Page 19 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“Of course, they have a role to play. Yet, we are the ones with access to London’s finest ballrooms. We can speak with potential suspects without anyone knowing what we’re up to. Your courting of Lady Margaret is perfect.”
“Perfect,” Dalton repeated with disbelief. His eyes tracked Viola’s movements as she paced a figure eight around the chair and an easel, which her grandmother had stored in here a few months ago and occasionally complained about never having the time to finish.
“Yes, that’s what I said,” Viola clapped. “You can keep a close watch on Lady Margaret and Evendaw as an excuse to get closer to the Americans.”
Hot jealousy surged through Viola. Pain in the knuckle of her left index finger made her flush. Had she actually bitten her knuckle in front of him? Viola thought she’d broken that awful habit. Apparently, not. She didn’t have time for a resurgence of her past. The mere thought that Sam still walked the earth made her gut squirm with fear.
Piers offered the protection of his name, his title, and his strength. But he couldn’t protect her from the shame of having walked away from her husband in his dying hours—even though he’d ordered her to do just that. No matter that she’d hated him by then, by what Sam had done in marrying her.
“With Lady Margaret herself, then?” Viola gathered her skirts in her fists, crumpling the silk in an effort to resist throwing herself into his arms. Despair tugged at her. How many battles would she have to fight to save her family from ruin?
“Viola.”
Her head snapped up. “Mrs. Cartwright,” she corrected.
“You were Viola to me once.”
“But I’m not now.”
“I can’t go back.” Piers caught her arms above the elbows. He didn’t pin her, but if he’d sensed that she was on tiptoes a heartbeat from running away, he was right in trying to stop her. “You will always be Viola to me. Admit it, you call me Piers in your deepest thoughts.”
A shiver skated up her spine. Viola couldn’t resist tilting her chin up to meet his. She had one opportunity to taste the forbidden fruit of the man she wished she could love, would love if she could afford to. Yet no matter how entranced he was in this moment, Viola knew that she was only a passing fancy made more appealing for being out of reach. Certain men heard the word no and took it to mean, try again. Like the admiral.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
It was the truth, and truth was in short supply. She longed to live an honest life. As hard as Viola tried, she couldn’t leave her past behind her. Piers chuckled, and the sound reverberated through her like the beat of an ancient drum.
I’ll hear you say those words to me in another context.
Viola shivered.
Piers claimed her mouth, and she welcomed him.
11
He slidhis arm around her waist and tugged her close. Viola’s spine curved so her breasts pressed hard against his. If only she could trust him with her secrets as readily as she trusted him with her body.
Urgent but not commanding, he brushed his parted lips against hers. The sensuous curve of his mouth tasted of desire and man. A decadent thrill ran up her spine. Viola gasped and nipped his bottom lip with her teeth. When she let go, Piers bent her back and teased her open to him.
A guttural sigh of satisfaction escaped them simultaneously. With one hand still anchored around her waist, Piers explored the soft curve of her breasts beneath the other. Without thinking, Viola arched against him.
“Woman, why have you kept me waiting?” he growled against her skin. Piers trailed hot, singeing kisses down her neck. His touch pulsed through her, echoing in her low belly as her body responded independent of her will.
“Are you so impatient to have me that a few days is too much to ask?” she breathed against his cheek.
“Yes, damn it. I want you on my arm. At my side. In my bed. As my wife.”
The final word dragged Viola out of her fog of desire. It was not a moment too soon, either, for her grandmother and Admiral Saxon’s voices grew louder.
“Stop,” she hissed. Reluctant at first, then with urgency, she pulled away. “To borrow a phrase from the Bard, your lordship is too costly to wear every day. I should need a second husband for working-days, for I am a working lady.”
Voices echoed up the plaster walls and seeped into the music room, silencing them.
“My granddaughter ought to be finished with the Runner now. I cannot imagine what the man would have wanted with her. I suppose he’s hoping someone will remember crucial details from last night’s events.
“Yes, well,” the admiral boomed. “Thank you for the sherry, Lady Landor.”
“It’s Dame Landor,” the baroness replied. Their voices grew louder as her grandmother approached the bottom of the stairwell.
