Page 9 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“You would have been quite young yourself,” she observed.
“I was twenty-one when I married Emilia. She was nineteen. How old were you when you married Mr. Cartwright?”
“Fifteen.”
It was hardly unheard of, yet Viola’s flat statement of her age at the time of her wedding told Piers everything he needed to know. The union had not been a happy one.
His arm tightened protectively around her waist. Viola raised her chin and her gaze at the same time, challenging him. Fighting instinct, Piers deliberately eased his grip.
“Who is the new lady? I don’t believe I’ve met her,” Piers asked, turning away from the subject that made his companion uncomfortable and gestured at the statuesque brunette standing near Lady Margaret. Nearby were a trio of bosomy auburn-haired young women in cream gowns with matching sashes.
“Miss Lowry, of New York. She arrived with the Kilpatrick sisters and is staying with them as a houseguest. Do you find her captivating? Everyone else I’ve spoken with seems to.”
The three women garbed in debutante ivory whispered and pointed across the room. A matron nearby cast them a quelling glance, but the strangers ignored her.
“Any man would find her appealing, Mrs. Cartwright. Miss Lowry is quite beautiful.”
Yet, the Americans did not attract him. Miss Lowry lacked the other three’s obnoxious manners, but she had a mysterious way of hanging about the edge of his notice, fading into the background until a jarring moment when she came sharply into focus. Even from a distance, cool disdain radiated from Miss Lowry.
“Very. Are you saying your taste in prospective wives runs to wealthy American brunettes?” the woman beside him taunted.
“More than it does to young ladies with brassy hair and voices fit for a bawdy house,” Piers muttered uncharitably. He could crack such a callous remark in Viola’s company. Indeed, beside him, Viola’s dark eyebrows had arched up her pale forehead, and her mouth compressed into a firm line as if fighting a grin.
As if she’d overheard them from such a distance, Miss Lowry scanned the crowd and, finding him, pierced him with a searching look. It was almost if she could size up where he ranked in the peerage with a single glance. He had the peculiar feeling of being assessed, mentally stripped of his ornaments, and weighed for his value. Piers wondered if this was how Lady Margaret felt upon entering the ballroom—like cattle at auction. He wondered if they all did. Why did they do this to themselves?
His skin felt as if it was stretched too tight over his bones. Because they were a hidebound lot valuing lineage over love. That was why they engaged in this ongoing farce. Power and tradition were all that kept them from one another’s throats.
“I knew you had excellent taste,” Mrs. Cartwright declared. “I shall help you win the American.”
Piers jolted back to the present.
“I don’t want her. I want you,” he complained softly. Yet if going along with her scheme would let him spend time with Viola, Piers would tolerate it for a while.
“Ah, but you cannot have me. Miss Lowry, however, has the bearing of a lady. Unlike me,” Viola chuckled self-consciously.
“Why do you say that?” he demanded. “You’ve connections to a baron and an earl. Mrs. Cartwright, you are every inch a lady.”
Viola’s face crumpled for the briefest moment as she glanced back to the dancers. When she spoke, however, there was a forced lightness in her tone and guarded wariness at the corners of her eyes.
“I never feel like a lady, your lordship,” Viola offered quietly. “Every moment I’m here, I am constantly reminded that I don’t belong. No one else here stares in awe of the gowns, the sparkling jewels, the footmen in livery, the elegant crystal chandeliers … do I make myself clear?”
“You mean, you feel like an impostor?”
“Yes. That’s it, precisely.” Viola tapped his arm lightly with her fan, brightening. “My greatest fear is that the wonderful fairy tale I’ve been living since last fall will turn into a nightmare. I live in terror that I shall be discovered for the lowly farmer’s wife I was, and walked off the premises in chains, headed for pillory. Or worse.” Viola’s nose wrinkled at the thought. “I must therefore enjoy every moment of this delightful fantasy I’m living, for as long as it lasts.”
“What if there’s a way to make your fantasy a permanent reality?” he asked softly.
Piers swallowed, his body aflame with embarrassment, hot enough to wilt his starched cravat. He’d already spoken his heart once this evening. It was beyond stupid to push where he wasn’t wanted. Yet the flesh wound of her rejection stung.
“How so?” Viola turned to stare up at him over one shoulder. She was a tall woman and well built. The top of her head grazed his nose. They were the perfect relative heights for stolen, lingering kisses. Piers’ groin tightened at the thought. Around them, the ballroom fell away.
“Marry me,” he whispered, then coughed. “I am of a mind to take a wife before the year is out. Would you do me the honor, Mrs. Cartwright?”
Merely saying the words left an ashy, morbid taste in his mouth. He could hear the scandalized whispers now.Lock up your daughters. Piers Ranleigh is on the hunt for another Dalton victim.
No one would say it to his face. Only the men desperate to unload a troublesome sister, such as Evendaw, would consider his suit. And hopefully, the lady of his choice.
“You know what they say about marrying in haste,” Viola taunted, her blue eyes gleaming with mischief.
