The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,80
the shortage was dire indeed.
“I have danced only once all night,” Mary said. There was a pause, then: “And you?”
“Twice,” Violet admitted. “But once was with your brother.”
“Oh. Well, then that doesn’t count.”
“Yes, it does,” Violet shot back. Thomas Filloby was a gentleman with two legs and all his teeth, and as far as she was concerned, he counted.
“You don’t even like my brother.”
There was nothing to say that wasn’t rude or a lie, so Violet just did a funny little motion with her head that could be interpreted either way.
“I wish you had a brother,” Mary said.
“So he could ask you to dance?”
Mary nodded.
“Sorry.” Violet waited a moment, expecting Mary to say, “It’s not your fault,” but Mary’s attention had finally been ripped from Lady Begonia Dixon, and she was presently squinting at someone over by the lemonade table.
“Who’s that?” Mary asked.
Violet cocked her head to the side. “The Duke of Ashbourne, I believe.”
“No, not him,” Mary said impatiently. “The one next to him.”
Violet shook her head. “I don’t know.” She couldn’t get a very good look at the gentleman in question, but she was quite sure she didn’t know him. He was tall, although not overly so, and he stood with the athletic grace of a man who was perfectly at ease in his own body. She didn’t need to see his face up close to know that he was handsome. Because even if he wasn’t elegant, even if his face was no Michelangelo’s dream, he would still be handsome.
He was confident, and men with confidence were always handsome.
“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