“He’s new,” Mary said assessingly.
“Give him a few minutes,” Violet said in a dry voice. “He’ll find Lady Begonia in due course.”
But the gentleman in question didn’t seem to notice Lady Begonia, remarkable as that seemed. He loitered by the lemonade table, drinking six cups, then ambled over to the refreshments, where he gobbled down an astonishing amount of food. Violet wasn’t sure why she was following his progress through the room, except that he was new, and she was bored.
And he was young. And handsome.
But mostly because she was bored. Mary had been asked to dance by her third cousin, and so Violet had been left alone in her wallflower’s chair, with nothing to do besides count the number of canapés the new gentleman had eaten.
Where was her mother? Surely it was time to leave. The air was thick, and she was hot, and it didn’t look as if she was going to gain a third dance, and—
“Hullo!” came a voice. “I know you.”
Violet blinked, looking up. It was him! The ravenously hungry, twelve-canapé-eating gentleman.
She had no idea who he was.
“You’re Miss Violet Ledger,” he said.
Miss Ledger, actually, since she had no older sister, but she didn’t correct him. His use of her full name seemed to indicate that he had known her for some time, or perhaps had known her quite a long time ago.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, because she’d never been good at faking an acquaintance, “I . . .”
“Edmund Bridgerton,” he said with an easy grin. “I met you years ago. I was visiting George Millerton.” He glanced around the room. “I say, have you seen him? He’s supposed to be here.”
“Er, yes,” Violet replied, somewhat taken aback by Mr. Bridgerton’s gregarious amiability. People in London weren’t generally so friendly. Not that she minded friendly. It was just that she’d grown rather un-used to it.
“We were supposed to meet,” Mr. Bridgerton said absently, still looking this way and that.
Violet cleared her throat. “He’s here. I danced with him earlier.”
Mr. Bridgerton considered this for a moment, then plopped down in the chair next to her. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since I was ten.”
Violet was still trying to recollect.
He grinned at her sideways. “I got you with my flour bomb.”
She gasped. “That was you?”
He grinned again. “Now you remember.”
“I’d forgotten your name,” she said.
“I’m crushed.”
Violet twisted in her seat, smiling despite herself. “I was so angry . . .”
He started to laugh. “You should have seen your face.”
“I couldn’t see anything. I had flour in my eyes.”
“I was surprised you never exacted revenge.”
“I tried,” she assured him. “My father caught me.”
He nodded, as if he had some experience with this particular brand of frustration. “I hope it was something magnificent.”
“I believe it involved pie.”
He nodded approvingly.
“It would have been brilliant,” she told him.
He quirked a brow. “Strawberry?”
“Blackberry,” she said, her voice diabolical with only the memory of it.
“Even better.” He sat back, making himself comfortable. There was something so loose and limber about him, as if he fit smoothly into any situation. His posture was as correct as any gentleman’s, and yet . . .
He was different.
Violet wasn’t sure how to describe it, but there was something about him that put her at ease. He made her feel happy. Free.
Because he was. It took only a minute at his side to realize that he was the most happy and free person she would ever meet.
“Did you ever find the opportunity to put your weapon to use?” he asked.
She looked at him quizzically.
“The pie,” he reminded her.
“Oh. No. My father would have had my head. And besides that, there was no one to attack.”
“Surely you could have found a reason to go after Georgie,” Mr. Bridgerton said.
“I don’t attack without provocation,” Violet said with what she hoped was a teasingly arch smile, “and Georgie Millerton never floured me.”
“A fair-minded lady,” Mr. Bridgerton said. “The very best kind.”
Violet felt her cheeks turn ridiculously warm. Thank heavens the sun had nearly gone down and there wasn’t much light coming through the windows. With just the flickering candles to light the room, he might not realize just how pink her face had gone.
“No brother or sister to earn your ire?” Mr. Bridgerton asked. “It does seem a shame to let a perfectly good pie go to waste.”
“If I recall correctly,” Violet replied, “it didn’t go to waste. Everyone had some for pudding that night except me. And anyway, I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“Really?” His brow furrowed. “Strange that I don’t remember that about you.”
“Do you remember much?” she asked dubiously. “Because I . . .”
“Don’t?” he finished for her. He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I take no insult. I never forget a face. It’s a gift and a curse.”
Violet thought of all the times—right now included—that she’d not known the name of the person in front of her. “How could such a thing be a curse?”
He leaned toward her with a flirtatious tilt of his head. “One gets one’s heart broken, you know, when the pretty ladies don’t remember one’s name.”
“Oh!” She felt her face flush. “I’m so sorry, but you must realize, it was so long ago, and—”
“Stop,” he said, laughing. “I jest.”
“Oh, of course.” She ground her teeth together. Of course he was teasing. How could she have been such a dolt as to not realize it. Although . . .
Had he just called her pretty?
“You were saying you have no siblings,” he said, expertly returning the conversation to its previous spot. And for the first time, she felt as if she held his full attention. He didn’t have one eye on the crowd, idly scanning for George Millerton. He was looking at her, right into her eyes, and it was terrifyingly spectacular.
She swallowed, remembering his question about two seconds too late for smooth conversation. “No siblings,” she said, her voice coming out too fast to make up for her delay. “I was a difficult child.”
His eyes widened, almost thrillingly. “Really?”
“No, I mean, I was a difficult baby. To be born.” Good heavens, where had her verbal skills gone? “The doctor told my mother not to have more.” She swallowed miserably, determined to find her brain again. “And you?”
“And me?” he teased.
“Do you have siblings?”
“Three. Two sisters and a brother.”
The thought of three extra people in her often lonely childhood suddenly sounded marvelous. “Are you close?” she asked.
He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose I am. I’ve never really thought about it. Hugo’s quite my opposite, but I would still consider him my closest friend.”
“And your sisters? Are they younger or older?”
“One of each. Billie’s got seven years on me. She’s finally got herself married, so I don’t see much of her, but Georgiana’s just a bit younger. She’s probably your age.”
“Is she not here in London, then?”
“She’ll be out next year. My parents claim they’re still recovering from Billie’s debut.”
Violet felt her eyebrows rise, but she knew she shouldn’t—
“You can ask,” he told her.
“What did she do?” she said immediately.
He leaned in with a conspiratorial gleam. “I never got all the details, but I did hear something about a fire.”
Violet sucked in her breath—in shock and admiration.
“And a broken bone,?
?? he added.
“Oh, the poor thing.”
“Not her broken bone.”
Violet smothered a laugh. “Oh no. I shouldn’t—”
“You can laugh,” he told her.
She did. It burst out of her, loud and lovely, and when she realized people were staring at her, she didn’t care.
They sat together for a few moments, the silence between them as companionable as a sunrise. Violet kept her eyes on the lords and ladies dancing in front of her; somehow she knew that if she dared to turn and look at Mr. Bridgerton, she’d never be able to look away.
The music drew to a close, but when she looked down, her toes were tapping. His, too, and then—
“I say, Miss Ledger, would you like to dance?”
She turned then, and she did look at him. And it was true, she realized; she wasn’t going to be able to look away. Not from his face, and not from the life that stretched in front of her, as perfect and lovely as that blackberry pie from so many years ago.
She took his hand and it felt like a promise. “There is nothing I would rather do.”
Somewhere in Sussex
Six months later