Chapter 1
“Hic,” said Violet, as the carriage hit another bump in the road. She looked mournfully at her brother. “I don’t remember the journey to the Blaynes taking this long before. Surely two hours have passed?”
“They have,” answered Donovan, “but the weather has required a more moderate pace from the horses. We’d rather arrive in one piece than on time, don’t you agree?”
Violet folded her arms and glared through the window at the threatening sky.
She dared it to send any more snow. The whole point of these weeks with the Blaynes was to have pleasant company while winter played havoc outside.
These had always been the best of times.
Since Mr. and Mrs. Blayne had been blessed with only one child, it was a joy to invite family and friends of their son’s own age several times a year to bring light and laughter to an otherwise overly quiet, rambling estate.
As was the case each winter, the holiday gathering began on Christmas Eve and lasted until Twelfth Night, dancing and feasting and games brightening days that would have been merely cold, dark, and quite possibly snowed in.
To miss even one hour of these festivities and conversation with their favorite companions was a loss indeed.
Add to that an aching back from too much sitting in the carriage, as well as toes that were frozen due to a warming brick that had long since cooled—not to mention a stomach that felt hollow and neglected—and Miss Violet Hughes was in a sorry state indeed.
All at once, as if the heavens felt she had suffered enough, the clouds shifted apart and allowed a ray of cheering sunlight to descend.
The bright beam pointed, like a rainbow to a pot of gold, at a signpost that Violet recognized.
It indicated their imminent arrival at the village of Hamptonlea.
And just beyond this pretty village, with its rose gardens in summer and strangely immutable medieval ruins, was Hamptonlea House, home to the Blayne family.
More importantly, it was home to Mr. Victor Blayne, a man as dear to her as her own brother.
The three of them had been inseparable as children, when their parents had enjoyed similar gatherings.
Now, however, the older folk preferred to remain near their own hearths and left the younger generation to brave the elements in search of entertainment.
“Are you going to make up with Cecilia?” Donovan asked suddenly.
Just like that, Violet’s mood sank once more. “I don’t know. She hasn’t even apologized to me.”
“And what, dear sister mine, was so terrible about what she did? You know how she likes to jest. It was all in good humor.”
“Hmph,” answered Violet. “It’s easy for you to say. You and Mr. Blayne are friends, and no one doubts those are the limits of your acquaintance. She had no business declaring that I had feelings for him. What if he had taken her seriously? It would have been extremely awkward.”
Donovan stuck his chin out and scratched his neck. “It’s really odd to hear you use so formal a name to refer to him when you have called him ‘Victor’ our whole lives. You don’t think you might be overreacting a bit?”
Violet gave him a pointed look. “Thanks to his cousin, who found it humorous to tease him about an affection I had not expressed, I no longer have the ease and privilege to use so casual an address. I shall have to be more wary of my manners around him until I can be certain he has not taken her words to heart.”
“And if he has?” her brother cocked his head at her. “Would you mind so very much? I have always thought the two of you to be an excellent match.”
Despite the cold, warmth crept up from Violet’s throat to her cheeks.
Victor was a lovely man. But they had been friends for so long, a romance between them had simply never occurred to her.
Now Cecilia, who should be her best friend, had awoken the possibility in everyone’s thoughts.
It was humiliating. As if Violet was some lovesick pup pining for Victor and his eyes, gray-blue like the sea.
Their color was exactly like hers. “Like looking into a mirror,” Victor had murmured once. To which his cousin Cecilia had responded, “You don’t have hair the color of dishwater,” and cackled at her own joke, her freckles glowing and her boyish frame shaking with mirth.
Violet had not minded that jab as much. Her blonde hair was regrettably dull.
And the dishwater joke had been made so often it was almost expected by now.
Such playful banter did not bother her. No, the thought that mortified Violet was that Victor might have believed there to be a kernel of truth in Cecilia’s most recent teasing comment and did not return the feeling.
“If such inclinations existed in Mr. Blayne’s heart, he would have spoken of them by now,” she told her brother.
“Perhaps.” Donovan dusted an errant crumb—a remnant from an earlier sandwich that Cook had packed for their journey—from his lapel. “Then again, some men hope for a little encouragement before they risk everything.”
“Encouragement? What would he have of me? We have known each other since we toddled across his parents’ lawn together. He knows me as well as you do. We have always liked, nay, loved each other, as much as two people can.”
Donovan shook his head. “You are surprisingly na?ve for such a bright young woman, Vi. It is exactly because you have been a dear friend for so long that he would not want to chance losing the friendship.”
Violet leaned back against the leather upholstery. “And how, pray tell, would he be putting it at risk?”
“By declaring himself without knowing beyond a doubt that you also wanted more.”
Did she want more? Violet had never considered this an option any more than she would have considered her own brother for the role of sweetheart, charming though he was.
The thought of Victor taking her in his arms was, well, strange.
But, thanks to Miss Cecilia Isaacs and her penchant for pranks, that might now be exactly what he was hoping for.
“Do you know,” she said, leaning toward the window and watching the long winding drive up to Hamptonlea House grow shorter beneath the wheels of the carriage, “I don’t think I will be forgiving Cecilia quite yet.”