He unbuttoned his jacket and, after struggling for a few seconds, shucked it off his arms. “I only hope you’ll forgive me some day. Because I told them I would do anything so that I could marry you freely.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat and then added, “I’ll understand if you wish to make a hasty departure with the other ladies now.”
Violet wasn’t moving, however, but stayed at his side, shaking her head with a wide smile. “Oh, no, Simon. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
He leaned forward to press his lips to hers.
Of course she wouldn’t.
“I’m going to support you in all things, beginning now,” she said, laughter in her voice. “Besides, if I leave, who will hold your clothes for you?”
Epilogue
“Good morning, Vi. I see that Blackheart got the announcement turned in on time.” Greystone glanced up from the paper, the morning sun slanting onto the table promising an unusually blue sky for the day.
“I requested additional copies.” Posy handed one over to Violet. “I can still hardly believe that in all that time Mr. Cockfield was working here, he was actually a duke. How positively wretched of him to fool us like that.” But Posy was grinning. “But I suppose I’ll have to forgive him since Aunt Violet’s engagement notice is on the front page!”
Violet met Posy’s gaze, feeling closer since they’d talked late last night. They’d gone to Greystone together, who hadn’t been all that surprised. It wasn’t necessarily going to be easy, but Posy was going to be just fine, with or without Miss Mallard. Because she had family that loved her.
Unconditionally. And nothing could change that.
“I’ll have to clip the article for my journal.” Violet lifted the paper, which was still warm from the iron.
Duke to Marry.
She smiled to herself, amused at having been left out of the headline.
The Duke of Blackheart, it read, who has been suspiciously absent from this season’s flurry of festivities, has exclusively announced to this columnist that he intends to wed the Marquess of Greystone’s cousin—Miss Violet Faraday of Yorkshire. No date has been set as of yet, but trust yours truly to bring you the latest word as soon as the happy couple settles on one.
The great question being, will it be before or after Lord Greystone’s nuptials?
If the columnist had any idea, he would have news indeed.
“That rascal didn’t fool me for a second,” Aunt Iris declared for the twentieth time since Greystone had made the announcement. “It was quite obvious to me your butler was not at all who he claimed to be. The first time I saw him, I said to myself, that Mr. Cockfield is nobility. And I’m sure Violet saw the same. She would never have formed an attachment with him otherwise.” She glanced at Violet. “Well done, my dear.”
“Aunt Violet fell in love. It’s as simple as that,” Posy said. “Just like Greystone and Diana.”
But another article had grabbed Aunt Iris’s attention, and she was holding the paper close to her face, twin spots of pink on her parchment-like complexion. “Did you see this? Not you, Posy. Greystone, look on page four. What is becoming of this city? Unless it’s simply a lie made up to sell papers.”
Violet flipped to the page in question—as did Posy.
Another Tribute to Wellington?
“Witnesses have reported,” Posy read. “Seeing a gentleman racing through Hyde Park, unclothed, in the vicinity of the Achilles statue on the night of May first. The tribute occurred at approximately seven in the evening, and the villain wore nothing but a black masquerade mask. The man’s identity is unknown but Bow Street Runners are seeking information so he can be tried for such a blatant crime. At this time, however, there are no known suspects.”
Violet pinched her lips together, trying not to smile.
“Oh my,” Posy said.
Greystone clucked his tongue, but Violet couldn’t even look at him. She’d either burst into laughter or combust from embarrassment.
Or perhaps both.
A stout gentleman entered, somewhere around the age of sixty, and walked around the table to refill their empty and half-empty cups. Mr. Smithery performed the duties of butler with much greater skill than Simon had, although he lacked Simon’s style.
And good looks.
The afternoon before, while strolling through the garden with her fiancé, Violet had lamented this very fact to him.
“Miss me, eh?” And at her answer, he’d comforted her in the very best way and then had promised to bring her tea in bed—their bed—after they married.
