George held up her hand. “And as for being a wanton, well . . . it was only the one man. Am I correct?”

“Y-yes.” Violet’s lower lip trembled.

“Then, I think you will have to forgive my bias in saying that it is at least as much the gentleman’s fault as yours. How old is he?”

Violet looked a bit mutinous at having been demoted from wanton. “Five and twenty.”

Five and twenty! The seducing, lecherous . . . George inhaled. “And do I know him?” she asked calmly.

Violet pushed away from her sister. “I won’t tell you! I’ll not be made to marry him.”

George stared, her heart stopping in her chest. “Are you increasing?”

“No!” Violet’s horror was unfeigned, thank goodness.

George blew out a relieved breath. “Then why do you think I would make you marry him?”

“Well, maybe not you, but Tony . . .” Violet got up and paced around the room. “He’s been writing me letters.”

“Tony has?”

“No!” Violet turned to glare at her. “Him.”

“Oh, him.” George frowned. “What about?”

“He wants me to marry him. He says he loves me. But, George”—Violet picked up a candlestick from the bedside table and gestured with it—“I don’t love him anymore. I did. I mean, I thought I did. That’s why I, well, you know.”

“Quite.” George felt herself blushing.

“But then afterward I started noticing how far apart his eyes were and that he says ain’t in such an affected way.” Violet shrugged and set the candlestick down on the dresser. “And then it was gone, the love or whatever. I don’t hate him; I just don’t love him.”

“I see.”

“Is that how you feel about Mr. Pye?” Violet asked. “Are you over him now?”

George had a vision of Harry Pye, his head arched back, the tendons in his neck straining as he convulsed over her. A slow heat invaded her loins. She caught herself dropping her eyelids.

She snapped them open, sitting up straight at the same time. “Uh, not exactly.”

“Oh.” Violet looked forlorn. “Maybe it’s me, then.”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart. Maybe it’s that you’re only fifteen. Or,” she added hastily when Violet stuck out her lip, “maybe it’s that he’s just not the right man for you.”

“Oh, George!” Violet flopped backward onto her bed. “I’ll never have another suitor. How would I explain that I’ve lost my maidenhead? Perhaps I should marry him. No other man will ever have me.” Violet stared at the canopy over her bed. “I’m just not sure I can bear the way he takes snuff for the rest of my life.”

“Yes, that would be torturous,” George murmured, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to put my foot down and forbid you to marry him. So you’re saved.”