Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(15)

“No,” she said, and took his arm.





Four





It seemed to Viola that she had stepped out of time. There had been the seemingly disastrous delay in a journey that should have been completed by nightfall; the almost incredible coincidence of finding Mr. Lamarr stranded—albeit deliberately—at the same small country inn as she; the fact that a village fair had been arranged for this exact day; his suggestion that they enjoy whatever it had to offer together; and the excellence of the weather for the time of year. It was all so strange that it was hard to believe in the reality of it. So she did not. It was a time out of time, as though she had been given the chance to step off the world for a short while and had taken it.

Tomorrow everything would return to normal and so would she. She would resume both the journey and the life she had cast off for today. She would face the demons that had cracked her surface calm in Bath and sent her scurrying homeward, alone. She would face all that when tomorrow came.

In the meanwhile . . . Oh, she had enjoyed this afternoon as she could not remember enjoying any other. She had left her old self back at the inn and become someone new, someone she had never before allowed herself to be. She had been decked out in tasteless, garish jewelry, the very sight of which would normally make her cringe. Worse, she had allowed Mr. Lamarr to pay for it. She had bought him a gift too—a hideous handkerchief hideously embroidered. She had clapped her hands and tapped her foot in time to fiddle music and to the intricate maneuvers of the maypole dancing instead of observing with quiet, gracious dignity. She had shamelessly admired a few brawny, sweating young men as they sawed wood and showed off for the young women. She had had her fortune told and was apparently to expect long life and continued bliss with her handsome husband—she had not corrected the misconception. She had sat for her portrait even though she had seen some of the artist’s earlier efforts and knew he had no talent whatsoever. She knew artistic excellence. Joel, her son-in-law, was fast gaining fame as one of the country’s most talented portrait painters. She had continued to sit even when a crowd had gathered around to watch and comment.

They had certainly not gone unnoticed or unremarked upon, she and Mr. Lamarr. Far from it. She had felt very much on display all afternoon and had chosen to enjoy the attention and even to play up to it. She had flashed her cheap false jewels before anyone who looked at her with admiration and pointed out to a few people where they could purchase some for themselves.

The vicar’s wife met them at the door of the church hall with smiling formality and insisted upon seating them at a private table, while most people squeezed onto the benches flanking the long tables that stretched from one end of the hall to the other. And unlike everyone else, who had to line up for their food, they were served heaping plates of every dish known to man—according to Mr. Lamarr.

“Or woman,” Viola added.

“It is hardly surprising, of course,” he said, “when the harvest has just been gathered in from fields and gardens. But dear me, I do not recall ever before having been presented with such a vast pyramid of innumerable foods all piled onto one plate.”

The presentation did indeed lack something in elegance. It lacked nothing in either quantity or flavor, however. Viola, normally a dainty eater, cleaned off her plate, as did he. And then they both ate a generous wedge of apple tart smothered with thick, sweet custard.

And that was that, she thought with more than a little regret as she set her spoon down on the empty dish. Not just the banquet, but this whole precious day of escape from herself and her world. She would remember it for a long time, even for the rest of her life, she suspected. Perhaps the memory of it would somehow cheer her up, help her get her life back together at last.

Or perhaps it would do just the opposite.

“Miss Kingsley.” He was turning his cup of coffee in his hands, and she was aware again of the well-manicured elegance of his fingers and of the gold ring—real gold—on his right hand. “Are you going to doom me to an evening spent alone in my room, stretched out on my bed, hands clasped behind my head, toes pointing at the ceiling while I count the cracks up there and entertain the fear that it is about to fall on my head? Or are you going to dance with me?”

The image of him lying stretched out on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, was enough to turn her hot inside. But the idea of dancing with him did no less. She had agreed to spend the afternoon in his company and had added the meal because there was to be no alternative at the inn. It had been enough. More than enough. She must not be tempted . . .

But why not? Who was going to be harmed?

“If it will serve as an act of mercy,” she said, “then I will dance with you.”

“Ah.” He set down his cup and leaned back in his chair.

“Though my main reason for agreeing,” she added, “is that the evening would be long and tedious for me too if I were forced to spend it alone in my room.”

“How very flattering, Lady Riverdale,” he said. “But you are not Lady Riverdale. I cannot think of you as Miss Kingsley either, however. The name makes you sound like someone’s governess. Will you entrust me with your given name?”

It was an imposition. They were near strangers. Only her family members had ever called her by her first name.

“It is Viola,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “The loveliest of the stringed instruments. Of a lower tone than the violin but not as low as the cello. It suits you even though the pronunciation is different. I am Marcel. Marc to my family and intimates.”