Page 71 of Brigand

Though he hated leaving her, he walked away with a smile onhis face because the evening had gone well. He’d had a nice time chatting withGranger. And he’d held her in his arms again and kissed her. Most importantly,she’d let him.

* * * * *

Violet barely slept all night. She couldn’t. The excitementwas far too sharp. She kept replaying her interlude with Ewan over and over inher 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 wantedher. More than that, he was wooing her. The thought made her deliriously happy.

When Mary scratched on her door, bearing a tray of cakes andchocolate, Violet was not ready to rise. But when she tried to wave her maidaway, the girl protested.

“You must get up, miss,” she said. “Callers have alreadybegun to arrive.”

Violet shot up in the bed. A skirl of exhilaration clenchedher 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, Ithink. Last night was exhausting.”

“Hmm.” Mary nodded and glanced away. “I’ll leave this herethen and be back in a bit to help you dress.” She took the chamber pot withher.

As Violet nibbled on the cakes—which didn’t help thechurning in her belly—she thought about what today might bring and heranticipation rose again. Ewan would come. He’d said he would come. Maybe theycould 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 asthe maid dressed her hair. It soothed the churning considerably. The nauseakicked up again as she descended the stairs and then her stomach roiled whenshe entered the morning room.

It was filled with flowers. Roses and hothouse orchids andblooms she’d never seen before. She gaped. “What’s all this?”

Kaitlin, who had been chatting with a young man Violetdanced with the night before, leapt to her feet. As did he. “There you are,darling!”

Sophia and the three other men perched on the daintyfurniture around her rose as well. Hortense did not. But she did grunt. She wasin 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 broughtflowers.”

Ah, yes. The reason for her queasiness. The fragrance of theblooms 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 thenames of these men as though they mattered. Violet couldn’t care less whattheir names were. She had no intention of talking to them.

But talk she did. Endlessly and for hours it seemed, aboututterly banal nonsense. All the while her attention kept drifting to the doorin hopes that a tall, handsome Scotsman might come striding through.

There was a moment when a man with the certain turn of acheek stepped into the room, when her heart leapt. It wasn’t Ewan but he lookedvery much like him. He was introduced to her as Robert, Lord Walsham. Sheenjoyed talking to him very much. Much more than the torturous conversation sheshared with Dittenham, who appeared shortly after, strutting like a coxcomb.

Polite hours for morning calls were nearly over when thedoor opened and Ewan entered. His friend William Winslett was with him. Ewanscanned the company, frowning at the other men. Though she knew it was badform, she rose and crossed to him, holding out her hands. He kissed them.

“You came,” she whispered.

He glanced down at the small box he held and winced. “Ishould have brought flowers.” When he shot a glare at his friend, Winslett onlyshrugged.