The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) (17 page)

Richard’s face flushed. Months ago, Blackwood had been on the receiving end of Richard’s tirade about Violet—those fateful, damnable words that had been overheard and turned into ugly gossip. Richard winced at the memory of his own stupidity, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could take those words back.

“I was wrong,” he admitted. “In truth, my opinion has quite reversed.”

“Oh ho. Is that the way the wind blows?” Blackwood raised his brows.

“If I can persuade the lady in question to accept my suit.”

Deep down, Richard wasn’t confident that he could. He’d spent the afternoon looking for Wickham at the house and local village, to no avail. When there was naught else he could do—except go mad with frustration and worry—he’d gone for a ride to clear his head.

As he and Aiolos had galloped through the estate’s rolling fields, he’d let himself mull over his interactions with Violet. He was forced to conclude that he hadn’t acquitted himself well. Mostly he’d just harangued her and accused her of things. Self-recrimination had filled him. The truth was she deserved far more than the apology he’d given her.

Recalling her tears and insistence that she was no watering pot, he felt a foreign and poignant ache in his chest. She was a spirited little thing and, he was beginning to understand, not one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. Beneath her carefree manner lay sensitivity and depth of feeling. She was nothing like the shallow flirt he’d first imagined her to be.

As he broodingly watched Parnell, Goggs, and other gentlemen swarm around Violet, he recognized just how wrong he’d been. She
wasn’t
flirting with them. Now that he wasn’t blinded by his prejudice, he saw none of the usual female affectations. No eyelash batting, fan twirling, or coy laughter. Instead, Violet treated the rakehells the way she treated Wick… with warm and easy camaraderie. For God’s sake, she’d just
punched
Goggs in the arm.

Those lads were her friends. Exactly as she’d claimed.

Even as the notion relieved him, possessiveness surged. Richard
realized that he didn’t want her consorting with other males, even if they were just her friends. He wanted her… for himself. To belong only to him. To achieve that, he would have to convince her to marry him. But he wasn’t certain how to achieve his goal. His previous attempts at courtship had proved abysmal failures, and God knew his dealings with Violet had been less than stellar.

“Well you’re not going to woo her from over here.” Blackwood looked like he was fighting a smile—the bastard. “Go over and talk to her.”

Richard was seized by uncharacteristic panic. “What should I, er, say?”

The only topics that came to mind were murder, mayhem, and his missing brother—not exactly things to engender tender feelings in a lady.

Grinning openly, Blackwood said, “Talk about the weather. The lovely music. How pretty her frock is.”

“How pretty
whose
frock is?” Lady Blackwood asked, joining them.

Blackwood drew his marchioness close, kissing her temple. “Miss Kent’s.”

“Ah.” Lady Blackwood’s eyes sparkled at her husband. “So I was right?”

“As always, my love.”

Richard muttered, “So talk about her gown—that’s your advice?”

“Actually, knowing Violet, I daresay she’d prefer a dance to small talk.” Lady Blackwood smiled. “And if you do converse, I’d recommend sporting topics over frippery.”

“Sporting?”
That
sounded promising. Like something he could do with some level of competence. Yet he couldn’t recall any lady in his past who’d shared his interest in the subject. Intrigued, he said, “What kind of sports does Miss Kent enjoy?”

“Come, Carlisle, it’s not as if she’s a stranger,” the marchioness chided. “Just be yourself and go talk to her.”

Clearly, she didn’t know how disastrous being himself could be. But what other choice did he have? Very well, he would go over and do his best.

As he made his way through the throng, he told himself Lady Blackwood was right. Violet wasn’t some stranger. He’d kissed her, known the inexpressible delight of bringing her to climax in his arms. But that was just it: in bedroom matters, he related to women just fine. It was in all other situations where they were enigmas to him. He didn’t know what they wanted, what would please them.

Out of nowhere, an image sprang from a deeply buried place in his mind. His mama’s bedchamber, viewed through his thirteen-year-old eyes. He was on a rare visit home from Eton, and walking through the estate, he’d stumbled upon a field of daffodils. Thinking they were as lovely as his mama, he’d picked a bunch, hoping that they might please her. As he clutched the droopy blooms in his dirt-stained hands, he felt nervous excitement.

Sitting at her vanity, his mama took his tribute gingerly, her face as cool and beautiful as the diamonds glittering at her ears and throat.
How… singular,
she’d said in her cultured tones.
Is that mud on your hands? You’d best go clean it off.
She’d turned back to the mirror.

Later that day, he saw the daffodils again. Ragged and wilted, they lay discarded on a tray that his mama’s maid was removing from her room.

He shoved aside the memory. Why would he think of such stupid things now? Violet didn’t have anything to do with his mother. Hell, she was unlike any other female he’d met.

Given how different she was, he thought with sudden insight, perhaps he should… set aside his preconceived notions? Lord knew his assumptions about women hadn’t helped him thus far. Instead, he could try to discover what
Violet
wanted—and use that to win her over.

Strategy in place, he made his way to her side with a determined stride, swatting other would-be beaux out of his way like the annoying gnats they were. When he reached Violet and her sister, he bowed.

“Your Grace. Miss Kent,” he said.

“Good evening, Lord Carlisle.” The duchess’ greeting was warmer than he expected. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“Yes, thank you.” Clearing his throat, he said to Violet, “That’s a pretty frock.”

Her chestnut curls, pinned in glossy bunches over her ears, tipped to one side. “You like it, my lord?”

“Indeed. It’s very… yellow.” God, he sounded like an idiot.

“I believe the proper term for it is saffron, my lord.”

Her tawny eyes were sparkling, and he thought she might be teasing him.

“Are you perchance making fun of me, Miss Kent?” he said slowly.

“Perhaps a little?”

“Then in return I believe I shall claim a dance,” he heard himself say. “With your permission, Your Grace?”

The duchess smiled. “Enjoy yourselves. I do believe the next one’s going to be a waltz.”

To his everlasting luck, it was.

He tucked Violet’s hand into the crook of his arm. Her gloved fingers were slender, dainty, and fit perfectly there. He escorted her toward the dance floor, proud as if he’d accomplished a monumental feat. Maybe he was better at this courtship business than he gave himself credit for.

“Why are you smiling in that odd manner?” Violet eyed him speculatively.

“No reason. I’m just, er, honored that you agreed to this dance.”

“Oh.” Her lush sable lashes veiled her gaze. “It was, um, nice of you to ask.”

Was she blushing? It gave him the courage to admit, “I’ve always wanted to.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What a bouncer. A few days ago, you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”

“That’s not true.” He led her onto the crowded dance floor. Carving out a space just for the two of them, he said, “Even when you infuriated me, I still liked looking at you, lass.”

Her cheeks turned pinker. By Jove, if she liked his straight talking, he might have a decent shot at this after all. His confidence grew.

“So, um, I still haven’t seen Wick,” she said. “Have you?”

Richard had spent the last eighteen hours worrying and searching frantically for his brother. Suddenly, he wanted a few minutes for himself. The respite of a single dance. Was that too much to ask?

He uttered words he’d never said before. “Wick can wait.”

He positioned a hand above her waist, felt hers alight on his shoulder. Their free hands met and held in the air. Despite what they’d done in the dark, holding hands in the light filled him with sizzling awareness.

From the way she shivered, he knew she felt it too.

“Let’s enjoy this, shall we?” he murmured.

The opening strains sounded. Gathering her close, he swung her into the waltz.

~~~

Dancing with Carlisle was nothing short of a revelation.

Before this, Wick had been Vi’s favorite partner because of his daring, the sheer outrageousness of his spins. She’d liked his wild approach because you never knew if you were going to crash, and the danger made it fun.

Now she was discovering a far greater thrill.

Carlisle spun her again, the strength and assuredness of his movement rustling a breathless laugh from her throat. He possessed the grace of a true athlete, and he partnered her as if they’d done this hundreds of times before. They whirled in unison, their speed building with the music, her heart pounding even faster as she gazed into his ore-flecked eyes.

“Enjoying yourself, lass?” he said.

“You’re a splendid dancer.”

“That surprises you?”

“A bit? Not because I think you have two left feet,” she hastened to say, “but I’ve never seen you dance before. I thought the activity might be too frivolous for you.”

“Even we stuffed shirts like a good dance. And by now I should think you know that I enjoy physical activity of all kinds. When it involves you, that is.”

His husky words turned her insides into sun-warmed honey, her nipples puckering beneath her bodice. Gadzooks, she’d found a gruff and scowling Carlisle attractive; now that he was flirting with her, he was
irresistible
.

The world faded away, and there was only Carlisle and her, the rightness of the moment. She’d never been more at home in her own skin than now, moving as one with him. Wrapped up in the lush music, the smoky intensity of his eyes, she had a sudden recognition.

The joy she was feeling came not from recklessness but… trust.

The wild dances with Wick couldn’t hold a candle to the perfection of his brother’s partnering. Carlisle was so steady and in command: he would never let her crash or fall. Knowing that his strength was a match for hers made it easy to let go. When she relaxed fully into the beauty of the moment, it was as if an invisible source of resistance dissolved. She was frictionless, flying across the floor with him in the most exhilarating dance of her life.

She never wanted it to end.

Alas, the music slowed, and Carlisle took her into one last, dizzyingly perfect spin. When her senses recovered, she saw that he’d led her out onto one of the balconies.

“How did we end up here?” she said breathlessly.

“I wanted a moment alone. If that is all right with you?”

She nodded because she, too, wanted whatever privacy they could find before her sister came looking. She rested her arms on the balustrade, and he followed suit. They stood side by side in companionable silence. Diamonds glittered in the black velvet sky, lamps flickering in the shadowy buildings that circled the courtyard below. The beauty of the moonlit scene struck her… along with a stab of poignancy.

Monique would never see such a view again.

He slanted her a glance. “Are you recovered?”

“Yes, I slept all afternoon.” She cleared her throat. “What did you do?”

“I talked to Wick’s cronies. Since none of them had seen him since the performance yesterday, I went to look for him in the village.”

“Any luck?”

He shook his head, weary lines etched around his mouth. “I never thought he’d stay away this long. I don’t know where he could have gone.”

Worry trickled through her. Like Carlisle, she hadn’t expected Wick would be gone for this long. She hesitated before voicing the possibility that had to be addressed.

“Do you think he might somehow be involved? In Monique’s death?” she whispered.

Silence stretched between them, incongruously filled by the buoyant notes of the orchestra.

Carlisle’s big hands gripped the stone railing. “Wick would never hurt someone… knowingly.”

She swallowed because she’d been thinking the exact same thing. “But what if he and Monique were together and... an accident happened? And then he ran because he was afraid?”

Moonlight couldn’t hide the pain that flashed in Carlisle’s gaze.

“I’d trade my soul,” he said in low, hoarse tones, “for that not to be true.”

He looked so grim, so in need of comfort, that she reached out a hand to his lean cheek. The bristly beginnings of a night beard quivered beneath her palm.

“You’re a good man, Carlisle,” she said. “A good brother.”

“I failed Wick. Father’s parting words were to look after the estate and the family, and I’ve done a shoddy job of both.”

So he
had
lost the family fortune… just as Wick had claimed. From the interaction with Turbett, she knew that he’d arranged for Wick to marry Miss Turbett, too. Wick had been telling the truth about Carlisle forcing him to wed.

Seeing the self-blame in Carlisle’s eyes, however, she didn’t have the heart to take him to task. Clearly, he regretted his behavior toward Wick. Moreover, she was beginning to see just how heavy his mantle of duty and responsibility was. He’d been left in charge of everything and everyone. Like a lonely giant, he shouldered the weight of his entire family.

“No one’s perfect,” she said softly.

“If anything happens to Wick, it will break our mama’s heart. He’s always been her favorite. By not protecting him, I’ve failed her too.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” she protested. “Who made you king of everything?”

“Er… pardon?”

“King of everything,” she repeated. “You know, someone who thinks he rules everything in his sphere. Who takes responsibility for everything… even when it’s not his to take.”

He blinked at her. At least she’d succeeded in halting his spiral of self-recrimination. Wanting to draw him out further, she said impulsively, “I used to have other names for you, too.”