She told herself not to look for him. It might be weeks or even months before he could return, and when he did, he’d turn up at home. But Christian would come for her. Eventually.
“Miss Winterbottom?” Mr. Gerald Jemison stood at her elbow, holding a brimming cup of ratafia in either hand. “Care for refreshment?”
Violet wanted to make some polite, solicitous reply, but she couldn’t.
Because suddenly, he was there.
He was there.
Christian.
It was as though her heart sensed him, even before she spied him all the way at the other end of the ballroom. Yes, it was he. His hair was still overlong, and that roguish nose of his would never be straight again. But he wore a crisp white cravat, a silk brocade waistcoat, and a black topcoat that clung and gleamed like sealskin. The attire of a duke’s son, not a farmhand. He looked magnificent.
And he was headed straight for her.
It took everything Violet had not to pick up her skirts and race to meet him. But until he told her otherwise, she would continue to play the part he’d assigned her. She must act as if that night never happened.
As though that weren’t her love, her lover, the lord of her heart striding purposely across the waxed parquet.
If she could pretend indifference to this, Violet knew she could feign anything.
“Is that you, Pierce?” Mr. Jemison greeted him, inclining his head in lieu of a bow. “What a surprise. I had no idea you’d returned from the West Indies.”
“Yes, as of this afternoon. But I’m only in London temporarily.”
“Temporarily?” Violet’s stomach knotted.
A little smile played about the corners of his lips. “You see, my father wishes me to inspect some land prospects in Guiana.”
“Guiana.” Mr. Jemison still balanced two cups of ratafia. “My word. Is that in Africa?”
“South America,” Violet murmured. She stared at the floor, quietly reeling. Christian must have been reassigned. Perhaps not to Guiana, but somewhere else, hopelessly far away.
He’d be leaving her again.
“I wonder that you took the trouble to come all this way back to England,” Jemison said. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to catch a ship from Antigua to Guiana instead?”
“Undoubtedly,” Christian agreed. “But I had an important errand to see to here in London.”
“An errand?” Jemison chuckled. “Important enough for you to cross an ocean?”
Christian’s warm, spice-brown eyes caught Violet’s gaze. “Important enough for me to cross a world. On hands and knees. And then double-back to cross it again.”
Violet’s heart melted. Her knees tended toward a liquid state too.
“You see,” he went on, “I came back all this way for one reason only. To ask Miss Winterbottom to dance.” His gloved hand reached for hers, and he whispered tenderly, “Will you, Violet?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
They moved to the dance floor, leaving Mr. Jemison with two cups of ratafia and an expression of abject confusion. Violet felt a twinge of remorse, but she forgot it soon enough when they reached the dance floor.
As Christian’s hand slid between her shoulder blades, his sharp intake of breath was audible. Tears pressed to her eyes.
To be so near to him, after so many months… She could barely abide having a foot of space between their bodies. She wanted to throw herself against his strong chest, feel the tight embrace of his arms, inhale deeply of his unique scent. Her body warmed, and her sense of rhythm deserted her. They weren’t moving in time with the music at all, but neither of them cared.
“From the shock in everyone’s eyes,” he murmured, “it would seem you kept your end of the bargain.”
“It wasn’t easy. I’ve amassed quite a cadre of suitors, you know.”
“I can’t claim to be surprised.” His eyes narrowed. “But I will admit to being jealous.”
“You needn’t be. In all these months, I’ve scarcely thought of anything but you. I’m so glad you’re safe.” As she squeezed his arm tight, emotion swelled in her breast. “How long before you must leave again? Please tell me we have more than just one night.”
“We have a few weeks.”
Oh God. Only a few weeks?
“We’ll make the most of them,” she said, trying to be strong. This was Christian’s career, his tribute to Frederick, his solemn duty in the service of the Crown. If he could bear the separation, so could she. “I assume you aren’t really going to Guiana?”
He drew her close and whispered in her ear. “No, my love. We are going to the south of France.”
“We?” Her heart leapt. Oh, the stab of pure hope—it was sharp and sweet. “Did you say we?”
“Assuming you agree, of course.”
“You know I’d follow you anywhere. But France? The war is over. Napoleon is to be exiled.”