Whatever one could say about Billings, the banker did indeed know how to “handle” situations. As he’d predicted, the guests seemed remarkably blasé about the fact that Madame Monique had passed away the night before. The rough-and-tumble portion of the crowd was enjoying the fine victuals as if nothing had happened. The bluebloods, on the other hand, were speculating with titillated abandon over the cause of the “accident.” No one appeared distressed by the fact that a woman had been found dead in the library.
“No reason to let a little thing like death get in the way of a good time.” Blackwood’s dry observation echoed Richard’s own. “Now if my sons were here, they’d be in tears. They adore Astley’s and Madame Monique in particular, God rest her. Speaking of which, how are you holding up, old boy? It can’t have been pleasant… finding her.”
Although Kent’s plan was to keep details from the general public, the Blackwoods, being trusted friends, were an exception to the rule.
“I’m fine.” Richard straightened as he saw Violet enter the room. By Jove, she was a vibrant bloom. The now familiar yearning gripped him. They’d been seated apart at supper, and he’d found himself missing her company. “It’s Miss Kent I’m worried about.”
“Changed your opinion of her at last, have you?”
Richard’s face flushed. Months ago, Blackwood had been on the receiving end of Richard’s tirade about Violet—those fateful, damnable words that had been overheard and turned into ugly gossip. Richard winced at the memory of his own stupidity, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could take those words back.
“I was wrong,” he admitted. “In truth, my opinion has quite reversed.”
“Oh ho. Is that the way the wind blows?” Blackwood raised his brows.
“If I can persuade the lady in question to accept my suit.”
Deep down, Richard wasn’t confident that he could. He’d spent the afternoon looking for Wickham at the house and local village, to no avail. When there was naught else he could do—except go mad with frustration and worry—he’d gone for a ride to clear his head.
As he and Aiolos had galloped through the estate’s rolling fields, he’d let himself mull over his interactions with Violet. He was forced to conclude that he hadn’t acquitted himself well. Mostly he’d just harangued her and accused her of things. Self-recrimination had filled him. The truth was she deserved far more than the apology he’d given her.
Recalling her tears and insistence that she was no watering pot, he felt a foreign and poignant ache in his chest. She was a spirited little thing and, he was beginning to understand, not one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. Beneath her carefree manner lay sensitivity and depth of feeling. She was nothing like the shallow flirt he’d first imagined her to be.
As he broodingly watched Parnell, Goggs, and other gentlemen swarm around Violet, he recognized just how wrong he’d been. Shewasn’tflirting with them. Now that he wasn’t blinded by his prejudice, he saw none of the usual female affectations. No eyelash batting, fan twirling, or coy laughter. Instead, Violet treated the rakehells the way she treated Wick… with warm and easy camaraderie. For God’s sake, she’d justpunchedGoggs in the arm.
Those lads were her friends. Exactly as she’d claimed.
Even as the notion relieved him, possessiveness surged. Richardrealized that he didn’t want her consorting with other males, even if they were just her friends. He wanted her… for himself. To belong only to him. To achieve that, he would have to convince her to marry him. But he wasn’t certain how to achieve his goal. His previous attempts at courtship had proved abysmal failures, and God knew his dealings with Violet had been less than stellar.
“Well you’re not going to woo her from over here.” Blackwood looked like he was fighting a smile—the bastard. “Go over and talk to her.”
Richard was seized by uncharacteristic panic. “What should I, er, say?”
The only topics that came to mind were murder, mayhem, and his missing brother—not exactly things to engender tender feelings in a lady.
Grinning openly, Blackwood said, “Talk about the weather. The lovely music. How pretty her frock is.”
“How prettywhosefrock is?” Lady Blackwood asked, joining them.
Blackwood drew his marchioness close, kissing her temple. “Miss Kent’s.”
“Ah.” Lady Blackwood’s eyes sparkled at her husband. “So I was right?”
“As always, my love.”
Richard muttered, “So talk about her gown—that’s your advice?”
“Actually, knowing Violet, I daresay she’d prefer a dance to small talk.” Lady Blackwood smiled. “And if you do converse, I’d recommend sporting topics over frippery.”
“Sporting?”Thatsounded promising. Like something he could do with some level of competence. Yet he couldn’t recall any lady in his past who’d shared his interest in the subject. Intrigued, he said, “What kind of sports does Miss Kent enjoy?”
“Come, Carlisle, it’s not as if she’s a stranger,” the marchioness chided. “Just be yourself and go talk to her.”
Clearly, she didn’t know how disastrous being himself could be. But what other choice did he have? Very well, he would go over and do his best.
As he made his way through the throng, he told himself Lady Blackwood was right. Violet wasn’t some stranger. He’d kissed her, known the inexpressible delight of bringing her to climax in his arms. But that was just it: in bedroom matters, he related to women just fine. It was in all other situations where they were enigmas to him. He didn’t know what they wanted, what would please them.
Out of nowhere, an image sprang from a deeply buried place in his mind. His mama’s bedchamber, viewed through his thirteen-year-old eyes. He was on a rare visit home from Eton, and walking through the estate, he’d stumbled upon a field of daffodils. Thinking they were as lovely as his mama, he’d picked a bunch, hoping that they might please her. As he clutched the droopy blooms in his dirt-stained hands, he felt nervous excitement.
