Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(67)

The girl would be disappointed, though. She was the only one among the eight of them who had seemed unreservedly delighted to learn that her father was about to marry. She had assumed, of course, that if he was married he would settle down at Redcliffe and give her the sort of home life she had probably always craved. Viola could cheerfully shake Marcel for that alone. It was hard to forgive fathers who took no responsibility for their children except—in some cases—a monetary one. As if that were in any way adequate.

But she could not marry him just to please his daughter.

Harry did not know yet, though she had written to him. She had considered withholding the news of her supposed betrothal in the hope that he might never have to know. But she was not the only one who wrote to him. Camille and Abigail wrote frequently. So did young Jessica and probably a few of the aunts and one or both grandmothers. It would be impossible to keep him in the dark. There had been one letter awaiting her when she returned home, and another had arrived two days later. She called them letters, but they were his usual brief, cheerful notes, in which he claimed to be enjoying himself immensely and meeting a lot of capital fellows and seeing a lot of impressive places. One would hardly guess that he was in the very midst of a vicious war. But there was no point in worrying.

Or, rather, there was no point in trying not to worry.

“I think this must be it, Mama,” Abigail said, and sure enough, the carriage was making a sharp turn just short of a village onto a wide, treelined driveway partially carpeted with fallen leaves, though there were plenty more still on the trees.

They wound through woodland for a couple of minutes before emerging between rolling, tree-dotted lawns stretching in both directions. The grass had been cleared of all but freshly fallen leaves. Viola could see the marks of rakes on its surface.

And the house. She glimpsed it for a moment before the driveway bent away from it. It was a massive classical structure of gray stone with a pillared portico and a flight of wide stone steps leading up to massive front doors. It had been built to impress, even perhaps to inspire awe in visitors and petitioners. Viola could feel her heart beating faster. She was very glad of the long years of experience she had had of dealing with situations she would rather avoid. She remained outwardly calm and aloof, while Abigail sat with her nose almost touching the window as she gazed ahead.

“We must have been seen approaching,” she said. “There is the Marquess of Dorchester. And Lady Estelle. And Viscount Watley.”

For a moment Viola could not recall who Viscount Watley was. But of course it was Bertrand’s courtesy title as his father’s heir.

And then the carriage turned before slowing and coming to a halt below the portico. She could see for herself that there was indeed a reception party awaiting them.

She saw only one of them.

Her stomach clenched tightly and tried to turn a somersault all at the same time, leaving her breathless and nauseated. He was dressed as immaculately as he might be for a reception at Carlton House with the Prince of Wales. He looked austere and was unsmiling. It would be ridiculous to say she had forgotten just how handsome he was. Of course she had not forgotten. It was just that . . .

. . . ah, she had forgotten.

It was he who stepped forward to open the carriage door and let down the steps. He reached up a hand to help her alight and . . . oh, she had forgotten the dark intensity of his eyes. And the breath-robbing feel of his hand closing about hers.

“Viola,” he said in that light, quiet voice she could always feel like a caress down her spine. “Welcome to Redcliffe.” He was still not smiling. Neither was she. When she was standing on the cobbled terrace before him, he raised her hand to his lips, and oh . . .

She knew him intimately. She knew his body, his voice, his mannerisms, his likes and dislikes. Even his mind. Yet it was like a dream, the knowing of him. The austere aristocrat standing before her was a stranger. She did not know him at all.

“Thank you,” she said.

His son, she was aware, was handing Abigail down from the carriage. His daughter was flushed and bright eyed and bursting with suppressed energy.

“Miss Kingsley,” she said, hurrying to her father’s side and smiling warmly at Viola. “At last. I thought the three weeks would never go by. They have seemed more like three months. You are the first to arrive, of course. I was sure you would like a day or so with just Papa and us before all the excitement.”

“That was thoughtful of you.” Viola smiled at the girl. “I hope you have not gone to too much trouble.”

“Aunt Annemarie and Uncle William will be arriving tomorrow,” Estelle said. “And so will everyone else if there is no bad weather to delay them.”

Everyone else?

“I cannot wait to meet them all,” Estelle continued. “Your other daughter and her children, your mother, the Countess of Riverdale, the Duke and Duchess of Netherby, the . . . oh, everyone.”

Viola’s eyes met Marcel’s, which were hooded and blank—with perhaps a hint of mockery in their depths.

“From the look on Miss Kingsley’s face,” he said, “I would guess this is all news to her, Estelle.”

“Oh, Abigail.” Estelle turned to hug Viola’s daughter. “How lovely it is to see you again. I cannot wait . . .”

Viola had stopped listening. She stared into Marcel’s eyes.

“This was your doing?” she asked.