Chapter Eighteen
Ewan knew he should probably be out in the ballroom but he couldn’t dance with Violet—not without making himself look like an utter fool—and clearly he couldn’t take her for another walk in the garden.
On top of that, he would rather put out his own eye than watch her dancing and laughing with other men.
So he stayed in the study, engaged in a conversation with William and Granger, and thoroughly enjoyed himself instead.
Granger was a sensible man with solid ideas, and a sharp wit to boot. More than once his keen observations and clever repartee had Ewan and William howling with laughter. That he had little patience for the pomposity of their fellows didn’t hurt.
When one man pranced into view—a dandy named Dittenham—Robert, or Robin as Granger bade Ewan call him, likened him to a fluttering bird.
With all due respect, it was probably bad form to snicker.
Ewan didn’t care.
By the time they emerged from the sanctity of the study, it was late—or early, as it so happened—and the evening was drawing to a close. Sophia, he discovered, had already gone to bed and many of the guests had left.
Violet, he noticed with a sharp lurch to his heart, was still there.
It was only polite to pay his respects to his host before he took his leave. And as Violet happened to be standing next to the duke and his duchess, naturally he headed in their direction. Perhaps there would be a chance to speak with her again after all.
But no. As he approached, Ned changed directions and homed in on them, not faltering in his step until he stood by Violet’s side. He dropped his arm around her shoulders and shot Ewan a nasty smile. “Lovely evening, wasn’t it?” he said.
“Charming.” Ewan nodded. He turned to Edward and Kaitlin. “Thank you for everything.”
The duchess laughed. “It was all Aunt Hortense. I assure you.”
“Ah. Thank her for me then.”
“I shall.”
His gaze flicked to Violet. As though it had a choice. “Miss Wyeth.”
She put her hand in his and he pressed a kiss on her glove, holding her as long as he thought he should. Still, when he released her, Ned was glaring.
“May I call on you tomorrow?”
She blushed prettily. “I should like that.”
He nodded and stared at her. She stared back.
Ned cleared his throat.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
Though he hated leaving her, he walked away with a smile on his face because the evening had gone well. He’d had a nice time chatting with Granger. And he’d held her in his arms again and kissed her. Most importantly, she’d let him.
Not bad for his first society appearance. Not bad at all.
Violet barely slept all night. She couldn’t. The excitement was far too sharp. She kept replaying her interlude with Ewan over and over in her head. The look in his eyes. His touch. The taste of his lips.
It had been glorious.
And even more glorious? The knowledge that he still wanted her. More than that, he was wooing her. The thought made her deliriously happy.
When Mary scratched on her door, bearing a tray of cakes and chocolate, Violet was not ready to rise. But when she tried to wave her maid away, the girl protested.
“You must get up, miss,” she said. “Callers have already begun to arrive.”
Violet shot up in the bed. A skirl of exhilaration clenched her gut.
But wait. Not exhilaration. Nausea.
She kicked off her covers and bolted for the chamber pot. After she finished retching, she turned to find Mary staring at her.
“Are you all right, miss?”
She sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “I’m just tired, I think. Last night was exhausting.”
“Hmm.” Mary nodded and glanced away. “I’ll leave this here then and be back in a bit to help you dress.” She took the chamber pot with her.
As Violet nibbled on the cakes—which didn’t help the churning in her belly—she thought about what today might bring and her anticipation rose again.
Ewan would come. He’d said he would come.
Maybe they could slip away together. To the library.
Or the billiards room. Or the garden. Somewhere they could continue their. ..conversation.
Mary returned with a nice pot of tea, which Violet sipped as the maid dressed her hair. It soothed her considerably. But the nausea kicked up again as she descended the stairs and then her stomach roiled when she entered the morning room.
It was filled with flowers. Roses and hothouse orchids and blooms she’d never seen before. She gaped. “What’s all this?”
Kaitlin, who had been chatting with a young man Violet had danced with the night before, leapt to her feet. As did he. “There you are, darling!”
Sophia and the three other men perched on the dainty furniture around her stood as well. Hortense did not. But she did grunt. She was in the process of wolfing down a biscuit. Ned stood sentry by the mantel, leaning against it lazily, every inch of him a Corinthian.
“Look!” Sophia trilled. “We have visitors. They brought flowers.”
Ah, yes. The reason for her queasiness. The fragrance of the blooms was overwhelming. Stifling.
Kaitlin took her arm and pulled her into the fray, whispering, “Many of them are for you.”
“Lovely.”
“You remember Lord Steven.”
She did not. But she offered a smile and a nod.
“And Berkley...” Kaitlin went ’round the circle, pattering the names of these men as though they mattered. Violet couldn’t care less what their names were. She had no intention of talking to them.
But talk she did. Endlessly and for hours it seemed, about utterly banal nonsense. All the while her attention kept drifting to the door in hopes that a tall, handsome Scotsman might come striding through.
There was a moment when a man with the certain turn of a cheek stepped into the room, when her heart leapt.
It wasn’t Ewan but he looked very much like him.
He was introduced to her as Robert, Lord Walsham.
She enjoyed talking to him very much. Much more than the torturous conversation she shared with Dittenham, who appeared shortly after, strutting like a coxcomb.
Polite hours for morning calls were nearly over when the door opened and Ewan entered. His friend William Winslett was with him. Ewan scanned the company, frowning at the other men. Though she knew it was bad form, she rose and crossed to him, holding out her hands. He kissed them, each in turn.
“You came,” she whispered.
He glanced down at the small box he held and winced. “I should have brought flowers.” When he shot a glare at his friend, Winslett only shrugged.
“I hate flowers.” It was highly impolite to hiss like this. She didn’t care. His brow arched. “Oh, I love flowers...in a garden. In a room like this, they are rather overpowering.”
“Lord Winslett. Mr. St. Andrews. Welcome,” Kaitlin cooed from behind her.
Ewan nodded at the duchess but then his attention snapped to Violet. He thrust the box at her. “I brought you strawberries.”
Violet’s eyes widened. She paled. Her belly lurched. “Why ever did you do that?”
“Malcolm told me you liked them. At dinner last night.”
Kaitlin snorted a laugh. “She cannot eat strawberries. They give her spots.”
A flush crawled up his face.
The duchess grinned. “A suggestion, sir?”
“Please.”
“Don’t take any more advice from her brothers.” Kaitlin smirked. “I, on the other hand, love strawberries.” She took the box. “Thank you so much, Mr. St. Andrews. Very thoughtful.” Her voice rose as she headed back to the others, dragging Violet with her.
Violet sat at the far end of the divan, away from Dittenham. To her delight, Ewan sat next to her. His thigh grazed hers as he settled himself.
“Would you care for tea, Mr. St. Andrews?” This, Hortense warbled with an amused glint. She clearly enjoyed the subterfuge.
“Thank you, nae.” But when Violet passed him a plate of cakes, he took one, and the opportunity to stare soulfully at her. From that angle, no one else could see his expression. No one but Ned.
Her brother strolled over to the divan and gusted a sigh. “It is so heartening to see so many men paying their respects to my sister.” Then, to her horror, Ned insinuated himself between her and Ewan on the divan, tossing an arm over both their shoulders.
“She is quite lovely,” Dittenham purred.
“Quite.” Like lemmings, they all echoed the word.
Violet forbore from rolling her eyes, but only just. “Sophia is lovely too.” There was a measure of satisfaction in dressing them down. And then amusement as they all scuttled to compliment Sophia as well.
“Did you know your brother was in a French prison during the war?” Berkley—or was it Bingham?—asked. This sent the conversation into a whole new direction but Violet was fairly oblivious. She was stunned at this revelation.
Ewan had been in a French prison?
She leaned around Ned to send Ewan a searching glance. He tendered a sheepish smile in response.
For the next while, the men talked amongst themselves and plied the women with effusive compliments and ate all the really nice cakes. Violet made it a point to gore Ned regularly with her elbow but he didn’t take the hint and move, so Violet—again—didn’t have a chance to speak with Ewan.
When Aunt Hortense peered at the ormolu clock and sighed, the visitors, all well-trained in the politesse of the morning call, came to their feet.
Ned sprang up and led the way to the door.
Violet stood as well, though she might have stood too quickly.
Or the flowers really were a touch too much.
Or she should have had more to eat. Because all the blood rushed from her head and wooziness assailed her.
She put out a hand. A tiny sound passed her lips.
Ewan’s head whipped around. Their gazes tangled and concern flitted across his face. “Violet? Are you all right?”
She opened her mouth to respond but no words came out.
The giddiness rose. Her vision went cloudy. And she felt herself falling.
He caught her.
Of course he did.
He was her Ewan. He would always catch her.
That was the last thought she had before everything went black.
“You must call a doctor.” Ewan stormed from one side of the room to the other.
“I already did.” Edward frowned. “And will you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.”
“We don’t need a doctor.”
Ewan spun around to gape at Kaitlin. “Are you mad? She fainted. Women don’t just faint like that.”
Edward nodded. “It’s true. I mean, they might like men to think they’re fragile but you rarely ever see a woman truly swoon.”
Kaitlin crossed her arms and pinned her husband with a hard glare. “I swooned, if you recall. And her maid told me she was ill this morning.”
Ewan’s heart hitched. “She was ill?”
But neither Edward nor Kaitlin paid him any mind. Edward stared at his wife; he paled. As one, their heads swiveled, skewering Ewan with sharp perusal.
It made the little hairs at his nape stand up on end. “What?”
Edward stood. Bristled. Swelled. “How’s the wooing going?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How. Is. The. Wooing. Going.” Surely there was no need to spit.
“Terribly.” Ewan raked his fingers through his hair. “Her brothers are worse than a battalion of trolls. Can’t even get close.”
“I suggest you try harder.”
“I’m trying, but—”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Kaitlin snapped. “You’re Ewan McCloud. Kidnap her again if you have to.”
“That wasn’t me!” How many fucking times did he have to say it?
“Do whatever you have to do. Just get it done. Propose to her.” Something in the duke’s eyes gave him pause. He turned toward the fire as the thoughts filtered through his head. Violet had been ill. She fainted. There was some reason he should hasten to claim her—
Oh, God.
He suddenly felt a little faint himself.
It couldn’t be.
But when he thought back on all the times they’d made love—he knew it could. “You don’t think...”
“I do.”
Ewan’s knees failed him. He plopped down on the couch and buried his face in his hands. Twin shards of excitement and dread skirled through him. If it was true, if Violet was carrying his bairn, she’d have to marry him.
Kaitlin fixed him with a speaking look. “We’re all attending the Grantham musicale tonight. I suggest you put in an appearance as well.”
“And finish this,” Edward added on a snarl.
Oh, he would. He would finish this once and for all.
No matter what it took.