“Please see that my maid delivers my lemon-yellow gown to Miss Dalton’s room.”
Lemonyellow? Edmund’s gaze drifted to Ami. She hated anything to do with lemons.
To her credit, she didn’t fuss. She merely shook her head. “Thank you, but there is no need.”
“I insist. A memento of our friendship, if you will. Besides, you do want to look your best tonight, don’t you?”
So that was her game. Knock Ami emotionally off-center. A ruthless business move he’d witnessed by more than one unscrupulous capitalist. He set down his half-eaten toast, appetite fleeing at Violet’s underhandedness. “I am sure whatever Miss Dalton has brought along will suit her very nicely, and I for one am eager to see it.”
Violet grabbed her teacup, lips folded into a sneer.
Like daughter, like father, for in swept the viscount, a thundercloud darkening his brow. He slapped a folded newspaper onto the white linen tablecloth in front of Violet, rattling the dishes.
“Father! Such atrocious behaviour.”
“You may not think so when you see the front page.” He stabbed the paper with his index finger.
Interesting. What had Miss Woolsey done to earn such censure? She was her father’s little princess. As she picked up theTimes, Edmund was tempted to lean aside and glance at the headline along with her. Judging by the widening of her eyes and sudden pallor on her face, though, he kept his distance. It never paid to step between two fighting dogs, and this promised to be a sharp-toothed tangle. The very walls of the room seemed to hold their breath.
Violet’s chest rose and fell in increasing succession, each huff gaining in intensity, until she whacked the paper every bit as violently against the table as her father had.
She turned a gangrenous eye not at the viscount, but at him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Her voice rang shrill, inducing winces from Ami and her father. She shoved the newspaper toward Edmund, faceup, where a photograph of Ami wrapped in his arms stared back at them all, followed by a banner that punched him in the gut.
Love at Last for Oxford’s Most Eligible Bachelor?
Ami’s fork clattered to her plate as her gaze locked onto the image of her caught up in Edmund’s embrace. Her hair was half-loose, caressing his face like a wanton hussy. Her cheek practically pressed against his. Of course the photographer had chosen to crop out her runaway hat they’d both been reaching for and omitted the way her foot had slipped from the step in the process. The angle made the innocent and rather gallant save on Edmund’s part look like a torrid love affair right there in front of the train. Heat burned a trail up her neck. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear she and Edmund were lovers of the most shameful variety.
And worse, deep down, she wished it were so. Oh, not the shameful part, but she longed to hear words of love whispered from his lips.
Her father looked at her askance—and she couldn’t blame him.
“Amisi?” It was more of an indictment than a query.
Her throat closed at the disappointment weighting his brow. All her life she’d tried to please this man only to have let him down yet again. Would that she could just slide off her chair and hide beneath the table, but that would only endorse the incriminating photo.
Inhaling for courage, she faced her father head-on. “Thatpicture is not as it seems. The truth of the moment is far from what the photograph depicts.”
“Then what is the truth?” Lord Bastion boomed, his voice rattling the breakfast room’s windowpanes. “What are my daughter and I to believe, Miss Dalton?”
She sank in her chair, all her hard-won bravery fleeing. No wonder this man was one of the most powerful in Parliament. He could intimidate the Queen herself.
Edmund leaned closer to the table. “All that happened, my lord, was an ill-timed gust of wind that caught Miss Dalton’s hat. She lunged for it, as did I. In my haste, I knocked her off-balance. I merely righted her and saved her bonnet, nothing more. You know the press. Always printing the most sensational front pages to drive up sales.”
“It is sensational!” Violet wailed. All eyes turned toward her as she expertly flourished a white handkerchief, her tears sprouting faster than she could dab them away. “Edmund, how could you?”
Violet’s dramatic sobbing seemed to flow like a well-practiced performance. It was as if she relished the opportunity to be the center of attention, basking in all the tragedy and drama of the moment.
But even so, Ami softened her tone. “Mr. Price is a gentleman, Violet. You’ve said so yourself. Do you really think he’d behave in such a lurid fashion right there in front of God and country?”
“I-I should hope not!” She sniffled like a tot.
Lord Bastion shook his head. “Good intentions or not, that photograph is scandalous and blasted poor timing.”
Ami swallowed the lump in her throat. He was right. It was an indecent display that was likely even now making the rounds on breakfast tables across the city. This would most definitely not look good for Edmund’s candidacy announcement tonight, and all because she’d not taken the time to stitch that horrid little red ribbon. Hopefully her lack of domesticity wouldn’t ruin his chances to get elected.
Though it took every ounce of pluck she could muster, she faced Lord Bastion. “I would be happy, my lord, to go to theTimesand explain the situation. Surely they can run a retraction.”
