Page 29 of Becoming Lady Dalton
Even Harper would be hard-pressed to defend her if she was identified as a jewel thief. Viola bit the inside of her mouth and pretended to smile as her thoughts whirled through the possibilities. Her heart hollowed out at the thought of being so close to freedom, only to be forced to choose between marriage and
“I’d like to take you to the British Museum tomorrow, Mrs. Cartwright. My daughter is still young for an excursion, but I believe her governess could use an excuse to leave the house. She can assist us with watching Matthew and Emily.”
“You know I’m too old and too widowed to require a chaperone,” Viola retorted. The flippant words were out of her mouth before she remembered that she might not be a widow, after all. The incident in the hallway with the investigator had rattled her that badly.
Or, perhaps she’d convinced herself she was truly a widow. Born of deception—Samuel’s—and necessity—hers—their marriage had existed in name only for years. Lord knew Viola had believed it when she’d left the farm and gone to fetch her sister from the asylum last summer. There’d been no smidgen of doubt in her heart when she’d knocked at Gran’s door a few weeks later and asked to be forgiven for her mother’s transgressions. She hadn’t known, at the time, that she was committing new offences of her own.
But she did now. That made the flutter of excitement at the prospect of an entire afternoon alone with Piers and their children a betrayal. Didn’t it?
“I’d love to,” she said in a rush, before her conscience could intervene. If her life was about to come crashing down, Viola needed every happy memory she could gather to get through it. Besides, she wasn’t accepting for herself. She was doing it for her son, who would be leaving in a few weeks. Although she knew it was an opportunity, it pinched her heart to know that her constant companion and sole source of comfort for the past nine years was going away to school.
It hurt more to know how he might not have every luxury because she needed funds to trace his ne’er do well father.
“Tomorrow?” Piers asked, leaning closer than was quite proper. Viola felt the weight of three thousand opera glasses and lorgnettes, though they were in the rear of the box and mostly hidden from view.
“I’ll have to check my social calendar.”
Piers chuckled. The sound resonated through her. Viola wanted to fall into him, into his arms. Into his protective embrace. Piers wanted to protect her, but he was the one who needed protection—from her.
Mortifying thought.
“Do. Send a message to me tomorrow.” He leaned close, his lips brushing her cheek near her ear in a not-quite-kiss, not-quite-whisper. “Write me sweet words, dear Mrs. Cartwright. I await with bated breath.”
Viola closed her eyes. A sigh swooshed out of her, taking with it her tension. She was overthinking things. Again. At worst, Samuel would show up, and she would find a way to make him stay quiet. She could ask Harper for help, and her sister would give it, no matter what it cost her. Which was precisely the reason why Viola was so reluctant to ask anything at all. Harper had enough to contend with as a new countess who’d come to the title under a cloud, without the added burden of a sister who dragged her family’s name through the mud. Still, the knowledge that she was not alone thawed Viola enough to properly enjoy the second half of the performance without mulling the precariousness of her position … too much.
15
Dear Lord Dalton,
I shall meet you at the museum entrance at one. I’ve errands to complete for Matthew’s school wardrobe and to furnish the new townhouse. By chance, do you recommend silk satin or brocade drapes? Gran thinks the brocade, but I find the pattern too clashing. Draperies have become rather a sticking point, I’m afraid, and neither my sister nor the earl appears to care a fig. I appreciate any guidance. The last home I furnished was a two-room cottage. I am out of my depth.
-Mrs. Cartwright
Piers fairly skipped up the steps of the British Museum with his daughter’s small mittened hand closed in his palm.
“Wait, your lordship,” puffed Miss Townsend behind him. Her serviceable mantle billowed out behind her on a gust of wind. The crisp air had turned cool and tasted of snow. For the first time, Christmas felt like it was around the corner. Dutifully, he and Emily paused to wait for the governess to catch up.
His stout servant’s breath puffed in clouds of exertion.
“Come on, Miss Townsend!” shouted Emily. Wind whipped her curls about her red cheeks. The child’s locks were constrained by a blue velvet cap with a pompom on the top. His child was a tiny whirlwind, and Piers’ heart pinched with love at the sight of her. He couldn’t stand to lose her too.
“Don’t rush her,” Piers chided gently, though, he too wondered how Miss Townsend had the energy to keep up with his sprightly, verbose daughter.
“Thank you for waiting,” Miss Townsend gasped. “Your lordship.” With a shy curtsey, she captured Emily’s other hand. As usual, Miss Townsend’s gaze bounced off his and landed somewhere near her feet. It was a wonder she could see where she was going, she kept her gaze so focused on the ground.
Inside, Viola and Matthew were scanning the elegant foyer as they waited. Matthew attempted to climb the railing to get a better view of a statue.
“Matthew, we discussed this before we left. Young gentlemen don’t climb railings.”
“I’m not a gentleman,” the boy insisted cheerfully. “I’m nothing but a rotten blighter’s son.”
“Matthew. Cartwright.” Viola seethed through her teeth. “Get down here, and don’t ever say that again—oh, hello, P— er, Lord Dalton. Lady Emily.” She dropped into a practiced curtsey.
Matthew leapt down from the railing and bowed dramatically. “At your service, my lady.”
“I could do that.” Emily scowled. “Papa—”
“No, not even once, Emily,” Piers warned. Amusement tried to bubble out of him, but he tamped it down.
