Page 29 of Hearts of Locke Hill

“Stop. Just stop.” She pressed the towel to her forehead and closed her eyes.

“Very well. Only know that you will walk tall and lovely into that dining room, but that wine will never be swirled, sipped, or savored again.” She grinned, pressing her finger to her pointed chin. “Hmm, now I’m wondering what that might be like.”

“What?”

“To be swirled, sipped, and savored.”

Violet caught Florrie’s flashing eyes in the mirror. “Youare the wild creature.”

Florrie shrugged. “A girl can dream of love.”

“Only you could go from issuing a eulogy over a glass of wine to …” Dash it, her blush had returned. “Comparing it to romantic … attentions.”

Florrie touched her perfectly golden curls. “We all have our talents. Come. We mustn’t keep them waiting.” She winked at Violet and strode out the door.

Florrie was right. She would walk tall into the dining room, make a ridiculous curtsy for her performance, wave away the applause, and the meal would resume. But it wouldn’t be easy.

Of all the guests to have witnessed the spectacle of Violet Whittemore losing complete and utter control, why did it have to be Cyril Benjamin Burke?

Y

Of all the evenings to be a guest at Kinthwaite Park, why did it have to be this night? Dinner had progressed well enough—aside from that awful bout with Miss Whittemore. Thank heavens she’d been all right. Of all their years spent side by side, Cy had rarely seen her with such a loss of control. Not that she hadn’t fought for it. He’d watched her struggle to maintain a sense of decorum, even while battling her body for one mere breath. It had unnerved him, seeing her as a puppet instead of the master. Of course, when she’d returned with Miss Janes, she wore a mantle of triumph and took her bows gracefully. Most women would’veretreated to their room for the remainder of the evening. Not Violet Whittemore.

“I apologize for my daughter’s, er, uncouth behavior at dinner.”

Cy sipped coffee while Mr. Whittemore enjoyed a glass of port before joining the ladies in the drawing room. Cy’s family had dispensed with the tradition of gentlemen’s port after dinner years ago. He frowned. “Not at all. In fact, I think she handled herself very well under the circumstances. Helpless business, choking on one’s drink.”

Mr. Whittemore gazed at his wineglass, turning it in the light from the sconces. “Yes, I suppose we should be grateful it was a small party. Well then, the best we can do for Violet is to forget it happened.”

“Agreed.”

“May I confide in you, Mr. Burke?” The man shifted in his seat. “Blast, my boy. May I call you Cyril?”

Cy’s brow rose in shock, but he quickly smoothed it. “If you’d like, sir.”

“Hugh.”

Cy swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee, catching himself to take care and not choke. “Hugh.” He cleared his throat. “You can trust me, sir.”

“I think I can. It’s just this.” Hugh frowned. “I’ve never known what to do with a daughter. That is her mother’s realm, and it suits. Violet is a conundrum to me, especially after … Well, your father would understand that, I’m sure.” He flicked his hand absently.

Cy kept silent. Ruby and their father were as close as any parent and child could be.

Hugh set his glass down and tapped a silent rhythm on themahogany table. “I was so looking forward to knowing my son,” he said quietly.

Daniel.The memory of the boy’s quiet smile and mop of brown hair flashed into Cy’s mind. Ironically, most of what he knew of Daniel Whittemore he’d learned through Violet, whom Mr. Whittemore had paid little attention to after the boy’s death.

“You were of an age, if I recall correctly,” Mr. Whittemore—Hugh—said.

He nodded. “We shared a July birthday. I did not know him well—I attended local schools, you see—but I always thought him a sturdy chap. Treated others fairly. I remember we were at a party for the Perry twins, and he and I were paired for the three-legged race. We … did not win.” He chuckled, swirling the last of his coffee. “But Daniel was the first to offer a hand up to those who’d fallen, and his congratulations to the winners. I was a bit put out that we didn’t win, but his actions impressed me, and I wasn’t the only lad to follow suit.”

Hugh sat back in his chair, his wineglass nearly empty. “He was a good boy. I’m …” He cleared his throat. After a brief silence, he nodded. “Well.” He finished his drink off and rose. “I’ve an excellent feeling about this, Cyril. I believe you’re up to the task.”

Cy rose as well, wondering if he, indeed, was. But he was in no position to argue. “My thanks for your trust in me, sir.”

Hugh gestured toward the door. “Shall we go through?”

Y