Page 31 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“I don’t believe you ever gave me permission in the first place,” Piers observed, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The circumstances of our initial acquaintance were highly unusual.”
“Indeed, they were. Now, tell me why you won’t marry Lady Margaret.”
“We don’t remotely suit. It was apparent from the first moment we danced together,” Piers said. The trace of amusement was gone from his face.
“And you wish to marry for love?” Viola asked. Her stomach flipped. Yet she was not an innocent young girl. She could ask these questions as an older woman offering guidance—only her heart knew how badly she wished to be Piers’ love.
But with love, came marriage, and that was rather a sticking point for Viola, even if Samuel hadn’t been a factor.
“I would marry for all the usual reasons. I am in need of an heir. Failing to fulfill my duty would mean snuffing out the last of my family’s legacy.”
“What a deflating reason to marry anyone,” Viola remarked. “If all you ask of a wife is a pair of legs open only to you and a fertile womb, does it matter if you like Lady Margaret?”
“Are you suggesting, Mrs. Cartwright, that my reasons for marriage are limited to such crass considerations?” he demanded.
Her jealous satisfaction jolted Viola. It was an impermissible feeling, for while any woman might be excused for being greedy of the attention of a wealthy man above her station, she knew she had no right to him. She blew a stray strand of dark hair out of her face, and with it, her envy.
“Never, Lord Dalton. Even if they were, it is your right and your duty. As you pointed out only a moment ago.”
Piers’ hot, dark eyes locked on hers. Entranced, Viola heard every syllable he spoke with her entire body. “I might marry for an heir but prefer to marry for pleasure.”
“I feel the same way,” Viola whispered.
Her shawl slipped off her arm and touched the floor. Piers bent to retrieve the end and tucked it gently around her shoulders. The back of his hand brushed her cheek. Viola turned into his touch and sighed. The intensity of that brief connection almost stopped time. When he pulled away, Viola’s eyes fluttered open to focus on the soft crinkles at the corners of Dalton’s eyes.
“Come. As much as I know you’ll enjoy the Elgin Marbles, I think you’ll like this just as well.”
He leaned past her to take hold of a carved brass handle shaped like a serpent. Viola inhaled. The faint scent of warm soap and leather polish touched with masculine muskiness turned her knees weak. As though there had been any doubt about the fact since last fall, when they had first met.
He wants you.
Right, Piers wanted to show her something. Viola pulled her thoughts back from the abyss of bliss into which she dreamed of throwing herself and gasped.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. “What a wonderful room.”
Books in glass-front cabinets lined every surface. Elephant folios lay in thick stacks along the lower shelves. A quiet hush and the smell of old dust gave Viola the feeling of stepping into a place of timeless wisdom.
“I asked the staff to show us theDescription de l'Égypte,” Piers said, gesturing to a giant tome that lay open on a wide plank table.
Nearby were men hunched over books of varying sizes. One removed his nose from his manuscript long enough to glare at her. Viola ignored him. She wriggled out of her gloves and stroked the gilt edge of one huge page. It was as long as her arm, and the etchings were incredibly detailed. She traced the details of a picture of a palace in Thebes—if she understood the caption correctly. Left to her own devices, Viola would’ve spent hours poring over the etchings.
“There’s a new edition being printed now, the Panckoucke. This is the original, Imperial edition. I suppose you know the history of how this was produced?”
“I do not.” Viola slipped her fingers under the page and carefully turned it. Her rudimentary French, acquired in fits and starts as a child and then with more sustained practice since her arrival in London, wasn’t quite adequate to the task of deciphering the text. But the captions weren’t so difficult. More wonders awaited her as she examined an exquisite depiction of the Sphinx.
“One hundred and sixty researchers accompanied Napoleon Bonaparte on his Egyptian expedition. There were also artists and technicians. It was a massive effort.”
Viola traced the angular outline of a building, sounding out the words. The words made her shy with ignorance. This was the world that had been denied her by her mother’s defection from London society. The loss, to her, was incalculable. She had been like Matthew as a child, gifted in some ways, exuberantly grasping for knowledge and experience in any form it was available. Samuel had put an end to that.
Piers moved closer to her side. He pointed with his pinky finger at the text and translated, “General view of the tomb of Osymandyas [User-Maat-Re] and part of the plain of Thebes, taken from the Northwest.”
“Incredible,” she whispered as chills skittered over her skin. Piers’ warm breath grazed the nape of her neck. “I could spend all day looking at this book.”
“There are more than twenty volumes. The full first edition is being published as it’s finished. The order can be difficult to parse.”
Viola glanced up at him over her shoulder. Piers focused on the book, the sharp slope of his nose caught at a particularly imperious angle but softened by the tendril of hair curling at his temple. He turned fractionally and met her gaze. Fireworks exploded through her. Time stopped. She became hyperaware of him, while around them, the room fell away.
Piers returned his attention to the folio before them. Viola swallowed past the lump in her throat. She’d been seconds from kissing him, right here in the public reading room of the British Museum.
