Her mind raced to slot the new information into place. A businessman from Scotland would be unlikely to have connections to English society, nor would he have heard whispers about her reputation. She felt a ripple of pleasure in her breast. Or perhaps it was the champagne drying. Regardless, a good sign.
“Is he the marrying type?”
Timothy snorted. “Lord, no. From what the Lordlings told me, he’s made a name for himself in Edinburgh for having a different woman in his bed every night. Not so much in London, but…” He gave a bold wink. “A perfect prospect for a meaningless shag.”
She tipped her glass in the gentleman’s direction as her heart pounded in her ears. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”
Timothy grinned. “Grand idea. But—“ He held out his hand to stop them. “Remember that Lady Valebrook—” He cringed. “Bridgetis insisting on first names only.”
A groan slipped from her lips. The countess, the daughter of an Irish industrialist, hated being called “my lady,” yet never abandoned the practice of calling her ownhusband by his title.
I only call him Philip when we’re in bed,Violet recalled the woman announcing when she’d had too many glasses of mulled wine two Christmases ago.
Violet’s mother had practically swooned from the scandal of it.
“The highest-ranking woman here is the only one who requires a total lack of propriety.” She pursed her lips. “I never know what to say for fear of offending someone.”
“Considering our hostess isn’t wearing shoes at the moment, I think you needn’t worry too much.”
Sure enough, the countess’s bare toes were sticking out past the hem of her Worth gown, if Violet identified the frock’s designer correctly. Her long hair was twisted into a casual plait and topped with a glittering tiara. She held a smoking cigar between her fingers as she tossed back her head and laughed at something Mr. Taggart—Jamessaid.
Affection warmed Violet’s breast as they made their way across the ballroom to their hostess. After Violet’s broken engagement, the countess had traveled to Oxfordshire to sit with her, had let Violet cry on her shoulder while the older woman lambasted the male half of the species, noting the exception of her husband. “Bridget, it is wonderful to see you again.”
“There you are.” The countess clasped Violet’s hands and pulled her into an embrace, and Violet ducked to avoid taking a cigar to her chignon. “I missed you when you arrived this afternoon, some nonsense with the place settings, and I’d wondered if you had disappeared.”
“I apologize for my delay. There was a minor misfortune with my dress.”And a mountain of a man with the social skills of a wild boar.
“I’m happy you’re here now. Allow me to introduce you to our guest, Mr. James Taggart of Edinburgh, an acquaintance of the earl. James, this is Miss Violet Waverly, daughter of our dear friend, the Viscount Redbourne of Oxfordshire. My husband holds the honor of being her godfather.”
A glimmer of satisfaction took hold in Violet’s chest as she turned to the man, even as she felt dizzy with nerves. He was indeed as handsome as she judged him to be at a distance, but from here she could see the laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, the lips spread into a wide smile showing twin rows of neat white teeth.Gracious, she thought. There must be something off-putting about this man if he remained a bachelor. So long as she could tolerate whatever it was—strange eating habits, perhaps, or an erotic needlepoint hobby—he would do quite well for her intended purposes.
“My pleasure, Violet.” James bowed over her hand and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckle.
A small flutter took up in her belly, and Violet fought the urge to giggle.
“Ah, and here is his cousin and business partner, Mr. Callum Hawthorne. Let me introduce you to Miss Violet Waverly of Oxfordshire.”
The smile slid from her lips as her attention shifted to the man who’d just approached to stand behind James’s shoulder.No, it can’t be.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smug smirk. “A pleasure to see ye again, Miss Violet Waverly.”
He leaned into each syllable of her name as though memorizing it, and her cheeks heated. Callum Hawthorne somehow seemed larger, more thunderous than he had when she’d collided into him. Her forehead just reached the knot of his tie, his shoulders wide enough that surely he had to turn sideways to pass through doorways. While his cousin had been blessed with handsome features, Callum was striking, and she was unsure if she wanted to look away or study him until he could make sense of him. His hair was black as night, with dashes of white at the temples, and slicked into submission. Dark brows slashed over gray eyes that caught the lamplight and glowed like quicksilver. His Romanesque nose must have been broken and reassembled at some point to explain the slight crook to the right, and the beginnings of his beard darkened his chin, contrasting with the lush fullness of his mouth. There was a roughness about him, something raw and untamed that had been shoved in dinner dress and now pulsed, barely contained.
She hated every bit of it. “A pleasure to meet you,” she ground out.
“Will your sisters be joining us this year?” Bridget asked. “I heard Lily has been so busy with her livery.”
Violet experienced a bolt of pride for her oldest sister’s success as she tore her attention from Callum. “She lives at Tattersall’s thesedays, searching for the next great addition to her stables.” Because her husband, the Earl of Aylesbury, spent his time whoring about Europe and ignoring his wife.
“And Marigold? I hope she can get away.”
Violet fought a wince. “I’m afraid not. She’s… tied up with other obligations.” Running her wastrel husband’s estate, only a few miles north of Claremont Abbey, for one. The man’s affairs were such a poorly kept secret that her older sister rarely left the property.
“Ye and yer sisters…” Callum interjected, “ye have flower names?”
She gave him what she hoped was a withering glare. “Yes, we do. And have you never learned it’s impolite to eavesdrop?”
“Is there one named Petunia?” Humor laced the grit of his voice as he leaned close. “How about Ivy? Dahlia? Or perhaps—”
