Page 2 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“Emily is a lovely little girl. Very spirited and winning,” Viola offered hastily, glancing at the little girl who was charming the seamstress into giving her a tea cake. “I’ll bet she’s enjoying the day out with you. Does she ordinarily come here with her governess?”
“Of course. But Miss Templeton is feeling unwell, so today I took a personal interest.”
Dalton turned to her with a penetrating look. Viola felt his gaze rake up and down her body, admiring, just as she had done to him a moment before. The urge to flee, which always came hard on the heels of a private conversation with Dalton, no matter how innocuous, raced through her veins.
Piers Ranleigh, sixth Viscount Dalton, was one luxury she could never afford to indulge.
Despite this, he tempted her above all other delights. Viola would forego silk and satin by the bolt, fine linen sheets, dancing to exquisite music, evenings at the opera, even the pleasure of raiding her grandmother’s extensive book collection.
She caught herself.Maybe not the library.One must have some standards, after all. Especially as regarded the male sex. Having naïve expectations was how she’d become Mrs. Cartwright, after all.
“Are you, by chance, attending the Townsend ball tomorrow evening?” Dalton asked, pulling Viola out of her reverie.
“I may. I may not.” Viola flashed a smile. She needn’t avoid all flirtatious interaction with the man, only the kind that tempted her to kisses…and more. “It depends upon whether my gowns can be made ready in time. Which is my second purpose in coming here today.”
As if she’d conjured her, the dressmaker appeared to beckon her into the back room.
Dalton gave her a devastating half-grin. A dimple flashed in the smooth expanse of his cheek below the sharp cheekbone and above the strong line of his jaw. Viola blinked at the ephemeral appearance of the divot. If she’d seen him smile fully before, it had been too brief and shallow for the whimsical mark to make an appearance.
“Then, I may or may not see you there,” he responded with a slight bow. “But if I should be so fortunate…”
He paused.
“Yes, my lord?” she prompted.
“Wear the crimson velvet.”
Dalton turned on his heel and moved to attend to his daughter.
Viola gaped after him, her mind awhirl with longing.Not for you,she reminded herself, grateful to return her attention to more accessible pleasures.
2
She’s back.Piers could not recall ever experiencing such lighthearted exhilaration. It wasn’t as if he never felt happy—to the contrary. Emily brought him great joy every day. Yet, whenever Viola was near his chest expanded until he thought he might burst the buttons of his waistcoat. The world was a warmer, brighter place with Viola around to banter with.
Piers had every intention of winning her heart.
After the fire at the Briarcliff townhome two months ago, the Northcote family had retreated to the countryside for the remainder of the season, in part to avoid excess scrutiny as Edward settled into his role as the new earl. Viola’s brother-in-law was disinclined to follow convention under the best circumstances. Who could blame him, after the disastrous way he’d been lost abroad and forcibly repatriated?
Most of London, as it turned out.
It hadn’t helped that the previous earl had died from shock related to the fire. Nor had a botched elopement between the new countess, nee Harper Forsythe—Viola’s sister—aided matters. The disaster was still the primary topic of society gossip weeks later. If he’d been thinking and not just longing, Piers would’ve asked Viola whether she was in town to mitigate the disaster or simply because she missed him.
Was he arrogant? Absolutely.
“Papa, can I have a cake?”
Wide, dark eyes peered up at him from slightly less than waist height. Brown ringlets bobbed about his daughter’s shoulders. The curls were his late wife’s contribution. Piers shook off his distraction.
“I promised you one, sweet dumpling, and you shall have it.” Piers captured his daughter’s small hand in his. Warm and slightly sticky, she tugged and tried to skip ahead to the tea shop, impervious to the cold and with her gloves tucked inside the pockets of her cloak. Children weren’t especially welcome at fancy shops, but the proprietor allowed him to bring Emily to the counter and select a treat. Viscounts were valued customers. Piers was not above using his title to make his child happy.
It was about the only use he had for it. Still, one did not take an inheritance such as his for granted.
One day, he must marry again. Piers refused to be the one Ranleigh who failed to produce an heir. All he had left in the way of family was Emily, the ability to pass on his name, and a damaged sister whose lungs would never heal. Gwendolyn would die a spinster. She could not withstand the rigors of pregnancy and childbed. He would never permit her to risk her life.
“May I have a blue dress for my doll?” Emily asked between a custard cake. This was one of several demands she’d peppered him with since leaving the shop, but she must especially want this toy for she was using her prettiest manners.
“Of course, pet.”
