a violet. A picture of our truest selves.”

“It’s only a pretty name. Nothing to do with me, really.”

“On the contrary.” He took another step closer to her. “Violets are your perfect namesake. Lovely creatures with delicate, soft petals and beautiful eyes. But it’s their constitution that sets them apart.

“Do you know I’ve seen violets in every place I’ve sailed?” he asked. “They are tough creatures. Very hardy. Cosmopolitan, in the botanical sense.”

Violet felt her body’s familiar reaction to his proximity—the jolt along her spine, the weakness in her knees. How her heart squeezed with wanting.

“I admire them for that, their toughness,” he said. “I think you could plonk them down just about anywhere and they’d bloom. Just as you do.”

“It’s a kind thing to say.”

She wished he would stop talking. Wished he would leave so that whatever this sparking electricity was between them that she could not control would be gone too. She hated how just being close to him put him in danger.

“It’s the truth.” He paused. “Will you look at me, Violet?”

Her feet turned her to face him, and the intensity of his gaze felt like it was burning a hole through her insides.

“Thank you for saying so,” she said, forcing herself to hold his stare. Forcing her voice to be steady and clear. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

“It was important to say all the same.”

The first bars of a waltz wafted through the air. “Violet,” he lifted his hand and held it out to her in invitation, as he had on that very first night. “Perhaps you might consider dancing with me?”

She shook her head no.