Page 43 of Becoming Lady Dalton
Confide in Piers. He’ll help you.
Between visits in the morning and the afternoon, on pretexts of errands to ready the new townhouse for Lord Briarcliff and his countess, the baroness soon took note.
“You’re overstretched,” she declared, as Viola nodded off during an evening musicale. One moment, she’d closed her eyes, absorbed in the song. Her mind had drifted to pleasant memories of dancing in Piers’ arms. Then, she’d jerked awake, accidentally kicking the chair in front of her. Most embarrassing had been the trace of dampness on her cheeks which she discreetly wiped away with the back of her hand. The tear smudged her lambskin glove, a slight grey smudge across the knuckle, a memory of the first time she’d allowed herself to think of Piers in days.
“You ought to stay home from the Whitney ball this evening and rest.”
“No, no. It’s not necessary.” After all, she needed a chance to slip away and check on Samuel. To protect the nurse from contagion, she insisted on opening the window for ventilation. He couldn’t tolerate the cold, however, so they were burning coal at an alarming rate. She could only hope the nurse was wearing the cotton mask she’d hastily stitched together by candlelight. All the things that could go wrong haunted her. What if her husband died? What if the nurse walked off the job and left him alone and uncared for?
It would serve him right,her heart whispered. But it wouldn’t ease her guilt for leaving him behind in the slightest. Viola didn’t want revenge. She only wanted her marriage to be in her past, not her present, and a future free of obligation.
Piers needed a woman who could make him a promise and produce a legitimate son. Viola couldn’t give him either. What was the point in gaining one’s autonomy only to throw it away with both hands at the first opportunity? Even a viscountcy wasn’t worth that.
Her heart had other ideas, though. Being married to Piers would be as unlike her marriage to Samuel as tea to bathwater. Both were hot and wet, but only the first warmed a body from the inside out.
“You’ll never catch a husband if you wear yourself out preparing the household for Lady Briarcliff,” the baroness huffed between bursts of applause. “I understand setting up a home is a great deal of work, but surely Harper would give you leave to hire a rudimentary staff.”
“Not until after the holiday,” Viola insisted, making a mental note to write to her sister again and inform her of the plan, lest Gran complain to Harper. The only staff she had any intention of hiring was another nurse. The first one had walked off the job after two days, forcing her to go back to the agency and get another. They were interrupted by a burst of applause. The musicale was over. In the coach home, Viola again found herself on the defensive.
“I had such high hopes for you and the admiral, Viola. As much as I enjoy your presence, I still intend to see you married. Now, with your sister as a countess, you have better options than an old navy captain. Had he been a better conversationalist, perhaps.”
“I’ll move into the empty townhouse if you wish me gone.” She meant it to be a teasing remark, but her grandmother’s stricken expression told Viola she’d overstepped. The brief flash of vulnerability made her recognized the baroness’ ramblings as a fear of loss. The baroness froze.
“No. Of course not. You must stay with me, that I may guide you into a proper match. It’s too bad about Lord Dalton’s interest in Lady Margaret. You mustn’t take it hard. A young, handsome, well-situated man like him was bound to attract a great deal of interest from the fairer sex. Two granddaughters well married is surely too much to ask.”
Mine, her heart whispered on hearing Piers’ name. But that organ wasn’t hers to give. Not yet.
23
With the Londonresidents dwindling as families began to depart for country homes, it was no surprise they should run into Miss Lowry, Lady Margaret, and Lord Evendaw straightaway. Viola had chosen a crimson velvet gown that gleamed in the candlelight—the better to disguise any stray spots of blood that might go amiss when she visited Samuel later that evening.
“Good evening, Dame Landor.”
What an inopportune time for a yawn. Viola fought it, then concealed it behind her palm. Between daily errands for both the townhouse and its sole occupant, afternoons with her grandmother and her set, and late nights at the theater or dancing, she was ready for the reprieve of a holiday in the country. With a subtle shuffle of her slippers over the gleaming floor, she turned her back on the room and locked eyes with Piers.
A thousand feelings crashed over her at once. Heat streaked through her blood, singeing her nerves. Embarrassment and desire mixed into a heady cocktail, with a tincture of mortification.
Coolly, Piers glanced away.
How dare he.
He was chatting with Lady Margaret and Miss Lowry now, as if he’d never tasted the passion of her kiss. Humiliation flashed through her. Dismissed.
As her shock faded, Viola worried her lower lip with her teeth. A mere glance oughtn’t set her body aflame. A shared look shouldn’t scorch her soul. But they had. There was only one reason she felt Piers’ touch from halfway across the room.
The knowledge struck her to her core. Viola hadn’t meant to give it away, but Piers must be the true thief of London for the man had stolen her heart anyway.
The strickenexpression on Viola’s lovely features was more than he, or any man, could withstand. Piers pried his gaze away from his beloved and tried to focus on the woman he was supposedly courting. Her vermillion gown was easy to spot as Viola stalked away.
“Excuse me,” he blurted.
“Oh, is he off to find his lady love?” teased Miss Lowry.
“Shh. You’ll give away the game, Antonia,” Margaret hissed.
Piers scarcely registered their words as he chased Viola’s red-clad form. Let there be a scandal. Whatever had put the grey smudges beneath Viola’s eyes and the pain in their blue depths, he would know the cause and offer her comfort.
The sight of her red skirt disappearing around a corner made Piers burst into an undignified trot. “Viola. Wait!”
