Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(24)

It was.

She was curled onto her side, facing away from him, and he turned too and curled about her, spoon fashion, with one arm over her waist. She had slept more than he had.

Today they would go their separate ways. And next spring, more than likely, he was going to have Estelle in town with him making her come-out during the Season. And if Estelle was going to be there, then so—perish the thought—was Jane Morrow as her official sponsor and chaperon. He was going to have to be far more circumspect about his own behavior. He would not be able to continue his accustomed way of living when it might affect his daughter’s chances of making a good marriage.

Viola would not even be in town next spring. Through no fault of her own she had fallen out of favor with some members of the ton and was no longer accepted as unconditionally as the Countess of Riverdale had been. She had not been seen in town since soon after the death of Riverdale, or, if she had, he had not heard of it. She was unlikely to return.

So there was no chance of an ongoing affair with her. Perhaps it was just as well, however. He doubted she knew the unwritten rules of dalliance. Its inevitable ending might be messy. And to be quite honest with himself, he was not sure he could treat an affair with her as lightly as he did with other women. He was not sure what he meant by that, and he was certainly not going to puzzle over it at this precise moment.

She drew a deep breath and let it out on a low, self-satisfied sigh. Her hand came over his about her waist.

“Daylight,” she muttered a few moments later. She did not sound too pleased.

“It is an abomination, is it not?” he agreed.

She turned to lie on her back the better to look at him. “How are you going to get home?” she asked.

“Ah, we are looking ahead to the day, are we?” he said. “I have no idea, but I very much doubt I will be stranded here for the rest of my natural-born days, attractive as the prospect might be if I could have a fellow strandee of my own choosing. That is unlikely, however. I took a stroll out into the yard yesterday while waiting for a certain lady to get ready to go dancing. The coachman of that dreadful hired vehicle was confident that it would be ready to proceed by the middle of this morning. You will be home before nightfall.”

“Provided a couple of wheels do not fall off,” she said.

“Do you look forward to being at home?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, and looked unutterably bleak.

“And who is awaiting you there?” he asked.

“No one,” she said. “Only peace and quiet. I left behind all my family in Bath—except my son, who recently returned to the Peninsula to rejoin his regiment. I left behind my daughters and my son-in-law and grandchildren. I left my mother and my brother and his wife. I left all the Westcotts, who came for the christening of my newest grandchild. I had to get away.”

Had to?

“Too much family?” he asked. “I know the feeling.”

“It sounds so very ungrateful put that way,” she said. “I love my children and grandchildren dearly, and everyone else too. The Westcotts in particular have been unwaveringly supportive and kind since the discovery that I am not really one of them after all. But . . . I had to get away.”

“In a hired carriage,” he said. “Did no one offer a private one for your use? And servants to accompany you?” They sounded like a grim lot, her family.

“I had my own carriage with me,” she explained. “I left it for Abigail, my younger daughter. She lives with me at Hinsford. I was offered the loan of several others. I believe I even hurt a few feelings by refusing, but . . . I had to get away.”

He was beginning to understand yesterday afternoon a little better. And last night. It sounded to him as though, surrounded by her loving, concerned family, she had cracked.

He knew all about that—cracking, that was.

“Are you looking forward to going home?” she asked.

“It is full of . . . people,” he said. “Family. All of whom need to be sorted out and put in their place. By me. I have a severe aversion to being forced to exert myself in domestic matters.”

“It is all quite sufficient to make one want to run away and hide, is it not?” she said with a smile.

Ah, that smile. So rare with her.

“It is indeed,” he agreed.

He kissed her and wondered if they could or should have sex again. How many times would that make? Five? Six?

Did it matter? The night was all but over, and there would be no other. Not with her, anyway. There was something melancholy in the thought, though melancholia was not something he was in the habit of indulging.

They made love again.





Six





Viola was seated in the dining room again, eating breakfast. The carriage was indeed ready to resume the journey. She would be home well before nightfall, barring any further accident. One of her eggs was too soft, the other too hard. The toast was dry, the coffee too bitter. Or was it all just her? Was there in fact nothing wrong with the food? Her stomach felt a bit queasy. She ate only because she believed she ought to before embarking upon a longish journey.

And perhaps to prove to herself that she was fine, that she had had a bad few days followed by an unexpectedly pleasant day and night and was now cheerfully back to normal. Perhaps she would be better able to convince herself once she was actually on her way. She did not know if she would see him again before she left. He had gone from her room an hour ago without giving any indication of whether he intended seeing her on her way or not. She would not press the issue. She would not linger in the hope that he would come down, and she would not knock on his door. When she was ready to leave, she would simply go.