The Scandalous Suffragette. Eliza Redgold
She took a sip of champagne.
‘I do have a reason,’ she said at last. ‘You may know of my father’s business. Coombes Chocolates.’
At his nod she went on.
‘My father is a self-made man. He started the business and built it up from nothing. It’s gone from a small enterprise to a national name. Thousands of people work for him now in the chocolate factory and many more thousands enjoy our wares. Why, someone is probably biting into a Coombes Floral Cream right now.’
‘Indeed,’ Adam Beaufort drawled.
Violet took a deep breath.
‘I want to follow my father into the business,’ she said rapidly. It was the first time she ever said it aloud. ‘I have so many ideas, so many plans. Times are changing, a new century is here. There are new ways of doing things. Opportunities for social reform, for new methods. If women are given the vote...’
‘It might make it easier for you to become a woman of business.’
He’d grasped it immediately.
She nodded.
‘I’ve always admired my father and what he’s achieved. The people in there don’t see it,’ she added with a jerk of her head towards the French doors.
‘Surely you exaggerate.’
‘Not at all. We should have stayed in Manchester where we belong, not tried to be part of London society,’ she said fervently. ‘It means so much to my papa, but they look down on him, despise him. Who knows? Perhaps you do, too.’
Startling her, he stepped out of the shadow of the pillar.
‘My father was a drunkard, Miss Coombes, who lost our family fortune,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If you think I despise your father for being determined, hardworking and ambitious, you’re very much mistaken.’
Violet’s mouth dropped open.
Silence fell between them.
‘Forgive me,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ve been under some pressure of late. Such conversation is not fit for a ballroom.’
‘It’s honest conversation. I prefer it,’ she replied quickly. ‘And I ought to ask your pardon. You asked me to dance. No one else did.’
As she spoke she impulsively moved forward, raised her face to his. He stared down at her, an expression she couldn’t decipher in his eyes. All she knew was that she took another step forward and lifted her chin higher, just as he moved closer to her and lowered his head, so close he surely felt on his lips the sigh that escaped hers.
From the ballroom came a crash of cymbals. Inside, the orchestra ended another piece of music with a rousing crescendo.
They leapt apart.
He retreated to the pillar. ‘It seems this moonlight and champagne is having an effect on us.’ His voice sounded deeper to Violet’s ears. ‘We’ve both revealed secrets tonight. Perhaps we ought to return to safer topics.’
Violet clutched the stem of her champagne glass so hard it threatened to snap. Her heart pounded.
He bowed. ‘Would you care for another dance, Miss Coombes?’
‘Oh, yes, please, I mean, thank you.’ Suddenly flustered, she lay down her glass. ‘Oh!’
Adam frowned. ‘What is it?’
She froze. Beneath her petticoat she felt an unravelling.
She took a step.
A slip between her thighs.
‘Miss Coombes...’
Another step.
A silken slide down her legs.
He stared at her face. ‘What the blazes has happened now?’
‘I can’t dance with you. I’m sorry!’
Violet raced through the French doors and out of the ballroom.
Adam gazed after Miss Violet Coombes in astonishment.
She had refused another waltz with him.
Momentarily he felt affronted.
Then through the French doors he watched her scuttle across the ballroom. She scurried, crab-like, her knees held together, in a curious dance step of her own.
Once more he started to laugh. She was up to something. He’d stake his life on it.
He never expected to have such an extraordinary conversation with her. They’d both revealed more than they intended. The pressures of trying to sort out his father’s estate wore him down, a constant worry, a permanent burden across his shoulders. He experienced a curious relief sharing it with Miss Violet Coombes. It lightened his burden, for a moment.
She preferred honest conversation, she’d told him. Her frankness disarmed him and she possessed a curious sweetness, too.
He grinned inwardly.
Like a Coombes Floral Cream.
He’d wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t the first time. When he caught her in his arms in the square the instinct roared through his body, too. Tonight, when she stared up at him in the moonlight, her bright blue eyes full of understanding and concern, her pink lips parted, he wanted to take her in his arms and taste that sweetness. Hold that warm, soft flesh in his arms again.
Why the blazes had she fled from him?
It wasn’t that near kiss. Such things weren’t done on ballroom balconies, but he sensed she wasn’t frightened by the honesty of that moment.
She’d wanted to kiss him back. Her soft, fast breath told him that.
Swiftly he followed her path across the ballroom and out into the entrance hall. There was no sign of her. The huge hall, with its marble floor, gilt-framed paintings and statues, appeared empty. Then a scuffling noise came from behind a column of marble.
A long, shapely leg clad in a white-silk stocking extended from behind the pillar, followed by a familiar tricolour silken banner.
It must have been under her skirt.
Stifling his chuckle, not wanting to alarm her, Adam backed behind another marble column. After a moment she appeared, glanced around furtively and raised herself up on tiptoe. One after the other she hurled the two billowing banners into the air.
Adam frowned. He couldn’t quite make out what she was doing, but he could make a fair guess. He was about to reveal himself and remonstrate with her when her parents appeared and bore her off in a carriage.
He leapt out from behind the pillar and swore.
Her aim was excellent.
‘Damnation,’ he muttered below his breath.
The ballroom doors flung open. Before Adam could grab the banners a group surged into the hall.
A woman squealed and pointed.
All hell broke loose.
Adam groaned. Violet Coombes had no idea what she’d done.
‘Shall Error in the round of time
Still father Truth?’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘Whoa.’ Violet pulled the reins of the grey mare. All morning the mare had been frisky, playing up. It took all Violet’s strength to stop her breaking into a gallop in the middle of Hyde Park. It was a day to gallop,