Page 64 of The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter
She would meet his family tomorrow.
More important, her father was in the best of hands.
She scurried into her room, washed her face again, then stepped back into the kitchen reinvigorated. “Martha, I need the saffron. Dolly, have you peeled the potatoes?”
She had made several extra game pies for herself and the staff. “You have outdone yourself, Miss Ruskin,” Greaves said, finishing up his meal before returning to his post by the entry hall.
The others heartily agreed.
She was pleased when the supper menu also met with everyone’s approval. The evening servings consisted of fish, a goose baked in a plum juice, and a honey-glazed ham. She mashed her potatoes with cauliflower and sprinkled in a sharp cheese to give it a little punch. The greens were lightly sauteed in butter, bacon, and a hint of garlic.
The dessert course was to be served at midnight, after the viscount’s guests had enjoyed a night of dancing. She kept the desserts simple, mostly fruit pies, one or two cakes filled with buttercream, and one centerpiece dessert in the shape of a swan, its wings made of meringue.
She did not think gorging oneself on creamy desserts could be good for the digestion, especially after one’s stomach was already shaken up by dancing. But the footmen reported that the guests dug in with gusto. Viola had never indulged in society ways. Obviously, this society set was accustomed to these late night riches.
As for her, she was usually asleep by this hour.
The strains of a lively country reel reached her ears while she finished up in the kitchen. The orchestra played very well and she was eager to hear more. When the crusts and batters for tomorrow’s breakfast pies and scones were done, she made her way through the conservatory and into the garden where she could position herself to listen without being seen.
She breathed in the cool, night air.
Oh, it was so lovely out here.
A starry night.
A silver moon.
The divine refrains of a waltz now filled the air.
Since no one was able to see her in this quiet corner of the garden, she removed her mobcap, tucking it in her apron ties, and then quietly began to twirl in time to the music. She closed her eyes and imagined herself in the viscount’s arms.
What harm was there in dreaming of a dance with him? It was only a dream. Who better to hold her in the bliss of those muscled arms?
Oh, what perfection.
She spun and spun in time to the music, feeling light as a butterfly.
What was the viscount doing now?
Likely dancing with one of his diamonds.
She wanted to watch him.
But to see him falling in love with one of those pampered pigeons was more than she could endure. It was easier to pretend she was waltzing in his arms, her apron not an apron at all but a cream silk gown, and her boots were satin dancing slippers.
He, of course, looked dashing in his black coattails, the breadth of his shoulders quite magnificent as he stood proudly before her, a figment of her own creation. Powerful. Dangerous. Commanding.
Achingly handsome.
Well, all this was true whether in real life or her fantasy.
Of course, in her fantasy he would be besotted with her and desperate to kiss her.
A splendid first kiss, his lips warm and urgent upon hers.
She was lost in her fanciful dreams and not paying attention to where she was twirling when she suddenly slammed into something solid. “Viola, what are you doing out here at this late hour?”
“Lord Ardley,” she said with a gasp.
