Amanda McCabe (22 page)

Things were all going extraordinarily well, for an evening he had so dreaded. But then his father, so uncharacteristically quiet and subdued throughout supper, finished his fourth glass of wine and tapped the edge of the crystal for a fifth.

“Demmed ridiculous way for a man to pass his time, spouting poetry,” he announced querulously. Aunt Minnie tried to put her hand on his arm, to rein him in, but he shook her off. “A shame he is the only heir I have, but his mother was a bloodless woman. She had no bottom, gave out after two mewling babes. And now my daughter is the same! Inviting curates and schoolmistresses into the house. What is Society coming to? I ask you!”

He left off on a groan. Aunt Minnie had apparently just given him a quick kick to his gouty leg beneath the table. The earl subsided to quiet mutters into his wineglass.

Michael felt a rush of fury, a white-hot tide that was too familiar whenever he was in the presence of his father. The earl had never been renowned for his sparkling good behavior, but this was the outside of enough. Violet had so looked forward to this evening, and now she appeared pale and stricken.

Rosalind drew away from Michael, and would not meet his gaze. Across the table, the Duchess of Wayland watched her friend with a concerned frown.

Michael wanted more than anything to leap across the table and strangle his father, yet he knew he could not. He would not make the evening any more difficult for the women he cared about.

“My father is also writing a book,” he said loudly. “On the great downfall of civilization. His theory is that art and civility are killing us. This evening, with such congenial company and fine cuisine, is hastening its demise. I say we finally send it on its way
after
cards.”

There was a wave of relieved laughter, and conversation resumed its steady hum. Violet’s rosy color returned to her cheeks, and she smiled at the young man—the curate—seated to her left.

Yet Rosalind still would not look at him.

Rosalind studied the array of cards in her hand, unable to fully comprehend the numbers and suits. Usually she quite enjoyed a pleasant game of piquet, but tonight it was a struggle. She had to rely on Georgina’s promptings to carry her through.

She peered over the top of the cards to see the dark corner where the old earl sat slumped in sleep. He was truly horrid, just as Violet and Michael had hinted. It was a very good thing that he almost never went into Society. He could have very much benefited from a copy of her
Rules.

Yet the old curmudgeon had been right about one thing. A schoolmistress had no place here. She should probably be grateful to the man for stopping her now, before she made an even greater fool of herself than she already had. She ought to go back to her school, before London began to gossip about the ridiculous schoolmistress widow who chased after the young poet viscount. She should cease playing dress-up in Georgina’s gowns and go back to her real life.

She had not yet achieved all her objectives in Town. There were still Allen’s debts. Yet she thought that now Michael—Lord Morley—would not go on trying to undermine her
Rules.
Not now that they knew each other, not now that they were—well, friends of a sort. Perhaps she could rebuild that book’s popularity, finish her second edition, and go forward.

Somehow, though, that thought did not fill her with the elation it once would have.

“Mrs. Chase?” her piquet partner said, bringing her back to the reality of the moment. “It is your trick.”

Rosalind gave him an apologetic smile, and collected her cards. As her partner laid down new cards, she examined the players gathered at other tables. Michael played with Lady Emily, and gave Rosalind a grin when he met her gaze. She turned away before the temptation to grin in return overtook her.

Lady Violet did not play cards, but she sat beside one of the open windows with her aunt and two other people. Of Allen’s troublemaking friends, Gilmore and Carteret, there was no sign. She had actually not seen them since supper.

She sincerely hoped that meant they had gone home, and would thus do nothing to spoil the rest of this evening. Poor Lady Violet had enough to contend with in her own father.

“I am not sure this is such a good idea,” Gilmore said, glancing nervously over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. He and Carteret had slipped back into the dining room when everyone was occupied
at the card tables. The supper remains had been cleared away, and tea and cakes were laid out for after the games were ended. The centerpiece was a large crystal punch bowl, filled with a weak claret cup.

“Nonsense, Gilmore! Don’t be so very chicken-hearted. No one is watching, they are all too occupied with dull old cards. I vow, this is the most boring event I have attended all Season. I never would have come if my father had not insisted. This will just liven things up a bit, and no harm done.” Carteret reached inside his coat and pulled out a silver flask. As he uncorked it, the pungent fumes of strongest Scotch whiskey floated out into the room.

“But I think you should…” Gilmore began to protest again. It did no good, for Carteret proceeded to pour the entire contents into the punch bowl.

The amber-colored liquid disappeared into the insipid pink punch. Carteret picked up a crystal ladle and stirred it in.

“They will thank us for giving them a bit of amusement,” Carteret said, with a smirk. “And someone has to fight stuffy propriety, since it seems Lord Morley will not. Only a few weeks ago he was insisting no one had to follow the rules, and now he is the very pattern card of propriety! He is even dancing attendance on Lucas’s sister. This will surely help him to recover.”

Carteret laughed, and Gilmore did not like the sound of that chuckle at all. It was not a sound of mirth and mischief, but hollow and humorless. Yet there was nothing he could do now. The murmur of voices and laughter was approaching the dining room, and Carteret and Gilmore stepped back away from the table. Lady Violet and her aunt came into the room and went to examine the refreshments.

Gilmore could say nothing now without exposing his own role in the prank.

Violet did not feel well at all.

The room was spinning around her head in a most
odd way, and she was uncomfortably warm even when she discarded her shawl. Her temples throbbed, and everything was blurry at the edges. She turned and blinked at her brother, who stood several feet away conversing with Mrs. Chase and the Duchess of Wayland. His image wavered, and she turned away.

Perhaps some more of that punch would help. It was cool at least. She made her way unsteadily to the bowl and ladled the pink liquid into her glass. It sloshed over the sides as her hand trembled, but some of it made its way into the receptacle. She sipped at it, then gulped greedily. Really, it tasted much better than claret cup ever had before!

Violet giggled, and bumped into a chair. Where had that come from? She stumbled over the gilt frame, giggling even louder. She could not seem to
stop
laughing, even though there was really nothing funny.

“This is all very odd. I must be quite ill indeed,” she whispered, and hiccuped.

A hand touched her arm gently, and she spun around. The room tilted crazily, and she would have fallen if the touch had not tightened. She blinked up at—Lord Carteret.

How odd
, she thought dimly. She had met Lord Carteret once or twice before—he belonged to the same club as her brother. Yet she had never before noticed that he was really quite good-looking.

She gave him a smile, and giggled again.

“Lady Violet, are you well?” he asked. She thought he also smiled, but really she must have been mistaken, for when she blinked and looked again there was only concern on his face.

“I—I am not really sure,” she answered. She pressed her hand to her head, hoping that would stop the incessant spinning.

“Come, let me take you outside for some fresh air. It will help you feel better in no time.” He took her arm in his secure clasp and led her toward the doors leading out to the garden.

“I—well—” Violet murmured uncertainly. Surely it
was against the rules to go outside alone with a gentleman? Yet no one seemed to notice at all. They were all laughing, and talking very loudly. Too loudly. It made her headache worse.

Surely if no one was noticing, it was quite all right. And she did long for a breath of fresh air. She was just so
warm.

“Thank you, Lord Carteret,” she said, leaning on his arm. “I would like some air.”

“Not at all, Lady Violet,” he answered solicitously. “I am only concerned for your comfort.”

“Michael, my dear, have you seen Violet?”

Michael turned from his conversation with Rosalind and the duchess to see his aunt hurrying toward him, a concerned expression on her face.

A cold frisson danced along his spine, which was thoroughly ridiculous, of course. What could happen to Violet in her own home? There were dozens of people about. He glanced quickly around the room, at the guests who sipped at tea and punch, milled aimlessly, chatted. His father sat over in a corner, as sour as ever despite the obsequious people who gathered about him. Violet was not among any of the groups.

“I have not seen her, Aunt Minnie,” he said, taking her arm. “But I am sure she cannot be far. Perhaps a servant came to her with some sort of refreshment emergency?”

Aunt Minnie nodded, the feathers on her turban bobbing, but she still appeared far from certain. “Perhaps. She usually tells me before she leaves. She is not the
boldest
of girls, you know. It is not like her to just run away like that.”

Michael
did
know what his sister was like—terrified of appearing rude or breaking a rule. That chill instinct increased. “I will go and find her, Aunt Minnie.”

“And I will help you,” Rosalind said. She turned away to put her empty cup down on a table, and brushed her hands together briskly. “Surely with two
of us searching, she will be found in a trice. She could not have gone far.”

Michael
wanted
to have her with him. His Rosalind had an air of such efficiency that he was sure she would find any errant girl right off. And if Violet was, heaven forbid, in some sort of trouble, it would be good to have a woman with her.

But if they somehow found themselves alone in a dark corridor, or a shadowed garden…

He thought of their kiss on that terrace. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her light breath on his lips, and he almost groaned aloud.

You are looking for your sister, man
, he told himself sternly.
Don’t forget that.

There would be time for plotting seductions later, after Violet was safely found. And after he discovered whether or not Rosalind had forgiven him for his boyish wager. For all he knew, she might never let him set a finger on her again.

“Thank you, Mrs. Chase,” he said. “I would be very glad of your assistance.”

“I will fetch my husband to help me search the garden,” the duchess said, already turning away. “Lady Violet probably wanted a breath of fresh air. It has suddenly become rather—raucous in here.”

Rosalind slid her hand over his sleeve lightly as they left the dining room and headed for the deserted portion of the house. At least now he knew that she
would
touch him, even if in such a formal way.

If only he knew where his sister was, as well. And why it was suddenly so very loud in the dining room.

“Where are we, Lord Carteret?” Violet murmured. Her dizziness had only increased since they left the dining room, and a bright light flashed in her head even though the room was dim. She rubbed her hand over her eyes, and saw that they were in the seldomused conservatory.

Her brother had once told her that their mother had loved the conservatory, had lavished care on the
plants and flowers. Now it was neglected, overgrown with tangles of brown and green vines, littered with empty clay pots. Moonlight beamed down from the glass panels overhead, turning the whole place into a shifting, crawling,
living
thing.

Violet felt queasy, and so very warm. She stripped off her long kid gloves and dropped them onto the floor before stumbling across the room to collapse in a wrought iron chaise. The cushions were long gone, but she did not care. She just wanted to sit down. It was so very
warm…

Lord Carteret sat down next to her and took her hand, startling her. She had quite forgotten he was there, and was utterly bewildered when he pressed his lips to her bare fingers.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, and tried to pull away from him.

His clasp tightened, and his other arm came around her shoulders. “Shh, Lady Violet,” he said thickly.

“You’ve been dying for my kisses since the moment we met. All the ladies do.” He pushed her back so that the iron lattice pattern of the chaise bit through her thin muslin dress into her skin.

“Let me go!” she cried, and tried to shove him away. But he was too strong, and she was too dizzyingly bewildered. This all seemed too unreal, like a terrible dream she could not wake herself from.

“You are so beautiful,” he muttered hoarsely. “Why have I never seen it before? Kiss me, Lady Violet!”

“No!” Violet turned her face away frantically, and his wet lips landed on her neck. His hand slid down her arm, pushing her short sleeve off her shoulder. “This is against the rules!”

Rosalind did not like this house. She knew that this was the family house of two people she cared about, Michael and Lady Violet, but she still could not like it. She was not a woman who believed in malevolent spirits, or any spirits at all for that matter, yet if she
did she would say they dwelled here. The carpets and furniture were dark and heavy, adding to the gloom and the airlessness. A chill seemed to emanate from the very walls.

She shivered.

Michael glanced down at her. “Is something amiss?” She peered up at him. His beauty was like a beacon in this gloomy place. After meeting his father and seeing this place, she marveled at his humor and kindness, at his sister’s sweetness.