Page 5 of Becoming Lady Dalton
The public rooms on the parlor floor were spacious with wide windows that let in a great deal of light. Or would have, had they not been covered with thick parchment paper. Viola peeled away the edge to let in the waning light of early evening. Dust motes swirled in the faint beams. Her first order of business was to have the place thoroughly cleaned and coal delivered.
Viola clapped her butter-soft lambskin gloves together and made her way upstairs to the bedrooms. She bypassed the grand suite where Edward and Harper would sleep when they were in residence. Or whatever they chose to do in there. It was none of her business. Down the hallway were two chambers suitable to children or guests. At the end, overlooking the rear yard with its leafless pear tree, was her room.
My new life begins when I move in here, Viola thought with immense satisfaction. As much as she adored her grandmother, putting a few blocks of distance between them would give her the freedom Viola craved. Despite the warm relationship that had developed between them, the ongoing friction over the Baroness’ demand that she marry had a way of bubbling up at inconvenient moments. There was also the occasionally snappish disapproval of her grandmother’s friends. Lady Gracie, in particular, remained deeply offended by Harper’s elevation to countess, and liked to remind Viola of her unworthiness through shrewish backhanded compliments. This was the gossipy and cliquish part of town society which Viola preferred to pretend did not exist.
Viola shook the thought away. Lady Gracie was a problem for later, after her work here was finished. In the meantime, there was a certain admiral whose unwelcome affections must be gently brushed aside. The last thing she needed in London was an enemy.
The future she’d hardly dared to dream about was so close, she could feel freedom pulsing around her. It was the hum of a city that offered untold delights for a curious woman of means and leisure. At its core was Viola’s right to dance to the tune of her own selection. The only way she would ever be bound to another human being was love, not obligation, for she’d borne too much of that in her young life.
The Northcote familyhad not been out in public much since the death of the late earl of Briarcliff. Therefore, the sight of a deep green velvet gown with deep ivory trim at the hem shocked Piers out of his conversation with his old acquaintance, the Marquess of Evendaw.
Ranleigh, the scarlet fever orphan.Piers flicked away the memory of Evendaw chanting insulting nicknames. As though he’d been the one responsible. Superstition had trailed him for years, until he’d married Emilia. After she’d died, however, the taint on the Ranleigh name and the stain over the House of Dalton had turned permanent. He was marked.
Tonight, though, none of it mattered. Viola hadn’t worn the gown he’d audaciously requested, but still he wondered—had she come for him? Piers ached with the possibility. Mrs. Cartwright, whose plebeian name hardly suited her natural elegance, tilted her chin to listen to her companion. Her gaze skimmed past his, then back, locking with his for a moment before dismissing him with a smug smile curling her lips up at the corner.
It was a valiant attempt at feigning disinterest, and he saluted mentally. Yet he’d felt the spark of awareness across the ballroom. He’d wager Mrs. Cartwright had too.
“Dalton, did you hear my offer of my sister’s hand?”
“Yes”—he coughed—“I am honored.”
In truth, he’d hardly heard Evendaw’s words after catching sight of Viola. A cold wash of comprehension yanked his attention away from the vision in evergreen velvet.
Evendaw’s offer was not a welcome development. Declining an offer to open marriage negotiations with the marquess was unwise, for the man enjoyed using his carefully cultivated political heft to curry favors. In truth, Piers considered the man a pompous ass—though as he was rarely asked his opinion, he generally kept it to himself. Evendaw frowned, his pale gold brows knitting over the beak of his nose. The coloring was a family trait. Lady Margaret was as petite as Emily’s beloved, tattered doll and about as animated.
“I’d like to arrange a meeting. A quiet meeting. My sister is, as I’ve mentioned, very shy around men.”
The noble thing to do would be to marry the poor girl. Give her a title and a babe or two. Get himself an heir, hopefully. Piers had done it once. He ought to reconcile himself to doing so again. There was wisdom in not becoming overly attached to family. It only set one up for devastation when death inevitably arrived. Despite this conviction, his attention was again drawn to the woman in deep green velvet with gold silk trim, whose hips swayed gently as she perambulated the perimeter of the dance floor.
She too had known the death of loved ones, but Viola didn’t let the past dim her enjoyment of the present.
“Perhaps another time,” Piers broke off. He launched himself across the room, fixated on the scant expanse of flesh visible between Mrs. Cartwright’s gold satin gloves and the puff of her sleeve.
“Mrs. Cartwright,” he said in an exhale. “Would you care to dance?”
The lady turned to spear him with questioning blue-gray eyes.
“I do enjoy a waltz,” she offered hesitantly. Lest he mistake her reluctance for coyness, Mrs. Cartwright snapped open her fan. “Alas, I fear I am being watched for any hint of impropriety. With you, I daren’t take the risk.”
Viola gestured across the room. Lady Gracie and Baroness Landor were watching them from the safety of the card table in an alcove. They were three weeks from Christmas, and the London season was petering out, leaving the party less populated than it might have been a few weeks earlier. In spring, an equivalent gathering would likely be a crush of people and horses in the street.
“Do I tempt you to impropriety?” Piers teased, his voice purring in a semblance of calculated flirtation. He plucked the commemorative paper fan dangling from Viola’s wrist. She relinquished it without resistance. Piers squinted at the names written across the tines. It was not even close to full. There were four names.
“Admiral Saxon,” he read aloud. “That was for the quadrille at the beginning of the evening.”
“Gran claims he’s a charming man,” Viola commented with a hint of a smile flickering at the corners of her lips.
“Provided you have nothing to say. He’s deaf as a post.”
“Well, I was focused on the music,” Viola responded. “As much as I enjoy it, dancing is a recently acquired skill for me. I can hardly afford to be selective about partners if I wish to take a twirl.”
Mrs. Cartwright often appeared to be the only woman in London who appreciated society gatherings. From the moment he first spotted her and her wary sister at the edge of the Woolrytes’ ballroom last September, he’d been drawn to her like a magnet to iron.
“A wise woman once wrote, ‘every savage can dance.’”Where had that acerbic comment sprung from?
Viola’s startled gaze cut to him. “Jane Austen. The ever-disapproving Mr. Darcy. I suppose he has the right of it. What I lack in delicacy, I make up for with enthusiasm.”
He’d not intended to insult her. Rather, the boorish admiral had been his target. No wonder Londontoncalled Piers caustic and brooding—or worse.
