The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(29)

“You’re quite flushed, dear. Is something amiss?” Euphie looked at her worriedly, blocking Violet from her own room farther down the corridor.

“I… I have a slight headache. I was just going to lie down.” Violet tried a smile.

“How horrible headaches are,” Euphie exclaimed. “I shall send up a maid with a basin of cool water for your brow. Make sure to lay a damp cloth on your forehead and change it every ten minutes. Now, where did I put my powder? It’s very useful for headaches.”

Violet felt like screaming as Euphie went into a dither that looked like it might last for hours.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll be all right if I just lie down.” Violet leaned forward and whispered, “My woman’s flow, you know.”

If anything was likely to stop Euphie, it was mention of women’s matters. She turned bright red and averted her eyes as if Violet was wearing a sign proclaiming her condition.

“Oh, I comprehend, dear. Well, then, you just go lie down. And I’ll see if I can find my powder.” She half-covered her mouth with her hand and hissed, “It’s good for that as well.”

Violet sighed, realizing there was no way she could get away without accepting Euphie’s help. “That’s sweet of you. Perhaps you can give it to my maid when you find it?”

Euphie nodded, and after further detailed instructions on how to deal with that, Violet was mercifully able to escape. In her room, she closed and locked the door, and then crossed to sit on the window seat. Her room was one of the prettiest in Woldsly, although it was by no means the biggest. Faded yellow and blue striped silk hung on the walls, and the carpet was an ancient Persian in blues and reds. Normally, Violet adored the room. But now it had begun to rain again outside, the wind spitting drops against the window and rattling the panes. Had the sun shone at all since she’d come to Yorkshire? She leaned her forehead against the glass and watched as her breath fogged the window. The fire had died on the grate, and her room was dim and cold, perfectly suiting her mood.

Her life was in utter shambles, and it was all her fault. Her eyes burned again, and she swiped at them angrily. She’d cried enough in the last two months to float a fleet of ships, and it hadn’t done a lick of good. Oh, if only one could go back and have a second chance to do things over. She’d never do it again, not if she had a second chance. She’d know that the feelings—so desperate and urgent at the time—would fade soon enough.

She hugged a blue silk cushion to her chest as the window blurred before her eyes. It hadn’t helped to run away. She’d thought that, surely, if she left Leicestershire, she’d soon forget. But she hadn’t, and now all her problems had followed her to Yorkshire. And George—staid George, funny older sister so firmly on the shelf with her flyaway hair and love of fairy tales—George was acting strange, hardly noticing Violet at all and spending all her time with that dreadful man. George was so naïve, it probably never occurred to her that nasty Mr. Pye was after her fortune.

Or worse.

Well, that at least she could do something about. Violet tumbled off the window seat and ran to her escritoire. She pulled out drawers and rummaged through them until she found a sheet of writing paper. Uncapping her ink bottle, she sat down. George would never listen to her, but there was one person she had to obey.

She dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.

“WHY HAVE YOU NEVER MARRIED, Mr. Pye?” Lady Georgina stressed his surname just to irritate him, Harry was sure.

Today, she wore a yellow dress printed with birds like none he’d ever seen—some of them had three wings. She did look fetching in it, he had to admit. She had one of those scarf things that women wore tucked into her bodice. It was almost transparent, giving him a teasing hint of her titties. That irritated him as well. And the fact that she was beside him in the gig again, despite his strong objections, pretty much put a cap on things. At least the relentless rain had let up for a bit today, although the sky was an ominous gray. He hoped they could reach the first cottage before they were soaked.

“I don’t know.” Harry spoke curtly, a tone he would never have taken with her a week ago. The horse seemed to sense his mood and jogged sideways, jolting the gig. Harry tightened the reins to bring the nag back on the track. “I haven’t met the right woman yet, likely.”

“Who would be the right woman?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea,” she stated with aristocratic certainty. “Do you fancy a golden-haired girl?”

“I—”

“Or do you prefer black-haired maidens? I once knew a man who would only dance with short, black-haired ladies, not that any of them wanted to dance with him, mind you, but that never seemed to occur to him.”

“I’m not particular as to hair,” he muttered when she paused to take a breath. Lady Georgina opened her mouth again, but he’d had enough. “Why haven’t you married, my lady?”

There. Let her stew on that a bit.

She didn’t miss a beat. “It is rather hard to find a promising gentleman. I sometimes think it would be easier to find a goose that really did lay golden eggs. So many of the gentlemen in society haven’t a thought to their head, truly. They consider being knowledgeable about hunting or hounds sufficient and don’t worry with anything else. And one must make conversation about something at the breakfast table. Wouldn’t it be awful to be in a marriage with a lot of awkward pauses?”