Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(70)

“And living happily ever after,” he said.

“And living separately ever after,” she said, “as we had planned and as we wished. We had reached the end, Marcel, but your stupid announcement complicated and prolonged it. And now this.” She gestured with one arm toward the house. “My own family and all the Westcotts arriving tomorrow to celebrate our betrothal in grand style. Do you understand how impossible you have made life for me?”

He gazed at her with narrowed eyes and a cold heart. “You would take pleasure from sleeping with me,” he said, “but not from marrying me?”

“Oh, stupid,” she said. “Stupid.” It seemed to be today’s favorite word.

“You will probably survive the ordeal of marrying a marquess,” he said. “It is actually quite a coup for you—or so the ton will be sure to say.”

Dusk really was gathering about them now. Compounded by the shade of the old tree, it made any clear sight of her face difficult. But every line of her body suggested outrage.

“You arrogant—” She could not seem to find a cutting enough noun to slap up against the adjective.

“Bastard?” he suggested.

“Yes,” she said, her voice colder than the air was getting to be. “You arrogant bastard.”

He wondered if that word had ever passed her lips before.

“For wanting to marry you?” he asked. “Am I so inferior to you, then, Viola, that I cannot aspire to your hand?”

She stared long and hard at him and then turned back to the house in obvious exasperation. But before she could take more than one step, he reached across her to grasp her arm.

“Am I?” he asked her again, and he could feel her fury recede.

“Marcel,” she said, “it is impossible. You saw the reaction of your own family toward me—not to mention Abigail—in the drawing room. Can you imagine taking me to London? During the Season? It cannot be allowed to happen. And for more personal reasons it cannot be allowed to proceed. We are going to have to think of some way out, and it is not going to be easy, especially now. We both need to think. I am perfectly well aware that you do not want this marriage any more than I do.”

“I can think of one reason why I might find it very tolerable,” he said.

“Oh, life is not all about . . . that,” she snapped.

“Sex?”

“Yes,” she said. “Life is not all about sex.”

“But an important part of it is,” he said.

“Monogamous sex?” she asked him, and even in the half light he could see that her eyes were looking very directly into his.

It was something he had committed himself to once upon a time. Once upon a long time ago. It was something he had assiduously avoided since Adeline’s death. It was something—

“I thought not,” she said curtly, and this time when she moved off in the direction of the house, he did not try to stop her. He fell into step beside her after he had caught up, but they did not speak another word.



* * *



? ? ?

The next morning after breakfast, Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, offered to show Viola and Abigail the lake, which he explained was among the trees to the east of the house. His manner was stiff and formal, and Viola suspected he made the offer out of duty rather than inclination. But appearances must be preserved, at least for now. She said she would be delighted. His father, he told her, would be busy for an hour or so with his steward. Lady Estelle decided to come too, as none of the guests could be expected to arrive until the middle of the afternoon at the earliest.

The two young ladies walked ahead, arm in arm. It looked as if Estelle was doing most of the talking, though Abigail was smiling. Viola did not really know how her daughter felt about this whole situation. Strange as it might seem, they had somehow avoided the topic of Viola’s betrothal and what had led up to it during the three weeks prior to their coming here. Outwardly their relationship had not changed, but there had been a certain constraint between them.

Bertrand and Viola followed behind. He did not offer his arm but held his hands behind him. He walked close beside her, however, matching his stride to hers and bending his head politely toward her when she was speaking. And he had conversation at the ready—some details about the park, questions about Hinsford, a hope that she found her accommodations here satisfactory. He was perfectly willing to answer her questions. They had lived at Elm Court in East Sussex until two years ago, when they had moved here. He had had a tutor there, a retired scholar who had lived close by and given him excellent instruction in all subjects, particularly in the classics and classical history. Having to leave his tutor behind was what he had most regretted about coming here. Since then he had shared his sister’s governess, a worthy lady who had forced him to spend more time and effort on his least favorite subject, mathematics.

“I will be forever grateful to her for that,” he added in all seriousness. “Children, and adults too, I believe, should always be willing and eager to stretch the limits of their minds in uncomfortable directions as well as in comfortable ones.”

“Most people,” Viola said with a twinkle in her eye, “are not comfortable with any stretching of the mind, Lord Watley.”

“Oh please,” he said, “call me Bertrand.”