I say no! She swallowed. The gall of the man to expect her to meekly follow his edict. “Th...thank you for your kind offer, Mr Reynolds. I fear we would not suit.”
“Not suit? Of course, we would. I’m an unmarried man with good prospects. You’re a spinster, who needs a husband.”
His words chilled her. Was he really all she could hope for? “Thank you, but no,” she said through clenched teeth.
He thrust his face close to hers. “You’ll get no better offer. Not at your age.” He spat the words at her. “You’re well and truly on the shelf, and you can’t afford to be choosy. I may be the last chance you have to secure a husband. I cannot see why you would turn down an honest and advantageous offer from a gentleman rising in the world. I’m willing to overlook your age and the risk that our union may not produce a son to carry on the family firm.”
Violet recoiled at his words. She faltered to a halt and clutched her midriff where a knot of anger tightened. That everything he said was true, didn’t make his words any easier to bear. “Excuse me, I do not feel well.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. She fled the dance floor, her head high, as she had learned to do all those years ago when she had reigned as the most pitiable wallflower of the London Season. She hurried to the sanctuary of the ladies’ withdrawing room.
Mercifully, it was empty, sparing her any further embarrassment and looks of pity. Violet sank onto a gilded chair in the corner behind the door. She swallowed the wave of nausea that rose in her throat and groped in her reticule for a handkerchief.
Her heartbeat slowed to normal, but her mind still echoed Reynold’s words. You’ll get no better offer. Not at your age. Of one thing she was certain—she would not marry except for love.
Slipping off her glasses, Violet blotted the unbidden tears from her eyes. She must rejoin her father in the ballroom soon, but how would she make it through the evening if there were more insults to come?
She replaced her glasses and gathered her courage to return to the fray.
Not two minutes after stepping to her father’s side, his curate, Barnaby Swithin, appeared before them. “Reverend. Miss Hambleton.”
They greeted him.
The young curate was only a few years out of university. His slight build had the unfortunate effect of making his head appear too large for his body. His sandy-blond hair resembled straw and his large, pale blue eyes, with far too much white around them, made him look permanently shocked. The son of a friend of her father’s from his Oxford days, he was proving to be an adequate assistant to her father, but Violet suspected he lacked genuine compassion for the souls under his care.
“May I request a dance, Miss Hambleton?”
“Of course.” Violet presented her card again. “Please sign your name for whichever dance you please.”
“I shall take the next.” He signed her card.
She inclined her head. Her father turned away to talk with someone.
“And I have something I wish to ask you, Miss Hambleton.”
Her stomach listed and she delivered a weak smile. “Of course, Mr Swithin.”
“Please call me Barnaby. I feel we have a close enough tie, as I am your father’s assistant and his likely successor.”
The contents of her stomach curdled at the thought of such familiarity with him. “I hope my father has many more years of service to his parishioners to come.”
“As do I. As do I.” His smile could only be called perfunctory. The curate turned to her father and began a discussion about a parish matter, which continued until the orchestra resumed playing.
Mr Swithin was not a good dancer. Half-way through the first sequence of the dance her toes demanded first aid. Dancing next to her, Sebastian partnered another attractive young lady. With each stomp on Violet’s toes by her partner, Sebastian sent her a sympathetic look.
Violet clenched her jaw and continued with her plan. “Tell me, are you a lover of poetry, Mr Swithin?”
“Not particularly, Miss Hambleton. Occasionally I dip into some Wordsworth, but I’ll not read anything by that sinful man, Byron.”
Of course not. “I see. Have you ever tried your hand at writing verse?”
“I can’t say that I have. I’m far too busy with parish duties.”
“Not even a ditty?”
“Ha ha, Miss Hambleton, you jest.”
“For your sweetheart perhaps?”
