Page 82 of Again, Scoundrel

“I believe that happiness is possible.”

Catherine’s tone was measured, and Violet wasn’t terribly sure she believed her.

“And,” Catherine added, “I’m glad you’re with me this evening. I don’t think I could do it alone.”

“The mothers will be in attendance. You couldn’t be alone if you wanted to be.”

“They’re hardly company,” Catherine said. “Mother is beyond herself at the idea of a Viscount’s heir. You’d think she might have learned her lesson from her own marriage. And Aunt Nora is no help at all. She practically shoves me at Pembrooke every time he walks past.”

“I apologize for that. I do believe you’re my mother’s last hope for a grand marriage. Now, let us go. No matter what you say, you really cannot be late to your own betrothal ball.”

“Violet,” Catherine said. “Pembrooke invited him this evening.” She didn’t have to specify who. “I didn’t want you to be surprised.”

Violet slipped her arm into Catherine’s, steeling herself against the memory of Alistair’s touch that vaulted down her spine at the mention of his name.

“Thank you for telling me. I think I can survive seeing the man for one night.”

“You can,” Catherine said. “I know you can.”

Catherine and Violet met their beaming mothers at the top of the stairway that descended to the betrothal ball. Violet could hear the music playing below her, and she glanced down at the figures gliding by on the dance floor.

All was as it had been before, during her mini season. Except for her. She knew herself so much more than that girl of eighteen ever could have dreamed.

“It’s time,” Violet’s aunt exclaimed, taking her place next to Catherine. “My daughter is the belle of the ball this evening.”

Violet moved next to her mother. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “that you’ll never get to say as much.”

Her mother only patted her hand in answer. “Time will tell. Now let us hurry.”

All eyes were on the four women as the majordomo announced them. Pembrooke stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. His blonde head turned to Catherine as soon as she entered the room, and Violet thought that perhaps they would make a decent match after all. It wasn’t a love match, but that might be for the best.

Alistair had called her love over and over again—and that sweet affection made it hurt all the more that she couldn’t have him. She felt the phantom pain of his touch again, remembering when he’d tipped her face up or pressed his thumb into the small of her back. She probably had to resign herself to the possibility that she might feel it forever.

The cousins descended the stairs, and Pembrooke met Catherine immediately, whisking her away toward the dance floor. Violet smiled as she watched her cousin depart. This would be her last ball. She’d stay on in England until Catherine’s wedding, and then she’d travel back to New York, where her future awaited her.

She made her way slowly to the lemonade stand and poured herself a cup, then perched on a settee nestled among the potted palms, where the other spinsters and wallflowers resided.

She noted Mrs. Jenson staring at her from across the room and ignored her. Who cared what the Mrs. Jensons of the world thought of her? It had no bearing on Violet, nor on her hopes and dreams.

A few gentlemen managed to find her, as they always did, but she politely declined their invitations to dance. It pleased her to sit and watch her aunt and mother across the ballroom, gaily conversing while her cousin danced with her handsome beau.

This, she thought, is all I can ask for.

And it was almost enough.

Alistair stood on the balcony of Pembrooke’s country house and watched Violet perched among the plants that bordered the wall.

He’d entered quietly through the side door, as was his habit, so the majordomo would not announce him. He didn’t want to cause a scene or make Violet uncomfortable. He just wanted to watch her, once more, while he could. Tomorrow, he set sail with McGann in the first venture of his new life.

The coincidence wasn’t lost on him. How he and Violet had been at a ball once before, on the eve of his departure. And how then, like now, what could have been slipped through his fingers.

He’d told himself when he’d accepted the invitation it was to congratulate Pembrooke, but he’d known that wasn’t the whole truth all along. He’d accepted for one final glimpse of her, and there she was, tapping her slippered toe surreptitiously to the music.

He watched several potential partners approach her and walk away after she declined. He smiled to himself. Violet Goodwin didn’t dance at balls. That was one of the mysteries about her that he’d never unraveled.

Violet eventually made her way outside to the balcony and stared out over the railing at the stars. It was unusually cloudless, and the night sky was bright and beautiful above her head.

“It’s almost like being on the prow of a ship, is it not?” said a voice from the shadows.