Page 1 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Chapter 1

May Day, 1906 Albury Square, Surrey County

Without real thought, Violet Whittemore stepped to Cyril Burke, the eldest of the infamous Burke brothers, with a women’s suffrage posy in her fingers.

Cyril startled back half a step.

“Oh, c’mon, you big brute,” she said, trying to stick the posy and not her finger. “Hold still.”

It wasn’t until the warmth of his coat, the firmness of his chest against her knuckles, and his breath stirring the hair beneath her short-brimmed boater all combined to bring about the sensation that she wasn’t where she ought to be. Even his signature cologne, West Indian Limes, struck her as a warning—this was too close and unwelcome.

Still, he watched warily, then stepped away.

She swallowed down her unease. “There. Better than a flower crown, I say.”

Cyril looked down at the posy now pinned to his coat. His brother, Oscar, laughed.

Violet shrugged and said the first thing she could think of to clear the air of its clumsiness. “Votes for Women.”

Florrie Janes, one her very best friends and too keen an observer, leaned forward. “Hard to resist, isn’t she, fellows?”

Violet turned her face, fighting a blush. After all these years, why had she engaged in such a tête-à-tête with Cyril Burke, of all people?

Oscar said something obnoxious and ducked as Cyril knocked his derby to the ground.

Ah, brothers.

With an exclamation, Oscar went chasing after his hat. Cyril smoothed his fingers over the rim of his own. “Ladies. I’ll be at the lemonade stand, showing off my posy, should anybody need me.” He strode away as if he couldn’t escape fast enough.

“Well,” Violet said, putting an arm around Florrie’s waist. “I guess I’m notthathard to resist.”

“Sweetie,” Florrie said, “that man just turned four shades of red in your honor.”

Had he? He wasn’t one to blush easily. Or at least, he hadn’t been. Surely Florrie was exaggerating, which was also a keen talent of hers. After a cleansing breath, Violet changed the subject. “Shall we go make ourselves crowns?”

Florrie nodded with a grin. “An excellent idea we ought not to waste.” She took Violet’s arm, and they headed to one of the floral booths so they could fashion themselves headwear appropriate for the surrounding festivity.

As far as glorious May Days went, Violet Whittemore supposed this one would do. The spring sun shone particularly bright, though it had poured rain for a week. The day’s celebrationcircled about her with bundles and ropes of vivid blooms. Rich greens both pale and dark and every shade in-between simmered. Ribbons wound around wands, booths, and folks of every age and station, fluttering in drifts of breeze. Lilting music played from the gazebo band. And her dearest friend, Lydia Wooding, had just blissfully wandered away on the arm of a man who looked astonished, victorious, and lovesick all at the same time. Just as she’d predicted, Lydia and Spencer Hayes made a handsome couple, indeed.

Florrie waved over the matron of the nearest floral booth, and above the heavenly scent of fresh-cut blooms, ordered them both wreaths of green to which they could add their choices of flowers.

Working with her hands always quieted Violet’s active mind, and soon she had a marvelous, if not a bit floppy, floral creation to show for it. She sighed, weaving the last stem of bluebells into her crown, and held it aloft for Florrie to inspect. “I went with all blues.”

Florrie eyed the cornflowers, forget-me-nots, and anemones. She tsked. “You need a touch of yellow in there, sweetheart. My word. You’ll blast all the gentlemen to smithereens the way these flowers light up your eyes.”

Violet smirked. “Promise?”

Florrie shook her head with a grin and pushed clusters of yellow cowslips into the wreath, then, standing on her toes, gently settled it on Violet’s head. “I shall never understand your animosity toward the weaker sex. They can’t help it if they believe they are a race unto themselves. Their forebears have done them no favors in that vein. All that posturing and pounding of chests. Now, spin.”

Violet spun, and Florrie nodded her approval, clapping herhands, her own tall crown of cabbage roses and sweet pea a flourish of vibrant color against her blonde curls and blue eyes.

Violet curtsied low. “My liege.”

Florrie returned the favor. “Your Majesty.”

A cluster of young girls giggled at the display as they passed, their hands covering their mouths with glee. Florrie and Violet curtsied to the girls as well. “Your Highnesses.”

The girls bobbed in return and, laughing, ran off after a mule covered in garlands.