Simon lowered the paper a few more inches so he could peruse Miss Faraday from head to toe. Violet.
A flowery name for a lady who seemed anything but—on first acquaintance.
So why was he so distracted by her?
Taller than the average woman and almost waif-thin, Greystone’s cousin wasn’t anything like the ladies he’d been attracted to in the past. And yet…
Simon stared at the long wispy hairs daring to escape her coiffure, the delicate curve of her cheek, and very nearly caught his breath. Posy had the right of it, because at that moment, anyhow, Miss Violet Faraday momentarily took his breath away.
She was, as the assistant had said, stunning.
And yet, she wasn’t, was she? Her dark hair wasn’t quite mahogany, and her skin wasn’t creamy enough to be alabaster. Freckles dotted along the backs of her shoulders revealed by the gown, and her figure lacked the voluptuousness he usually preferred.
What was it about this feisty spinster that charmed him?
Was it merely because she was the least appropriate woman in the world for him right now? At the very worst time?
To make good on the lost wager, Simon must convincingly perform the duties of Greystone’s butler without disclosing his identity.
If he failed, Greystone would win the privilege of selecting the woman Simon married—the next Duchess of Blackheart. That could very well turn out even more disastrous than this stint he had to play as a butler.
Furthermore, Simon was very much aware of the side bets his cohorts had placed. Chaswick, Spencer, and Mantis had bet Westerley and Greystone that he would succeed. If Simon botched it, the three of them would be compelled to sprint naked through Hyde Park. Greys and Westerley would be obliged to do the same if he succeeded.
Simon smirked. Greys and Westerley had a rather undignified run to look forward to because there was no way in hell that he’d fail. And watching their bare arses dashing across the very public lawns would almost make up for Simon’s current predicament.
Which brought him back to his improper thoughts regarding Miss Faraday.
Simon clenched his good hand into a fist.
As a manservant, as a duke pretending to be a manservant, dallying with a gentlewoman of the house, his employer’s cousin, a lady—would be reprehensible—especially one as unsuspecting and naïve as Miss Faraday.
Simon had been a fool to make the bet, but he’d be an even bigger fool if he failed to fulfill the agreed upon terms.
“Don’t forget your reticule, Posy.” Miss Faraday clucked around the room, much like any spinsterish aunt would be expected to do. She’d already repaired her coiffure, so tightly it tugged at the corners of her eyes.
Of course, he wasn’t really attracted to her. Too much time had passed since he’d ended the affair with his last mistress, Cara. That was all. And without the usual privacy afforded him, he’d barely kept up his relationship with his own hand.
“Please send for the carriage, will you, Mr. Cockfield?” Miss Faraday ordered, doing her best to keep him in his place.
So, why in God’s name did he find that sexy as hell?
Waltzing with the Butler
“…proficient enough at the waltz to step in. Ah, there you are,” Greystone called out to Violet just as she reentered the ballroom.
She’d asked every manservant she could find, and, unfortunately, not a single one of them knew how to waltz. With only Greystone and Chaswick to partner Posy and Chaswick’s sisters, one of the girls would have to sit out, and they’d hoped to simulate dancing at Almacks as authentically as possible.
The three girls—the elder Miss Jones, Miss Diana Jones, and Posy—made up a pretty sight, and it really was a shame that they wouldn’t be able to make up a trio of couples.
She couldn’t partner one of the girls herself as she would be playing the pianoforte.
But since she’d gone on her search, a third gentleman had joined them—Mr. Cockfield. She’d intentionally not asked the butler, and ever since their visit to Madam Chantal’s, had done her best to avoid him altogether.
And despite all Violet’s warnings, Posy had done the opposite. Not only did she disappear with him whenever Violet’s back was turned, but her niece had taken to polishing silverware, dusting vases, and assisting the butler at whatever other task he happened to be performing at the time.
“Mr. Cockfield has agreed to partner Lady Posy,” Baron Chaswick announced, looking pleased.
No butler should be allowed to waltz with the lord of the manor’s ward—for practice or otherwise—especially not a butler as unpredictable as Mr. Cockfield.
