“It’s the first day of the year,” Violet answered, which was not a completely accurate statement.
“Lady Violet,” Lady Priscilla chastised. “That is not the only reason and you know it is not.”
Violet nearly groaned.
“Why is today special?” Lord Ferrard asked.
“It is her twenty-first birthday,” Lady Priscilla announced. “Even though birthdays aren’t usually celebrated at Forester Hall, Her Grace always arranges a small gift for the children, such as macarons for Violet.”
“I wish you joy on your birthday, Lady Violet,” Lord Ferrard offered.
“Thank you, but I’ve never understood why a person should celebrate. I didn’t do anything on this day. My mother, however, labored to bring me into the world, therefore, shouldn’t she be acknowledged?”
Lord Ferrard simply stared at her, and Violet stifled a sigh. Everyone thought her odd. Yes, she was a year older, but she hadn’t done anything miraculous to account for any honor being bestowed on her one day of the year. However, neither would she reject a box a macarons, and she’d enjoy every single morsal.
Emory pausedon the walk across the street and glanced up at the sign—Piquet’s Tea Room.
“Monsieur and Madame Piquet fled France during the Revolution, bringing with them a favorite chef and maid, and were delivered to the shores of Laswell,” Lady Violet began to explain as if she were offering a lecture. “Newly married and they’d lost everything, including their families. Once here, they decided to remain instead of traveling on to London. Monsieur Piquet is a baron, but he no longer had a home, as his estate was destroyed and the land reclaimed by others.”
“I’m surprised to hear you engage in gossip, Lady Violet.” In truth, he was rather shocked, as by all observance in London, she hadn’t participated in such.
“I suppose it did sound as if I were gossiping, but I assure you, Lord Ferrard, that was not my intention.” Violet glanced each direction before crossing the cobbled road. “There is a sign just inside their door that explains their journey and how they came to be in Laswell, and it proclaims they provide the most delicious pastries outside of France.”
In other words, she was simply relaying information that he’d shortly be able to read for himself.
“This is delightful,” Lady Priscilla announced as she entered the tea shop.
Emory had been in tearooms before, both in London and in Bath, and this was similar to those, though not as loud or as crowded with a dozen tables, only half of which were occupied with patrons. However, as this was teatime, each had a pot of tea, cups, and a tray of delicacies to enjoy. The atmosphere was warm and bright. Perhaps it was the pale pink walls with dark green trim that gave the room a cheery feel, along with the heavy aroma of freshly baked breads.
“Lady Violet,” an older woman greeted. “I have your macarons, right here.” The woman handed over a white box tied with a yellow bow.
“Thank you, Madame Piquet.”
“Will you be staying for tea today?”
She glanced up to Emory, as if to ask if he’d like to stay.
“We most certainly will,” Lady Priscilla announced. “I’d much prefer to remain indoors as opposed to the outings my sisters have enjoyed.”
Madame Piquet smiled. “Let me show you to a table.”
“I’ll have my own, if available,” Lady Priscilla insisted, then leaned into the proprietor. “They are courting.” She nodded knowingly. “We should give them privacy.”
As if they could discuss anything in private in a tearoom, let alone do anything that should be done privately. Emory glanced down at Lady Violet’s full lips. He would gain a kiss from her. In that he was determined.
“I’ll place them at the corner table where they are least likely to be disturbed,” Madame Piquet quickly agreed to the further matchmaking efforts.
“And I’ll take this one.” Lady Priscilla stopped at a small, wooden table near the entry while Madame Piquet led Emory and Violet to the far corner, away from everyone else, as promised.
Emory held the chair for Lady Violet, then took the only other chair at the small table. It was barely large enough for two people and unless he turned completely away from Lady Violet, their knees would touch. Therefore, he became more comfortable facing her, and if their knees or feet brushed, so be it. They were courting and physical awareness did eventually lead to kissing.
Why was he so obsessed with kissing her?
Was it simply because one opportunity had been stolen from him and the second time he’d been rejected?
No woman had ever declined his advances before. Then again, none of the women he’d wished to kiss, or anything else, had been ladies, unless they were also a widow.
“I’ll bring tea and a selection of sandwiches, scones, cakes and biscuits,” Madame Piquet offered as she quit their presence, and Emory’s stomach rumbled. He’d not eaten since this morning, and though he’d not admit such to Lady Violet, his stomach had threatened to reject any meal that he would have wanted to partake so he had settled for tea and dry toast.
