“Lady Violet,” he said, halting abruptly, “I’m going to take you inside now, before I do something I regret.”

“Oh?” Violet said, unable to suppress a note of disappointment in her voice. Instead of releasing her, he pulled her closer to him, the warmth of her body drawn to that of his like a moth to a flame.

“Well, actually,” he said, gazing down at her, “I’m not certain I’d regret it at all. But since I do try to distinguish myself from the Jeremy Overingtons of the world, I don’t make it a habit to kiss young ladies on balconies.” He reached his hand up, relinquishing his hold on her waist to brush it against her cheek, then take one of her dark curls between his thumb and forefinger. Violet felt rooted to the ground—had the ballroom caught fire at that moment, she doubted even that would have spurred her to movement.

But, as she discovered a moment later, the sound of her mother’s voice proved more effective than any blazing inferno.

“Violet Grey!” came Lady Worthington’s shrill cry, horror and disapproval warring for precedence in her tone. Lord James dropped his hand immediately, and Violet took two hasty steps back, but it was too late.

They had been seen.

Lady Worthington swept toward them, the feathered headdress she wore atop her head quivering with indignation. She was still a very handsome woman, not yet forty, though Violet thought she often dressed as though she were far older. In this moment, her beauty was put to its full intimidating effect—fair cheeks blazing with color, blue eyes sparkling with anger. She looked from Violet to Lord James and back again, a single glance communicating more than words possibly could have. Violet braced herself for a blistering attack, but found her mother’s first words aimed at the gentleman of the party, not herself.

“Lord James Audley, I believe.” It was not truly a question; Lady Worthington had Debrett’s memorized, as Violet knew only too well.

“You presume correctly, my lady,” Lord James said with a courteous bow.

“Well, my lord,” Lady Worthington said, and Violet winced at the sharp edge to her voice, “I assume you won’t mind telling me what, precisely, you were doing on this balcony with my daughter?”

Lord James held Lady Worthington’s gaze briefly, then broke it, casting his eyes to Violet’s. He looked at her for a long moment, and she knew—somehow, she just knew—what the next words out of his mouth would be, much as she longed to prevent them.

“As it happens, your ladyship,” he said, still every inch the proper gentleman, “I was just getting around to proposing.”

One

July 1817

Violet Audley had mastered many skills in her five years of marriage but, to her everlasting dismay, pouring tea was not one of them.

“Really, Violet,” said Diana, Lady Templeton, reaching for the teapot. “Allow me.” Given Diana’s disinclination to exert herself when it was not strictly necessary, this was an indication of dire straits indeed.

“Thank you,” Violet said gratefully, relinquishing the teapot and reclining slightly against the green-and-gold settee upon which she was seated. “I’m sure the maids will appreciate one less tea stain to mop up later.”

“You must keep them busy in that regard,” said Emily with a smile, accepting the teacup that Diana handed her, filled to the brim with unsweetened, undiluted tea. Violet had always found it rather amusing that Lady Emily Turner, the most beautiful debutante of their year, the most prim and proper and sweet of all English roses, preferred her tea plain and bitter.

“That’s quite enough commentary on my tea-pouring skills, thank you,” Violet said, watching as Diana dropped a lump of sugar and a splash of milk into the cup before handing it to her. Diana began to prepare a cup for herself.

“That’s one thing you must miss about Audley,” Diana said casually. “Didn’t he pour tea for you, when you two were . . . friendlier?” The final word was laced with the delicate sarcasm at which Diana so excelled, and Violet stiffened—as she so often did at the mention of her husband’s name.

“He did, on occasion,” she replied, taking a large sip of tea and instantly regretting it, given that the contents of her teacup were scalding. However, perhaps fortunately, Diana seemed to mistake Violet’s watering eyes and flushed cheeks for a response to the mention of James and the painful memories associated with him, rather than a reaction to the sensations associated with nearly burning the roof of her mouth off, and she desisted.

“Speaking of romantic entanglements,” Diana said, taking a placid sip of her own tea and redirecting her sharp gaze from Violet—still sputtering—to Emily. “Have you seen your attentive Mr. Cartham lately?”

It was Emily’s turn to flush now, and she was unfortunate enough to have set her teacup down already, giving her no chance of escape. Within moments, however, she assumed her usual mask of calm and poise. Violet had always thought that it was this mask that made Emily so attractive to the gentlemen of the ton. To be sure, she was lovely—golden curls, deep blue eyes, lily-white skin, curved in all the correct places—but it could be argued that Diana, with her hazel eyes and honey-blond locks and impressive bosom, was equally enticing, and she had certainly received less interest than Emily had during their first Season . . . at least from gentlemen with matrimony on their minds. Diana had received any number of offers of a more indecent nature.