The Scandalous Suffragette. Eliza Redgold
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comprehension, almost amusement, flared in his expression. ‘I’m Adam Beaufort.’
‘Beaufort. I know your name. Then that means you are... There’s a house...’ Violet tried to simulate the society page in her mind. She’d read something about his family home, she was certain of it.
‘The Beauforts of Beauley Manor. Yes.’ He inclined his head. ‘I recently inherited the estate.’
‘Oh. I see.’ It came back to her now. Their historic estate was in Kent, and the Beauforts were an exceptionally old English family. The kind of society family she’d never expected to welcome the Coombes.
‘If you’re at all concerned about my pedigree,’ he said drily, ‘that’s my mother and my two sisters over there.’
He indicated a group in the alcove opposite. A grey-haired woman, straight-backed, dressed in black, was studying Violet through her lorgnette. Behind her stood a tall, haughty young woman, wearing a mustard-coloured gown. She looked down her nose at Violet. Seated next to the grey-haired woman was a big-boned girl with hair escaping from her bun. Violet had seen her laughing across the dance floor. She flashed a quick smile.
‘My parents are here, too.’ Just in time Violet remembered not to point. She nodded towards her mother and father. Her mother was tripping over her train, trying not to stare at the tall, dark-haired man in their alcove.
‘Now we’re introduced,’ he said smoothly. ‘Shall we dance?’
Violet stood up. Her head came just above his shoulder. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
She took his proffered hand. Instantly the sensation of being in his arms returned. Even through their gloves she could feel it. Safety. Danger. Mixed into one.
Through the crowd he led her to the centre of the ballroom. The previous dance had ended and another was about to begin. A path cleared before him. Some of the men nodded in his direction, and more than a few pairs of female lashes fluttered. She sensed all eyes upon them, though he paid no attention to it.
They stood face to face. He released her hand. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms. They hung awkwardly, by her sides.
‘I presume you waltz?’ he asked politely, as they waited for the orchestra to start up.
‘I’ve had lessons,’ she replied. Another thing she probably shouldn’t have said. Then she recalled stamping her foot at him. She sighed. It was too late to pretend to be other than whom she truly was and she wouldn’t have wanted to in any case.
Again she noted a flicker of amusement. ‘Excellent.’
The music struck up. It was ʻThe Blue Danube’, one of Violet’s favourite pieces of music. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, ‘I trust you dance as well as you climb.’
He swirled her into his arms.
Violet’s breath surged up through her body. In an instant he swept her away, across the polished floor. Her lessons were nothing like this. She had never danced with such a partner—why, she never really danced before. In his powerful arms her feet glided over the floor as if she floated above it. The waltz started slowly, then became faster. The violins soared and shimmered, the horns played the beguiling tune as the woodwinds kept time. Her slippers chased his black-leather shoes, speeding with the melody as it rose and fell. His grip never wavered as he lifted her off the ground with every turn.
She’d wondered what it would be like to dance in his arms. Now she knew.
Violet threw back her head and closed her eyes. The music swelled. Now she wasn’t following the rhythm, or his skilful feet. She stopped thinking about her steps, just allowed herself to blindly follow his lead as he looped her in circle after circle. The tune rippled inside her, sending her dizzy, as if she were spinning with her arms outstretched, the way she used to do in the garden as a child. Her lips widened. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it.
When she opened her eyes his were upon her. Hardened to impenetrable sapphire, they moved from her open lips to her bared neck, her head still thrown back.
He pulled her closer, his body pressed against her petticoats. Gripped by his eyes, his hands, she twirled, spun, twirled again.
Past his staring family in the alcove. Past her amazed parents. Past the girl from riding lessons, goggle-eyed. To Violet they became a blur. She could have danced for ever as he swept her across the floor, sending the other couples scattering in their wake.
All too soon the music ended. The final crescendo shattered in a crash of cymbals. He broke their gaze, let her go.
Violet put her glove to her racing heartbeat. ‘Oh!’
Adam Beaufort, too, seemed to need to regain his breath. He bowed, but not before she’d glimpsed the dart of a smile. ‘Perhaps you’d like some air, Miss Coombes. The balcony? I know you enjoy them.’
She laughed. ‘Yes. The balcony. Please.’
As they passed a waiter Adam seized two glasses of champagne and led her through the French doors on to the empty balcony that overlooked the rear garden. She sensed eyes from the ballroom burning into her back. She raised her chin.
‘Thank you.’ Gratefully she grasped the stem of the glass he offered her and drank deeply. She was tempted to drain it. Instead she put the cool glass to her burning cheeks.
He, too, drank, surveying her over the rim. ‘Your dancing lessons have been effective.’
‘My lessons never taught me to dance like that,’ she said frankly. ‘It was wonderful. Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘There are certain skills in life that must be mastered.’
‘Surely dancing is a pleasure, not a skill,’ she protested.
One corner of his mouth curved. ‘Most of life’s pleasures become more pleasurable with greater skill, Miss Coombes.’
Violet removed the glass from her cheeks and stared out into the garden. Music wafted from inside the ballroom. Tiers of stone steps flowed down into a rolling lawn. Pale moonlight shone. Her breath began to return to her lungs, but she still felt as if she were spinning. With her free hand she clutched the edge of the balcony. The balustrade was made of stone rather than cast iron, in thick pillars. Below was a sheer drop into a huge rhododendron bush.
Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow. ‘Assessing your descent?’
Violet laughed. ‘No. I promised you I wouldn’t climb any more balconies.’
Though she hadn’t promised anything else. Her thighs brushed together, reminding her of her plan.
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He lounged against a pillar, sending his face into shadow.
‘Tell me. What made you do it? Climb, I mean.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
He shook his head. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘It was for the Cause. I intended to drape a women’s suffrage banner over the front of the gentleman’s club as a protest,’ she explained. ‘You must know how long women have been fighting to be granted the vote. The women’s colours are purple, green and white, you see. I sew the banners myself. Unfortunately I lost that one,’ she added regretfully.
He fell silent for a moment, took another draught of champagne. ‘Is it the first banner you’ve hung?’
‘No. I’ve hung others.’ And it wouldn’t be the last.
‘What’s your reasoning behind such an action?’
‘Wouldn’t any woman want to be treated as an equal?’ she asked passionately. ‘We’re treated as children who don’t know their own minds. Why shouldn’t we have the vote, take a role in choosing the government of our own country? Deeds, not words. That’s what we need now, for the Cause.’
‘You’re