Chapter One
1882
Violet had notintended to trip the Duke of Strathmore.
Nor had she meant for him to land in her lap.
But as his large body pitched forward into her silken skirts, one hand finding purchase on her bosom, she could not deny it was the most interesting thing to have happened to her since…well,ever.
Far more exciting than listening to her betrothed, Charles, drone on about horticulture. Unless she could eat it, she had no desire to know the name of a plant. And even then, the name truly did not signify, unless she was required to ask her brother’s chef to prepare it for dinner.
Yes indeed, Strathmore tumbling into her lap was infinitely better than spending the afternoon reading a book, while Great Aunt Hortense snored into her needlework. Or a bleary morning, with only herself for company, because Lucien was far too busy with whatever nonsense recently interested him at the Home Office.
Bemused, she stared down at the giant she had inadvertently felled with her crocheting. His left hand had landed upon her right breast, and his right hand was buried in her skirts.
Was it her imagination, or did his fingers deliberately tighten upon her, as if he were testing the size and weight of the bosom he had unintentionally discovered?
She ought to be horrified. Shocked.
His shoulders were shaking, she realized, vibrating beneath his coat.
Oh dear.
Was he injured? Weeping?
Violet laid a hand gingerly upon his biceps, startled to feel its flexed strength beneath her touch. “Duke? Are you hurt?”
His head raised.
Her heart did something odd. It stumbled, then galloped. Her breath caught. Here was her first sighting of their infamous house guest, in proximity.
His dark hair was too long, his eyes astoundingly blue, his lips far too full for a man’s mouth, his jaw covered in a neatly trimmed beard.
When he had first entered the salon, she had been struck by how handsome he was. But he was not just handsome. His face had character. It was intriguing; from the bump on the bridge of his nose, to the lines bracketing his vivid eyes. The air of tarnished elegance he exuded somehow magnified his masculine beauty. She had never seen a duke—or any gentleman for that matter—like him.
“I am relatively unscathed,” he said at last, removing his hand from her breast.
That was when she realized, belatedly, he had not been weeping or in pain at all. Rather, he had been laughing.
And a smile on that mouth was something to behold.
She blinked. Tried to summon up thoughts of Charles. Her betrothed, too, was undeniably handsome. Well-titled. The Earl of Almsley, Viscount Nattingworth, Baron Erstwhile.
Or was it Viscount Nattingwhile and Baron Erstworth?
She could not seem to recall. Mayhap it was the overly large duke, who was still all but in her lap, addling her wits?
Perchance it was the unseasonably warm weather: late spring, but hotter than July.
Where was a fan when she needed it? Why would the duke not stop trapping her in that brilliant gaze? What would the bristle of his whiskers feel like beneath her fingertips?
No.
That is wicked, Violet. You must not think such thoughts.
What would those lips feel like pressed to hers?
She was willing to wager they would not be arid and cool like Charles’s. Instead, they would be warm and supple, coaxing, and perhaps even demanding…
