Page 7 of Becoming Lady Dalton
Evendaw’s bushy brows knit so deeply over the bridge of his nose that they became a single organism, like a caterpillar crawling across his broad forehead. A woman who had seen less of the world might have quailed. Viola was not that woman.
“You’d best ask Dalton himself,” Evendaw replied with pursed lips.
Apparently, there were certain lines that could not be crossed. Discussion of a man losing his family was perfectly acceptable, provided it was done in low tones on the edge of a dance floor. Any mention of the reason, however, was suspect. For all Evendaw would tell her, Dalton might have killed his family himself. Likely not, considering he was attempting to wed his sister to the viscount in question, but with these London types one never quite knew.
“I gather he didn’t simply misplace them one day,” she said after a moment.
“No,” Evendaw responded repressively.
Viola gave up trying to engage the man. The waltz swelled, and a few beats before the ending, Dalton returned Lady Margaret to her brother. Their parting did not appear to elicit one shred of dismay between them.
“Thank you for the waltz, Lady Margaret,” Piers said, sketching a bow.
“You are most welcome,” she responded with formality.
“Another dance, shall we?” Evendaw clapped.
The young woman paled. Dalton schooled his features into careful neutrality, an expression Viola had come to recognize as well-concealed resentment.
“I’m afraid Lord Dalton has promised me the next dance,” she interjected, surprising everyone, including herself.
“Well. Perhaps another time.”
Evendaw bowed stiffly and departed with his sister on his arm, following at a trot.
“Now that you’ve said it, you’re obliged to join me for a turn about the floor,” Dalton said the moment the marquess and his sister were out of earshot.
“Dancing is never an obligation.” Viola grinned up at him.
Dalton offered her his arms, and Viola stepped into his embrace. His faint scent of leather and starched linen touched her nose the moment before his hand flattened over her spine and slipped down to her waist, skimming the sensuous fabric—which she had been denied the opportunity to do.
“Especially when it’s with you,” he whispered. Dalton’s low-spoken words sent a shiver down Viola’s spine.
Their bodies jostled once then found the rhythm. Ever since her arrival in London several months ago in a desperate attempt to find a safe perch after she had lost the small farm to repay her husband’s debts, Viola had loved the opportunity to dance. Doing so with Dalton was a scene out of a fairy tale. The top of her head came to the tip of his slanted nose, leaving her to watch his mouth as they danced. Or, when she dared to raise her gaze, to meet the heat in his eyes.
“Am I so special?” she asked in a breathless tease. Viola wanted to be special to him.
“You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met, Mrs. Cartwright,” Piers responded like the stuffy aristocrat he was. Viola grinned widely, as she felt his gait go off-beat for a single step.
“A high compliment indeed,” Viola teased, though she held the most tenuous control over her own reaction. “One wouldn’t expect a lowly farmer’s wife to captivate a viscount. Lady Margaret, perhaps, is a better prospect.”
“You underestimate me if you think I am so easily enraptured by a pretty face. You underestimate yourself if you believe that’s all you have to offer,” Dalton said, nudging her a scant inch closer than was proper. Viola filled her lungs with the scent of him. She ached with the longing to do much more than flirt. Once, she had kissed him. It had been the merest brush of her lips against his cheek, but the simple gesture had conveyed so much emotion for her.
Dalton, at that moment, had been a comfort in her moment of fear, longing, desire and despair. But that had been when Viola and Harper had faced a grim future indeed. Now, her future looked downright rosy. Though she hadn’t entirely escaped her grandmother’s insistence that she needed to find a husband, Harper’s spectacular success at marriage had bought her time.
Time she desperately needed. Viola had married once for obligation, and it had been an outright disaster. Her husband, Samuel Cartwright, had sought to use her connection to the Landor barony to extort money from the family she’d never met. Viola vowed never to marry for practical reasons again.
“Does that mean you find my visage reasonably pretty, my lord?” Viola asked as she twirled lightly. Her heavy skirts pressed her petticoats against her legs. Her gold silk dancing slippers flashed and twinkled beneath the hem, demonstrating her rudimentary dance skills to anyone who cared to criticize. Let them. The worst things they might say to a woman who dared to dance with one of London’s most eligible—if intimidating—gentlemen could not compare with anything she had already heard said about her sister, Harper.
“I find you as captivating as the moon is to the sea.” Piers drew her closer after the next twirl. Their lips were inches from meeting. Close enough that a puff of his breath brushed her cheek like a gentle stroke from the back of his knuckle. Intimate. Adoring.
She pulled back fractionally.
The one thing Viola couldn’t afford to be was a scandal. Despite Harper's success in marriage, her sister had brought enough of that upon the family. Viola’s duty was to present a reassuring face to the family while she was in public and draw fire from the fiercest of Edward and Harper’s critics by being utterly upstanding.
“It is unwise to give another person such power over you,” she warned, meeting his gaze full-on. Piers twirled her again. Viola expected it. She did not anticipate that he would use the force of her return to draw her closer than anyone would consider proper.
In that moment, Viola longed to be anything but proper.
