Chapter One
Hampshire, Christmas Eve 1819
Tunck, Tunck! At the sound of the front door knocker of the parsonage Violet Hambleton stopped mixing her paints and sighed. An interruption, now? If she was a man, she would swear.
She was desperate to complete her watercolor of Ilex aquiflorium—glossy, green holly—a Christmas gift for her father. Finally, he was out of the house visiting parishioners. Their maid, Mary-Anne, was on a half-holiday and Cook was shopping in the village.
Violet had hoped to work in peace.
Instead, she sighed and balanced her paint brush across the palette of watercolors and left her seat in front of the only window in the whole house with good southern light at this time of year. As she hurried from the sitting room and down the hall to the front door, Violet tugged off her painting apron. She lifted the latch and heaved the old timber door open.
A gush of cold air whooshed inside, nipping at her cheeks.
On the doorstep before her, hat in hand, stood Viscount Stanworth.
Sebastian.
Her father’s former student.
His collaborator on scientific articles about the diversity of local plant species.
The man who haunted her dreams, heated her body, and scrambled her logical mind.
Violet’s heart fluttered. She clamped her mouth closed and pushed her glasses up her nose.
Sebastian swept a look over her and smiled.
He had matured even more since coming down from Oxford and taking a Grand tour of Europe—more dashing and handsome than ever. His top boots shone brightly despite the plenitude of mud at this time of year. Buff breeches clung to his muscular thighs. A waistcoat of embroidered gold on blue accentuated the triangle of his chest while a simply tied neckcloth closed his shirt around his neck. Broad shoulders filled his blue coat very nicely. Waves of brown hair framed his temples, while a firm chin, a straight nose, and dark brown eyes lit by amusement from within, completed the gentleman before her.
Violet swallowed and adapted her expression into one of polite interest. “Sebastian...Lord Stanworth, I’m sorry, but father is out visiting some sick parishioners at present.”
“Ah, that’s disappointing. I’ve looked forward to chatting with him about my travels since returning. May I come in and spend a few minutes talking with you?” The timbre of his deep voice sent a tremor of awareness through her.
If only that were possible. “Unfortunately, I’m alone in the house.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Then I must remain disappointed. Shall I see you both at the Yule ball tonight?”
“Indeed,” she replied in an even tone that gave away neither excitement nor dismay at the prospect. In truth, she dreaded another ball. She was a proverbial wallflower, as her two disastrous London Seasons more than a decade ago had established. Too plain, too educated, and without a large dowry. True, she was more popular at local events, where she gained dancing partners through the kindness of her neighbors.
A smile broke out on his oh-so-young face. “I hope you still have space on your card for my name?” A raised eyebrow accompanied the question.
She stalled a roll of her eyes. Of course I do. “If you have a preference, I will try to accommodate it,” she said airily, in keeping with Sebastian’s pretense about her popularity. Heat prickled along Violet’s neck. Kindness was one of Sebastian’s virtues—in this case one that arose from the many years he had been a visitor to their home. How she wished she were closer to his age so she could hope it meant something more than friendship based on a mutual interest in science.
Sebastian inclined his head. “Then please reserve the supper waltz for me, Miss Hambleton.”
“You’re in luck, it’s free.” As though there could be any doubt? “Thank you for the consideration, my lord,” she added formally, as appropriate when a gentleman bestowed such an act of kindness upon on older spinster. Tonight, she would spend all evening waiting for the supper dance.
Sebastian sighed. “Miss Hambleton, we have known each other far too long for you to be ‘my lording’ me. You used to call me Seb and allowed me to call you Violet.” He sent her another smile that lit his eyes.
Her cheeks flamed in synchrony with her neck. “That was many years ago when you were my father’s pupil. Such familiarity seems inappropriate now you are no longer a youth.” Her words sounded stilted to her ears—a far cry from their easy rapport in the past.
He looked down at her, his eyes serious but the corners of his mouth turned up. “Sebastian will do now. Surely?”
Violet dipped her chin. Alright, but there was no way in the world that she was going to grant him the right to call her Violet again. He was a young man of just twenty-three years and she turned thirty on Valentine’s Day in a matter of weeks.
And that difference in their ages counted—to her; to his parents, whom she knew expected their only son to marry soon and provide heirs; to society at large; and to him also, as she had no doubt. Even if her greatest desire came true—that Sebastian came to love her— there could never be anything between them. His family would never condone their marriage. They wanted a young bride of good family and social rank who would enhance their family’s standing.
Sebastian flashed a smile at her, revealing even white teeth. In one fluid movement, he bowed with a flourish of his hat before sweeping it onto his head. His gaze shifted from her to something at his feet.
