Page 1 of Becoming Lady Dalton
LONDON, DECEMBER 1822
1
Mrs. Viola Cartwrighttraced a length of roller-printed linen and sighed. The fine fabric slipped beneath her gloved hand as smoothly as silk. If only the dressmaker hadn’t asked her to keep her gloves in place, Viola would have removed one—discreetly—to enjoy the texture of material that had been out of reach until a few months ago. Before then, had she tried touching delicate, expensive cloth, the dressmaker would likely have slapped her hand away instead of gently reminding her not to smudge the wares.
Absorbed in making her selections, Viola sensed a presence at her back before a whisper-light touch brushed the scant inch of exposed skin between her sleeve and the edge of her thin cotton gloves. Viola jolted.
“Oh, it’s you,” she breathed, glancing up over her shoulder. The room suddenly grew heated. Viola’s corset laces mysteriously tightened, threatening to constrict the breath right out of her.
Lord Dalton had that effect on her. Likely, he had this effect on many women. Viola greedily wished she could keep this man’s blood-stirring regard all for herself. She supposed half the women in London felt the same way. Late last summer, she’d arrived on her grandmother’s doorstep with little more than the clothes on her back, and her eight-year-old-son and lovelorn younger sister in tow. Within a few short weeks, Harper had married Edward Northcote, the heir to the earl of Briarcliff, to the surprise of just about everyone. The couple’s first wedding had been an overwrought fiasco, followed promptly by a fire that had burned the Briarcliff town residence to its foundation. It was whispered that Richard, Edward’s younger brother, had caused the fire in which the previous earl had collapsed and died, leaving Edward the new earl.
Harper and Edward remained in the country, adapting to their new lives. But Viola had decided to return to London for most of December. After spending fifteen years on a farm near Upper Cotwarren, a hamlet in the north of England, she’d taken to city life with an enthusiasm her sister and new brother-in-law lacked.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Dalton murmured, his hand hovering near hers. It had been months since their last meeting. What was he doing here, in a dressmaker’s shop?
The answer stood behind him, a tiny girl in a blue wool dress. A heap of outerwear overflowed the child’s arms as she struggled to contain a velvet cloak and wool cap. She must be Dalton’s daughter, four-year-old Emily.
“Here, Papa.”
She dumped the pile at her father. Dalton accepted the bundle of damp fabric. Emily scampered off, led by a seamstress, to look at pictures of children’s clothes.
“She’s grown a full two inches since her birthday. Nothing fits her anymore,” Dalton complained with affectionate pride.
“I know the feeling. Matthew’s outgrown two pairs of shoes since last summer.” Never mind that the first pair had been woefully too tight to begin with. Five months ago, Viola had lost her home in Upper Cotwarren in the northern parts of England. Too-tight shoes had not been her primary concern. Penniless and homeless, Viola and Matthew had been forced to travel to London with her sister, Harper, to find their long-lost grandmother, Baroness Landor. The whirlwind of her sister’s marriage to the Earl of Briarcliff’s heir still made Viola’s head spin when she tried to think of all the changes her family had weathered in such a short time.
“Has he now?” A slow grin spread across Dalton’s sensual lips. Oh, the man was handsome. Her heart fluttered at the thought that she, lowly Viola Cartwright, nee Forsythe, appealed to a young buck like Dalton. The four-year age gap between them was not in her favor, either.
“Yes. He’s off to school in January.” Which would leave her all alone. Viola brushed away the thought like a cobweb. “I’m here to order his school wardrobe.”
“Eton?” Dalton asked idly as he shifted the bundle of his daughter’s clothing from one arm to the other. A second seamstress appeared to relieve him from the burden. Viola mused that the shop was well-staffed—a luxury she had never experienced before a few months ago. It was all for the best the dressmaker wanted her to leave her gloves on. Viola’s chapped and scarred hands were as unfit for fine company as they were for fine fabric.
“Bainbridge,” Viola replied. It was the nearest competitor to Eton. Only her new brother-in-law’s notoriety had secured Matthew a place. Her sister’s newfound status as a countess had brought with it unimaginable advantages. Viola was determined to enjoy every single one.
Dalton’s dark gaze, like brown sugar caramelized over a flame, cut to her with an intensity that made Viola’s blood pound. If she could bottle that look and sell it, she’d be a rich woman in her own right, instead of a poor dependent. Sadly, however, Dalton was one luxury Viola could not afford for herself.
There was nothing to prevent her from looking, though. With his dark locks curling about his ears and temple, and the severity of his cheekbones offset by the hint of a sardonic smile perpetually playing at the corners of his sensual mouth, she often caught herself staring at Dalton. Indeed, that had been how they’d initially met last fall. Her forward ogling had led to his impertinent introduction, and now…what?
She was staring again. Dalton let her, with humor playing over his lips as his gaze met hers and slid away. Embarrassed heat flooded through Viola.
“A worthy institution,” was all he said, meaning the school. “I’d best see to Emily.”
“She looks enthralled.” Viola glanced across the room to where the seamstress had given her a doll with miniature clothing to dress. A wistful sadness ghosted through her. “My firstborn was a girl. She would have been twelve now.”
Had she lived.
Immediately, Viola froze in place. Sheneverspoke of the child she’d borne at seventeen, who had died before her first birthday. It was a confession Viola could make without thinking only to Dalton, and precisely what made him so dangerous to her peace of mind. With his priest-like austerity and wicked, teasing gaze, the man tempted Viola to speak openly when she ought to mind her tongue.
“Do you ever think of her as if she’d lived?” Dalton asked.
“Of course. Don’t you think of them?” Viola asked softly as her embarrassment subsided slowly. She wished the man didn’t have this loosening effect on her lips. Her trust was hard-won. Though Dalton had proved himself worthy of her confidence last fall, she didn’t know him well enough to blurt out personal details about her life as she’d just done. Her cheeks flamed. She ought to conclude her business and flee into the cold December air of London’s streets before she embarrassed herself any further.
But he’d lost his entire family as a boy. Then his first wife, Emily’s mother, had died before their daughter was a year old. Dalton knew loss. Worse, most of London regarded Dalton with a degree of superstition, because nearly everyone he loved died. No one wanted to be next.
“Never,” Dalton replied evenly, unfazed by her breach of etiquette in the midst of a bustling shop. Perhaps the man enjoyed her company because Viola had never developed the habit of dancing around delicate matters, Viola mused. Dalton appeared to find her company refreshing.
“I think of them as frozen in time. Forever six, eight, eleven, and seventeen. My parents never age. My late wife, however…” He trailed off as he contemplated his daughter. “It’s not quite the same. I can imagine moments when she’s alive beside me, because Emily is very like her.”
Viola’s heart wrung like a dripping rag.
