Page 56 of These Violet Delights
Luckily, she didn’t turn away too swiftly, for she caught his smile—private, sweet, just for her. “Believe me, Miss Arden, that is already evident.”
They wandered first to the largest ballroom, where the dancing showed no signs of slowing. The musicians were sweaty and disheveled but attacked their instruments with admirable endurance. Alasdair remained close to the wall and did not seem enticed by the clapping and whooping or the rustling of skirts and the soft tapping of feet. The wassail bowl had been refilled, and he joined Violet in scooping up a tiny cup of the strong mulled punch. He leaned down to say something to her, but the noise was too great, and Violet touched her ear and led him back out into the gallery. It would be mortifying for him to see her empty auction card, and so she smoothly slid around the corner and hurried to a darkened nook toward the eastern end of the house. Along the walls, there were many accomplished paintings to admire, but Alasdair seemed to have eyes only for her.
“I said this is quite a departure from the party at Sampson,” he said, leaning down again.
“It must have been dreadful to have driven you off,” she replied, laughing and drinking her punch. She went to thewindow to her right and pointed off into the distance. “On a clear day, one can see Clafton from here. I’ve watched it rise on the horizon bit by bit.”
“And what do you make of it?” he asked, shifting defensively toward her, keeping a drunk from careening into her and spilling his drink.
“It’s just how I remember it. Sometimes it feels like I’m looking back through time at a memory of my childhood, when we were still friends of a summer and rolling down hills.”
Alasdair craned his neck back, frowning. “Are we not friends now, Miss Arden?”
Her lips swished to the side. “I have not forgotten that you insulted my paintings in London.”
“Shall I mindlessly puff you up, even when it is not deserved? From our short acquaintance, Miss Arden, that is not the woman I know you to be. The woman I know is resilient, bold, and would easily shake off criticism from a man if she did not want to hear it. The woman I know is far beyond the constant pity that vanity requires.”
Violet snorted and covered her mouth. The punch was going to her head. “That is painfully astute, Mr. Kerr. Bravo.”
He was not finished, however, and seemed mildly offended at being reminded of his comments again. Sniffing, he added, “I know as certainty that you have potential. Why else would I…” His brows drew down as he cut himself off.
“Why else would you send me expensive paints, an easel, and a custom case?” she finished for him. The most darling, strangled noise came out of him, and the tips of his ears burned bright red. “Miss Bilbury put it together, lightning quick, too. My, but you are full of surprises, Mr. Kerr.”
“Hm. Nobody else says that about me.”
Violet shrugged and continued through the gallery, towardthe tableau prepared by the actors from the Florizel. “Then they don’t know you well at all.”
She dared to look at him, and he was already watching her. The heat in his gaze made her want to burst.Our thoughts are one.Violet had never been so aware of her body, of how his eyes lingering here or there was as meaningful and effective as a touch. She found herself breathing deeper, trying to lure his attention to her neckline and the way her breasts mounded subtly over the fabric. Judging by his strained expression, he noticed.
Every half hour or so, the players performed their scenes in various hidden, delicious nooks around the estate. A crescent of guests arced before this tableau, chatting amiably while they waited for the next performance to begin. Violet had seen this one three times already, but it never lost its charm.
“Did you paint those archways?” he asked, bringing his lips close to her ear once more. Carefully, she tilted her head just so, enough to aim his warm breath down the shoulder seam of her gown. She closed her eyes and made a quiet sound of enjoyment.
“I did, yes.”
“They’re rather good. The shadows of the vines are uncommonly well observed.”
Her eyes opened swiftly, and she pivoted to gaze up at him through her lashes. “Was that praise for my painting, Mr. Kerr?”
“I am more than capable of showering you with compliments,” he replied, standing so close that the warm swell of his thigh touched her hip through the thin fabric of her gown. “An ability I intend to prove to you tonight, if you will allow it, and most nights after.”
Her breath snagged in her throat. Then it was real. He hadcome charging through the drowning snow for her and only her. She would have to prostrate herself at Ann’s feet for convincing Aunt Mildred to let him in. The night’s festivities had been wonderful, but now it felt like pure magic was falling from the sky, enclosing them in drifts.
“Only most?” she asked, unable to resist pushing back.
Alasdair drained his punch and cleared his throat, straightening up to give the players his attention. “When your portraits are in great demand across the continent, shall I follow from city to city?”
“Follow me? Absolutely not.” She grinned at his wounded expression. “We make them come to us.”
Beneath Violet’s painted arches, Ginny Thorpe stepped into a puddle of chandelier light, twisting to and fro listlessly. Another member of the company strummed a lute from somewhere in the darkness. Winny had painstakingly sewed pearls along the neck of Ginny’s frothy pink dress. A few steps away, the forty-year-old Romeo fell to his knees and tucked his hands against his heart.
“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!” he cried. His lines were smoothly rehearsed, and he drew a few claps from the onlookers for his feeling and diction. Juliet sighed, and Romeo continued his speeches, and with each moment that passed, Violet felt Mr. Kerr draw toward her. Was anyone noticing? Did she care? His eyes never left the players, but Violet knew where he really was—there with her, the two of them part of the party yet utterly alone.
At last, Ginny, the superior actor, flung her arms out toward the audience and began her lines. “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or,if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
They stood side by side and watched, and as Juliet cast off the yoke of her family name, Alasdair’s pinkie finger touched hers, a graze, and then steady pressure. Alignment. Her body recalled the feeling of riding with Alasdair to the hollow, her lap over his, the fine strength of his body surrounding her, the power of it making her feel safe and alive. His finger slipped along the underside of hers, pad to pad, and he held his hand there, perhaps waiting for Violet to yank hers away. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Her breathing deepened until she was sure everyone could hear her and see the hammer pounding in her chest. Just that little touch thrilled her like nothing else could. Yet she yearned for more. How could she not? There was so much of him to discover.
She almost glanced up at him but stilled herself. How much better to keep her gaze ahead, to preserve that delicate contact—just one more secret kept between them, and this the sweetest of all.
