Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(52)

“Ours has been an attachment of long standing,” he said. “To use the vulgar parlance, we fell in love at a time when honor would permit neither of us to admit it—or to see each other again. We did see each other again, however, at a certain country inn a few weeks ago when each of us had been stranded by carriage woes. It took no longer than one exchange of glances to rekindle a passion that had never really died. Before that day ended we had decided not to spend a day more of our lives apart. We were betrothed. We made the impulsive though perhaps rash decision to run away here to celebrate our happiness alone together for a short while before beginning the lengthy process of informing our families and making the necessary announcements and planning a wedding. Is that not the way it was, my love?”

He looked into her face at last. It was as pale as her daughter’s. Pale and utterly expressionless. Her eyes met his. She gazed and then . . . smiled.

“I cannot even blame you for the rashness of it all, Marcel,” she said. “I am the one who first suggested that we run away.”

“Ah, but I did not put up a single argument to the contrary, did I?” he said. “We will accept mutual responsibility, then. Introduce me, my love.”

Her daughter was Abigail Westcott. The older lady—though she was still younger than he and Viola—was Lady Overfield, Riverdale’s sister. And yes, he had seen her a few times in London, though he did not believe they had ever been formally introduced until now. He had known her late husband. The son-in-law was Joel Cunningham.

“Mama,” Abigail said, “you are going to marry the Marquess of Dorchester?”

“Viola—” Riverdale began.

“Elizabeth is the most sensible one among us,” Viola said in the firm, cool voice of the former Countess of Riverdale. “Let us go inside and have some tea. It is chilly out here. We may all talk as much as we wish once we are settled about the fire.”

She withdrew her hand from Marcel’s and gave him a cool, blank look, which did not deceive him for a moment. Beneath the practiced layers of gracious dignity, she was seething.

Did she think he was not?

He had rarely been angrier in his life. Perhaps never.



* * *



? ? ?

Marcel did not immediately follow everyone else into the parlor. He went upstairs, presumably to remove his hat and greatcoat. Viola followed him up, making the excuse that she needed to wash her hands and comb her hair and change her shoes. She followed him into his bedchamber and shut the door behind her. He turned to face her, his raised eyebrows and half-lowered eyelids giving his face an arrogant, almost sneering appearance. It was the look he usually presented to society.

“Marquess of Dorchester?” she said. Of all the things with which she might have begun, it was the detail that somehow stung the most. Who was this man with whom she had been having an affair? Did she know him at all?

He shrugged again as he had shrugged outside. “My uncle died two years ago,” he said. “He was a very old man. I daresay he could not help it. I happened to be next in the line of fire since in all his long years he had produced only daughters. I have always considered the title a cumbersome appendage, but what was I to do? I do not believe I would have convinced anyone that my brother was older than I.”

She let it go. There was so much else. So much.

“What did you mean,” she said, “by announcing that we are betrothed? The very idea is laughable.”

“Laughable?” He was speaking softly in that way he always had in public, even though she was the only other person in the room. “You wound me, Viola. Am I no more than a figure of fun in your eyes?”

“Alexander must know it is laughable,” she said. “Elizabeth must know. Everyone, the whole world will know it if word ever gets out.”

“Word will surely get out, my love,” he said. “The marriage of an aristocrat always does. There is little privacy when one is the Marquess of Dorchester. Or the marchioness.”

“You cannot be serious,” she said. “You could hardly wait until tomorrow to be rid of me.”

“Did I say that, Viola?” he replied in a pained way that came across as mocking. “How very ungallant of me. I would call you a liar, but that would be equally ungallant. What am I to say?”

“You do not want to marry me,” she said.

The mocking look disappeared to be replaced by something more grim. “What I want is no longer of any significance,” he said. “Neither is what you want. We embarked upon a great indiscretion a few weeks ago, Viola, and we have been caught out and must pay the price.”

“That is nonsense,” she said, “and you must know it. Alexander will not breathe a word of any of this. Neither will the others.”

“Let me see,” he said. “Riverdale will whisper it to his wife. Cunningham will tell his wife, and she and Miss Abigail Westcott will inform your mother in the strictest confidence. Your mother will inform your brother. All the Westcotts, who are so worried about you, will have to have their minds set at rest, and my guess is that they will not be told lies and that, even if they are, they will see through them in a moment. Servants will hear the story, as servants inevitably do. And servants will tell it in the strictest confidence to other servants, who will pass it on to their employers. Is my point becoming clear? Your virtue has been compromised, Viola, and I am the compromiser. I must, then, as I occasionally manage, do the honorable thing and marry you. You have no cause for complaint. I did not write to my family. My family has not put in an appearance here, breathing fire and brimstone, have they?”