Page 6 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“Dalton,” a rough male voice behind him boomed with less-than-convincing joviality. Evendaw’s irritation made Piers’ back stiffen as if he’d been struck. The marquess—who had been only an earl at the time—used that tone when they were at school together. Though his ability to make Piers feel lower than a worm in the loam had diminished, the echo of his scorn pulled an invisible string of reaction in his body. Mrs. Cartwright’s light blue gaze rested on him, questioning, before flitting away like a butterfly briefly resting on a flower, then gone.
“My sister has an open spot on her dance card,” Evendaw declared as he clapped a large paw on Piers’ shoulder. “If you are free.”
“I have no claim upon him,” Mrs. Cartwright volunteered before Piers could hide behind her velvet skirts.
Piers speared her a narrow glare, but she simply lifted her chin in challenge. He’d rather stay here and fence with words. Better yet, they could depart this tedious event and fence with their tongues and teeth in private. Preferably without clothes.
“I would be delighted to dance with Lady Margaret, if Mrs. Cartwright would spare me. The next song, perhaps?” If he must play nice with Evendaw, he could at least leverage his sacrifice into getting what he wanted.
“If you so desire,” Viola replied coolly.
Oh, he desired, all right. From the first moment he’d met her, Viola and her damnable secrets had captivated him. He would pry them out of her. One by one, he would make her his.
But now, he gathered the delicately proportioned Lady Margaret into his arms. Though Piers tried his best to maintain a most appropriate distance, her tiny stature forced him close enough to talk into her crown of pearl-bedecked gold hair. She smelled strongly of rosewater and danced with mincing steps that made Piers feel as graceful as he had earlier that day when Emily had attempted to climb his arm.
“I understand this is your first season,” he offered after a few moments of silence.
“Yes,” Lady Margaret replied, her gaze fixed on the top button on his waistcoat.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Piers tried again. He spared a glance at the woman who made his heart expand in his chest. Viola—Mrs. Cartwright—chatted amiably with Evendaw, tapping her foot to the music as though she couldn’t wait to take a turn.
Ask her to dance, you imbecile.Piers mentally cursed the man who wanted to become his brother-in-law. Though he didn’t like the idea of Viola dancing with the marquess, per se, it was preferable to watching the man ignore her.
“Yes, very much,” came Lady Margaret’s mouse-timid reply to the question he’d forgotten he’d asked a moment earlier. He swallowed his frustration. The woman he wanted was not the one in his arms. But she would be, once he figured out how to win her.
4
Viola sometimes fanciedshe could interpret the hidden meaning of the precise slant of Dalton’s shoulders or divine the meaning of a sudden tensing of his jaw.
She was fooling herself. Viola was nothing but a temporary interloper in this gilded world of ball gowns fashioned from exquisite fabrics. This evening as her maid had snugged her stays into place, Viola had the temerity to run her hand over the snow-soft surface of the evergreen silk velvet gown.
“Please, ma’am, if you don’t mind. You’ll crush the finish,” the maid had said, meekly.
Viola had let go of the velvet, and the woman proceeded to brush the fabric until it gleamed like a deep-green emerald, erasing any sign of her trespass. It fell heavily about her body. Even poor fabrics weighed, but this was a sumptuous feeling of pure wealth. As were the butter-soft satin gloves that came to her elbows, hiding her rough, scarred farmwife’s hands. Disguising her true nature amongst these well-dressed people who could afford to take such luxury for granted.
Like Piers.
Lord Dalton,she scolded herself.
“They make a perfectly lovely couple,” the man beside her grumbled. He’d been droning on for several minutes now, mostly about the difficulty of finding a suitable match for his sister, the rather tepid young lady who was fortunate enough to be ensconced in Dalton’s arms. Viola quelled a burst of jealousy.
“Mm,” she replied noncommittally, feeling the beat of the music and the pleasant weight of her skirt as the fabric moved in time to the tap of her foot. The past few months had left little time for dancing. There had been her sister Harper’s second , legal wedding, which despite being a quiet affair had come too hard on the heels of the late earl’s death for propriety. A certain interval had been advisable before returning to London, her grandmother had informed her.
Viola had lasted six weeks in the country. She had seen enough open skies and rolling fields to last a lifetime. She thrived on the activity and possibility of London. Interests that had once been fleeting passages in her few books were now only a short carriage ride away.
“Margaret is delicate in temperament. You understand my meaning, Mrs. Cartwright?” Evendaw asked, spearing her with a glance.
“Of course.” Viola had no idea what the man meant, but her previous silence had marked her as a confidante, apparently.
“Dalton has the sort of strength that can protect a child like Margaret. If only I can get her to see past his family history. The man has had the most damnable luck.”
“Luck?” Viola prompted. It required little effort to keep the man talking. A single word sufficed.
“He lost his entire family, save his sister, Gwendolyn.”
Oh, yes, Dalton had mentioned a sister once. Viola had the impression that Gwendolyn was sickly. No one appeared to have met her. She knew about Dalton’s family, although she was sketchy on the details. What perplexed Viola most of all was why London society recoiled from Dalton as though a dark shadow hung over his head wherever he went. Admittedly, he favored severely cut clothing in stark colors of black, grey, and white, but so did many other men. Besides, it suited his dark, brooding handsomeness remarkably well.
“Might I inquire how?” she asked.
