Lady Traveller's Guide To Happily Ever After. Victoria Alexander

ago was that of a young man with no particular cares or responsibilities. The air of assurance and confidence about him now was that of a man who had no doubt of his place in the world. This was no longer the happy-go-lucky young man she been forced to wed when she had just turned twenty-one and he was twenty-four. But then she was not the quiet, pale creature she’d been then, either. “Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

      “Violet,” Evan interrupted. “Do you need my assistance?”

      What a surprisingly gallant thing to say. Perhaps she had misjudged him.

      “No, Evan, but I do appreciate your offer.” She smiled in polite dismissal then paused. “Although might I request a favor?”

      “Anything,” he said with a smile.

      “Do you see the young ladies over there?” She nodded toward a group of young women sitting together, desperately trying to appear as if they were having a wonderful time and not counting the minutes until they could flee for the safety of home. “They are no doubt reserved and quiet but are probably quite interesting and very nice. Would you ask at least one of them to dance?”

      “I shall do better than that,” Evan said gallantly. “I shall ask my brother and a few of my friends to dance with them, as well.”

      She cast him a brilliant smile. “In which case you are most certainly forgiven.”

      Evan grinned and took his leave.

      Violet turned her attention back to James, who, as of two months ago when dear Uncle Richard had passed on, was now the Earl of Ellsworth. The man who had ruined her life. Her husband.

      “There are any number of things I may be mistaken about. Nonetheless, this is our dance.” James leaned in and spoke softly. “People are staring.”

      She laughed as if he had just said something amusing. “Of course they are, James. We’ve never been seen together in public before. No doubt everyone is expecting we’ll do something they can talk about for days. Now the question is—will we?”

      “Shall we disappoint them instead?” He held out his arm. “Dance with me, Violet.”

      “There’s nothing I’d rather do.” In truth, there were any number of things she’d rather do including walking on hot coals and being thrown into a lion’s den. There was little difference and little choice. She placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to escort her onto the floor.

      Regardless of how often she’d practiced exactly what she’d say when this moment came she couldn’t quite summon the right words. Perhaps because it was deeply unsettling to be in his arms again where she never should have been in the first place.

      Six years ago, on the night his engagement was to be announced to her friend Marie Fredericks, he had kissed quiet Violet Hagen on the shadowed terrace—later claiming he’d mistaken her for Marie as they were both red-haired and wearing blue gowns. Although really one was a sky blue and the other a sea foam, and Marie’s hair was more blond than red. Aside from that, Violet was decidedly taller and not as curved as Marie. His friends also admitted they had challenged him to give his fiancée a real kiss—the kind of kiss a man gives the woman he intends to marry—and had directed him to the terrace where they later swore they truly thought Marie was. There was as well far more partaking of spirits than was perhaps wise. Unfortunately, in their zeal to witness this real kiss, they tangled in the draperies covering the windows overlooking the terrace, ripping them down in the process and directing the attention of everyone in the room to the real kiss currently in progress right outside.

      It wasn’t bad enough that he had kissed her but that she had kissed him back with a shocking amount of enthusiasm for a girl who had scarcely been kissed at all up to that point. And really did the hesitant brush of lips she’d experienced previously with two cautious young men even count as legitimate kisses? Admittedly, Violet had thought them rather thrilling until James had kissed her. She’d been shocked when he’d swept her into his arms. Then, with no more than a moment of hesitation, she had wrapped her arms around him, thinking surely he had realized Marie was the wrong match for him and Violet was so very right. When their lips met and his body pressed against hers, she’d discovered a passion she’d never imagined. It was a real kiss, or at least she had thought it was. She didn’t question the why of it. Stupid, as it turned out. She had no idea he had mistaken her for Marie until he raised his head and realized what he’d done. And that was the first crack of her heart.

      The second was the shock on his face and he’d uttered, “Bloody hell, it’s you.”

      What could she do but slap him hard across his face?

      Still, the damage was done. Which apparently, in the more scandal-prone minds of society, was in the intensity of the embrace—just to add yet another layer of humiliation—rather than the slap. All in all it was the Holy Grail of gossip. A man whose engagement was about to be announced found in a compromising position with the friend of the intended fiancée. Her parents had then insisted on marriage as the scandal was such her mother warned she would never make a decent match now. James’s uncle Richard, the Earl of Ellsworth, had left James’s decision up to him but left unsaid the questions of honor and responsibility involved. In spite of James’s devil-may-care reputation, no one had ever questioned his word. Violet had protested—obviously James had no desire to marry her. It was pointed out James no longer had a choice, nor did she. James did what was expected and two days later they were married.

      Through the years Violet did wonder what might have happened if she had refused to marry him. If she had stood up for herself.

      She certainly did the morning after their wedding night when she learned he intended for their marriage to be little more than a pretense. When her heart had shattered. Violet had truly thought, up until that moment, there was the possibility they might make the best of this. They had been friends of a sort. If she had, in the back of her mind, wanted more, well, that was a silly thought. But she absolutely would not stay with a man who didn’t want her.

      A week later, Violet engaged a companion—Mrs. Cleo Ryland, a delightful widow only a few years older than Violet—packed her bags and headed to Paris. James had provided her with the resources she needed to see everything she had ever read about, everything she’d ever dreamed of seeing. If he did not intend to be her husband, she intended to take full advantage of his generosity.

      She had earned it.

      “IT’S BEEN A long time since we danced together,” James said mildly.

      He had danced with Violet any number of times before their marriage as he couldn’t dance exclusively with Marie. There were rules about that sort of thing. Violet and other friends and acquaintances were always with James and Marie and the couple was quite properly never alone. Marie wanted a dashing, handsome husband with a respectable title and a tidy fortune to provide her an unsullied position in society. She was not about to let so much as a hint of impropriety jeopardize that. In Marie’s eyes, James was a perfect fit.

      “It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken.” Violet summoned a nondescript smile.

      “Pride is a cruel mistress, Violet.”

      “One of many mistresses, no doubt,” she said lightly. Regardless of how rarely she was in London, gossip about his numerous liaisons inevitably reached her, thanks to her mother and a handful of well-meaning friends. She’d ignored them for the most part. He had his life and she had hers.

      “Regardless of what you might think of me, I meant that with all due sincerity.” He paused. “I am trying to admit to my past mistakes.”

      “And then what?”

      “Then atone for them.” He met her gaze directly.

      She drew her brows together. “I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to say, James, but I am certain the dance floor in the middle of Lady Brockwell’s annual ball is not the