Chapter 3
Fetch my vinaigrette. Immediately.” With a hand clasped to her chest, the viscountess Collingwood collapsed against the settee, shooting her daughter Violet a pitiable glance from beneath her puckered brow.
Thus providing Miss Violet Collingwood with another reminder of the spectacular mess she’d made.
“I’ll get it, Mama,” Violet’s sister, Arabella, cried, stepping out from behind her to offer their mother a reassuring nod. Yet the placid gesture promptly turned to a scowl when she spun to face Violet before rushing from the room.
Violet blew out a long breath, her forehead becoming strained.
She’d attempted to explain herself to Arabella.
She’d even uttered several apologies, although it was difficult to make them heartfelt when the blame seemed so unfairly cast. After all, she’d hardly tried getting caught tangled on the floor of a shepherd’s hut with a gentleman.
Not with an unknown gentleman, in any case.
“How could this have happened?” Her mother’s wail cut into the momentary quiet in the drawing room, creating a plaintive yet accusatory echo.
“And just when I thought our fortunes had changed for the better. Lord Frederick had all but proposed to Arabella. I was certain Mr. Metcalfe would do the same for you. And now—oh, my nerves cannot bear it!”
Violet gritted her teeth, silently willing her sister to hurry with the vinaigrette before the viscountess spiraled into full-blown hysteria. Again.
Upon arriving home far earlier than expected, Violet had done everything in her power to break the news of the afternoon’s mishap with delicacy. Had she been given the choice, she wouldn’t have breathed a word of it to their mother until tempers had a chance to cool.
Unfortunately, keeping silent hadn’t been an option.
Not after she’d stepped into Meadowleigh House with a ripped hem, thoroughly defiled slippers, and a tear-stained Arabella in tow.
And all because George—that blasted George, who’d suggested the meeting in the shepherd’s hut in the first place—had been so quick to spread gossip and render her a pariah.
The memories of what happened wouldn’t stop burning a hole in her chest. The way she’d been only minutes behind George in arriving back at Skylark Ridge after the mishap, yet it was enough time that the other picnic-goers whispered behind their hands and avoided looking her in the eye.
How the chaperone, Lady Kingsland, had declared the picnic to be over, frostily informing Violet that the dinner and dancing at Watley Hall were also canceled for the evening so she and her sister had best return home.
The way, worst of all, these people she’d so recently called friends now shunned Arabella by association.
Particularly their neighbor and host, Lord Frederick—the object of Arabella’s affection—who’d ignored his intended’s cries as though they were naught but a whisper of wind in the trees.
Each slight proved more rage-inducing than the last! But Violet couldn’t let anger take over or they’d never solve anything. She refused to believe there wasn’t a way this could all be put right.
“Try not to fret.” She unclenched her teeth long enough to give her mother a poor semblance of a smile. Then, she approached the settee as if creeping toward a buried explosive, silently praying it wouldn’t detonate. “As I said, this is just a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding? A misunderstanding?” Her mother’s voice rose an octave, causing Violet to fear for the delicate jasperware vase on the end table beside her.
“You snuck away from your chaperone and an afternoon of perfectly respectable entertainment, only to be caught on the floor of a shepherd’s hut while a stranger handled your ankles! ”
“I didn’t … It wasn’t …” Violet’s voice broke off, frustration rendering her throat too tight to continue. Blast it, she’d already revealed the truth of what happened more times than she could count. Why would no one listen?
“Here it is, Mama.” Arabella burst back into the room, and for once, their mother didn’t criticize the lack of refinement in her hasty footsteps.
Instead, the viscountess extended a limp hand, waiting until her younger daughter set the opened vinaigrette in her palm and then shoving it beneath her nose.
She inhaled deeply, the creases on her face displaying every mote of her chagrin. “Oh, I shall swoon,” she moaned, the flowery yet acidic smell emanating from the silver box strong enough that Violet’s eyes began to sting. “I shall—”
“My lady?” Davis, the house’s long-serving butler, appeared in the doorway and took a tentative step into the room, looking very much like he wished he were already making his retreat.
Especially when he received only a series of exaggerated sniffs in response.
Ever the dutiful servant, though, he squared his shoulders, swallowing visibly before saying, “There’s a gentleman here to see Miss Collingwood. ”
The vinaigrette flew to the floor with a clatter as the viscountess bolted upright upon the settee, her eyes becoming huge, glittering saucers. “A gentleman, you say?”
The announcement gave Violet’s chest a jolt—shock, followed by airiness that radiated to her limbs.
“See, I told you.” Her gaze flitted between her mother and sister—for she was unsure of who needed the reassurance more—and she couldn’t help but give her foot a little stamp in triumph.
“All it took was several hours of reflection before George realized how silly this all is. He’s now come to his senses, and there’s no reason things cannot go back to the way they were—”
“Yes, yes, send him in,” her mother cried, giving her hand an impatient flick and turning her attention to smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt.
Davis hesitated for just a moment, his pinched mouth opening but then snapping closed without a word before he fled into the corridor.
“You really think all is forgiven?” Arabella rushed to Violet’s side, sinking her fingers into Violet’s arm as sharply as if they contained claws. Yet her expression had brightened. “You believe Lord Frederick and I still have a chance?”
Of course you do. He’d be a proper jackanapes not to propose. You shall have exactly what you desire. Violet intended to utter all those words and more, anything it took to widen her sister’s eager smile and to make herself feel as though she hadn’t ruined everything.
But instead, Violet said nothing, for Davis had returned, his sturdy baritone taking command of the room. “Mr. Benedict Prescott.”
Mister … Whom? Her heart lurched, a deep pit forming in her stomach. She’d misheard; there could be no other explanation.
Yet the aforementioned gentleman filed in without delay, clad in fresh attire—and boots that didn’t smell to the high heavens—but still very much the same person with whom she’d become entangled in the shepherd’s hut.
She blinked rapidly, for her eyes had started to burn. There’s no way … He’s in my house … How did he find …
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, feeling the uncomfortable weight of her family’s gaze upon her.
For a moment, the look Mr. Prescott gave her suggested he didn’t quite know the answer himself.
Indeed, something flashed in his eyes that made him seem rather lost. Even so, and despite the harrowing circumstances behind the encounter, she didn’t fail to notice his handsomeness.
He was slender but tall with a straight, aristocratic nose, sharp jawline, and eyes the color of rich chocolate.
If only he didn’t appear so continuously …
stiff. As if he had a stone in his boot or the knots in his starched white cravat were too tight.
But regardless of any uncertainty he felt, he was quick to draw his shoulders up even more rigidly and give her a curt bow. “Good day, Miss Collingwood.” He turned to her mother and Arabella and offered them the same, his face washed of everything but perfect neutrality. “Ladies.”
“Mr. Prescott.” The viscountess inclined her head cordially, showing no trace of her earlier distress. “I don’t believe we share the pleasure of an acquaintanceship. Am I correct in assuming you are a relation of Lord Rockliffe?”
He hesitated an instant before nodding, the motion causing a carefully slicked-back dark lock to dare inching toward his forehead. “His nephew.”
Her mother’s lips twitched, her entire countenance becoming instantly more alert. “His eldest nephew?”
“Yes.”
His heir. The words remained unspoken, although there was no denying they’d all made the connection.
And then, the viscountess bestowed on him the brightest, kindliest of smiles.
“How nice to have you in the area. I’m Lady Collingwood, and these are my daughters, Miss Collingwood and Miss Arabella.
Although you already addressed Miss Collingwood. Do you know one another?”
Violet shot him a warning glance. At least, as much of one as she was able with her mother and Arabella observing her every move.
She’d told them all they needed to know about the afternoon’s incident.
There was no need for them to discover the name of the gentleman with whom she’d been caught, nor to learn she’d been a trespasser who ordered the Marquess of Rockliffe’s nephew out of a building on his own property.
Surely, he would take pity on her and hold his tongue.
For he must see how much the revelation would complicate—
“We became unexpectedly acquainted this afternoon, which is the reason for my visit,” he said, promptly taking any hopes for discretion she harbored and casting them out to sea.
She bit back the oath that rose on her tongue, although she couldn’t contain her frown or stop her eyes from shooting daggers.
Nonetheless, Mr. Prescott took several steps closer to her, his spine as unyielding as ever.
“Miss Collingwood, it has been brought to my notice that our encounter garnered a great deal of unsavory attention. You and I both know nothing untoward happened, but it doesn’t change the gossip or the fact that your reputation has suffered a stain.
” He paused to clear his throat and take a breath.
“Therefore, I’ve come to do the honorable thing and make you an offer of marriage. ”
“You’ve come to what?” Violet’s knees wobbled, and the air surged from her lungs as if she’d been punched. Once again, her ears must be deceiving her, for this wasn’t right; it couldn’t be—
“She’ll accept,” the viscountess exclaimed, the eager ring of her words slicing into Violet’s haze of stunned disbelief.
Violet’s jaw slackened, and a little cry rushed out. How could her mother so readily fling her into the arms of this … this stranger? Yes, yes, Violet knew: her father’s scandal in London, followed by the scandal she’d just created, had rendered them desperate. But even so …
“This is absurd,” she snapped. “We don’t even know one another.”
Mr. Prescott’s brows drew together, making him appear especially sober. “Given the circumstances, I’m not sure we can allow that to matter.”
“Quite right, Mr. Prescott,” her mother chimed. “The sooner we have the banns read and put all this malicious gossip to rest, the better. Indeed, it may be best to procure a common license so we needn’t wait for—”
“No! I will do no such thing.” Violet spun away from her mother, unable to listen to another word. Everything was happening far too fast, hurtling toward her like an unruly stallion who’d broken free of his reins. She wouldn’t stay and submit to it, wouldn’t allow herself to be trampled.
“Violet?” Arabella’s voice, little more than a wavering whisper, trailed after her as she stomped toward the door. “Violet, where are you going?”
To the kitchen, perhaps, to dump a bucket of cold water over her head and awaken herself from this nightmare. Or ideally, to the past, so she could dissuade herself from leaving the picnic for a tryst with George in a dingy old hut.
Even in her state of shock, she recognized the impossibility of such things. However, that didn’t mean there was nothing she could do. She would not let a misunderstanding change her entire future.
“I’m going to talk some sense into that pudding head George Metcalfe,” she said, her footsteps becoming faster, more resolved. Now that she’d gained momentum, she refused to look back. “Good day, Mr. Prescott. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Violet!” Her mother’s admonition chased after her, returning to a pitch that could break glass. “Violet, come back here this instant. You’re being unthinkably rude. You still need to give Mr. Prescott your acceptance, and we must plan, and—Violet!”
But Violet wouldn’t be stopped. She stormed out of the drawing room and straight through the front door, not slowing to collect her bonnet.
She’d made a mistake, and the world had proceeded to go mad around her. It was time to set it back in order.