Prologue
The first thought that entered Violet’s mind was a demand to do it again. Her second thought was a single word.
Mistake.
That had been the biggest mistake of her life.
She brought trembling fingers to her lips and gawped at Duke. For a man renowned for kissing women, he looked almost as shocked as she.
“Well, that was a mistake.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded.
“A big mistake.”
“No, Vi. A trifling one.”
“For you, maybe. I am not in the habit of going around and kissing men.”
“I’m not just any man,” he pointed out, the faintest hint of a smile ticking at his cheek.
“No.” She put her hands to her hips and nodded as she drew in a long, cool breath—a welcome relief from the heated air of the ballroom. “You are my friend and friends do not—”
“Kiss one another,” he finished for her.
“So you agree? This was a mistake, and it shall not happen again.”
“But of course.” His grin grew.
She imagined he thought her to be silly to be protesting so much. He was Marmaduke Cameron after all. He probably kissed women on a daily basis. This kiss was likely the least interesting one he’d partaken in.
Violet wished she felt the same. Still, it was a silly mistake and they would not repeat it. She and Duke were the best of friends and best of friends did not kiss. It wouldn’t happen again.
“I’m going back to the ballroom,” she told him. The sooner she was surrounded by people, the better. Then she could put this whole big mess behind her and they could continue on as though nothing happened.
He didn’t try to stop her.
Chapter One
Violet Musgrave was used to getting her heart broken. It started when she was four and Papa forgot to bring home the promised flowers from his journey to Cornwall. Then at age ten when Thomas Mackenzie told her he could not court her as his father said they were too young. Even at aged four-and-ten Violet had been convinced her first kiss would surely lead to true love but the young gentleman in question told his friends she kissed like a slimy fish.
She’d never lacked for potential suitors. Her fashionable fair looks made her the most socially acceptable of the Musgraves and her father did not lack money. But at the grand old age of nine-and-twenty, she’d suffered a broken heart too many times. Whether it was from the discovery that the latest gentleman hated to read or did not understand why Violet believed women should be allowed to inherit from their fathers or perhaps they disapproved of Lilly’s inclination to partake in unfeminine sports…each and every man who had come and gone carved a little notch of disappointment in her heart.
Which was precisely why Mama’s demand that she look moreromanticwas difficult to achieve. The idea of having romance in her life had withered away like an untended fern.
Her mother peered around the easel; her gaze narrowed. “Honestly, Vi, it is like you are not even trying!”
Violet adjusted her position on the chaise longue and shifted the feather fan to cover a little of her face then adopted what she hoped was a sultry expression.
“I said romantic, not brazen!” Her mother huffed, set her paintbrush down on the nearby table and shifted her stool, the legs squeaking briefly across the floor to reveal herself from behind the easel. “Of all of my daughters, you were always the easiest to paint.”
“Only because I am willing to stay still long enough.”
“Ivy is good at sitting but loathes every painting of herself.”
Violet sighed. “I’m not certain she’ll ever see quite how lovely she is.”
“When she’s my age, she shall realize. That is the curse of youth.” Her mother shook her head, loosening the haphazard pale curls tied in a loose chignon by a multicolored scarf. Mama called it hercreative scarf. Apparently, it helped her think. “Anyway, my point is, you were always excellent at putting on a display.”