Page 13 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“The pleasure was entirely mine,” Piers responded woodenly. There was no real loss, of course. He was keenly aware that Mrs. Cartwright owed him nothing, not even after he had assisted her sister in finding happiness with Edward. Yet the hope that after the dust had settled, she would act on the spark of desire between them had sustained him during the long weeks of her absence.
Piers roused himself from his morose stupor and sat forward. “I bid you goodnight, my lady.”
Viola—Mrs. Cartwright, to him now—glanced over her shoulder with a smile.
“You are mistaken, my lord. I am no lady. A thousand titles could never turn me into one. I will always be plain Mrs. Cartwright.”
She curtseyed. Her cloak billowed behind her as she disappeared into her grandmother’s house.
8
“Mama!”
The sound of her son’s voice shouldn’t make a crown-like vise tighten around Viola’s temples, but it did. Champagne was the devil’s drink. A few sips were enough to give her a headache the next morning.
Although she was determined to enjoy London society for as long as she could, late nights were not her habit. Living as a farmer’s wife eking out a hardscrabble existence on a stony patch of earth in Northumberland had trained her to rise early no matter how little she’d slept. Even with heavy curtains blocking out the sun, Viola could never sleep past daybreak. Since her return to the city, her late mornings and afternoons were occupied with visits to shops, pricing and selecting goods. Viola agonized over each decision, writing to her sister for approval before placing orders. She needed the townhouse to be spectacular when she was finished. Regal, classic, and beautiful, to show the world how the unconventional earl of Briarcliff and his lady intended to preserve the lineage they’d been entrusted with.
“Good morning, Matthew.” She yawned.
“I’ve a new book from grandmother. Look. Spartans!”
“Is this related to your studies?” Viola sat up. Luxurious linen sheets slid beneath her body. Here was a fabric she could touch, and she did so now, running the tips of her fingers over the embroidered trim. The smooth slide of her hand was interrupted by the snag of her hangnail, and Viola dropped the fabric with a stab of disappointment. Scars marred the backs of her knuckles. Knife slices, bumps against wood, and splinters had marked her a working woman. The only way she could pretend to be a lady was to wear gloves at all times.
“History,” Matthew declared, but his gaze slid away from hers. At eight years, he knew better than to lie, but hadn’t yet become practiced at hiding it when he did. Viola bit back a smile and ruffled her son’s hair.
“I’m glad you’re reading, dear. Shall I ask for our breakfast to be brought to us, and you can read to me while I dress?”
There was a screen in the corner of her well-appointed room for privacy. It was a new luxury, and Viola occasionally missed the intimacy of their one-room farmhouse. There had been a loft where Matthew had slept. Beneath the loft had been a small bedroom with enough privacy for her and Samuel, her husband, when he had been in residence.
The maid brought a tray, and Matthew described bloody battles with his mouth half full while Viola washed and dressed. Then she sat across the small table from her son to consume her breakfast of toast, eggs, and sausage.
“Have you brushed your teeth?” she asked.
“Of course, Mum,” Matthew responded instantly with wide eyes that belied his assurance.
“Shall I ask Miss Holloway?” Viola was not above asking the maid serving temporarily as his governess for the truth.
“Fine.”
With a great sigh, Matthew piled his dishes onto the tray and followed her to the washstand. Together they scrubbed their teeth with powder, just as they had done each day on the farm.
“Off you go.” Viola released him at last. Her heart squeezed like an apple in a cider press at the thought of him going to school in a few weeks. First, there would be Christmas at Briarcliff with her sister, Edward, and her grandmother, the baroness. They would have until after the new year to explore the capacious grounds of the estate before he went to school.
Before he left her alone.
She turned to the shower bath contraption she’d first used at Briarcliff and found so useful she’d had one ordered one for the new townhome and had it delivered early for her personal use. The pump was stiff at first. She poured water into the top, opened the tap, and cold water trickled over her skin.
Viola inhaled sharply. She wasnotalone. She had reunited with her mother’s family, what was left of them. Harper, though ensconced with her new husband, was still a large part of her life. Yet only a few months ago, Viola had told her sister, "I married once to save our skins. This time it’s your turn. You go get the rich husband."Even after it had become clear that she and Edward shared an almost tangible connection, it had shocked Viola as much as anyone when Harper had succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.
Viola soaped her hair and body quickly, then opened the tap again to rinse. Freezing, she pulled a thick towel around herself and crouched next to the fireplace for a moment to warm up, until a soft knock at her bedroom door indicated the arrival of the lady’s maid to help her dress.
Worse, Viola hadn’t anticipated how hard her sister’s new focus would hit her. As though a sister married to an earl could ever be construed as a loss, but there was a hollow place in her heart at the thought of her little sister looking out for herself. All grown up. Still, Harper’s unexpected match had given Viola breathing room to avoid her grandmother’s ultimatum to marry the first suitor who came along.
Who arrived only a moment after Viola came downstairs. Though she was loath to disappoint her grandmother, Viola had already decided the man in question was no one she could fathom spending a life with.
After last night, a few minutes of his company was asking rather a lot.
“I am here for Mrs. Cartwright,” boomed the admiring Admiral Saxon from last evening’s entertainment. Viola froze. Apparently, the champagne that had affected her so painfully earlier had little effect on the ruddy-cheeked, vital admiral.
