Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(79)

They caught at each other’s hands at the mention of his name and squeezed tightly. They both blinked back tears.

Viola went for another walk later with Michael and Mary, and her brother told her gravely that she had his blessing, but only if she promised him that she would be happy this time. He said it with an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye.

“Michael still feels guilty about not voicing his concern over your first marriage, Viola,” Mary explained. “He wanted to come here so that he could speak up this time if he felt he ought.”

Viola looked inquiringly at her brother.

“I feel that I ought to object,” he said, frowning, “both as a man of the cloth and as your brother. The Marquess of Dorchester did not endear himself to me by reputation. But I have the curious feeling that I might be making an unpardonable mistake if I did so. Mama agrees with me.”

And her mother did indeed pat her daughter’s hand when Viola joined her and the marchioness and Isabelle for a cup of tea in the morning room and heard yet again all about the plans for Margaret’s wedding.

“I admire your energy, Lady Ortt,” her mother said. “I feel I should be similarly busy over Viola’s wedding to Lord Dorchester. However, I am content to leave it all in younger hands, and the Countess of Riverdale is eager to organize the wedding at Brambledean over Christmas.” She smiled at her daughter.

Viola’s three former sisters-in-law bore her off to look at the conservatory during the afternoon.

“I will envy you this, Viola,” Mildred, Lady Molenor said. “I wonder if I can persuade Thomas to build on to our house.” She laughed. “Perhaps it would be easier to come and visit you often.”

“I cannot tell you in all honesty, Viola,” Matilda said, “that I approve of what you did after leaving Bath so abruptly. However, we all understood that the family celebration of young Jacob’s christening somehow opened up old wounds for you. So I am willing to grant that your meeting the Marquess of Dorchester when you did was fortuitous, and I wish you happy. You are still and always will be our sister, you know, so you must expect plain speaking from us. Your marrying again will not change that.” She looked severely at Viola.

“And since it was Humphrey, our brother, who caused you all your distress,” Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, added, “then we can only be happy that you are having your revenge, Viola. We still wish fervently that he were still alive so that we could throttle him ourselves.”

“Indeed,” Mildred agreed. “Oh, just look at these cushioned window seats. I could spend hours here just gazing out.”

Nobody urged Viola to end her betrothal before it was too late. Nobody. It was quite incredible.

But what of herself? She could not marry Marcel, of course. No one but the two of them knew the whole story of why they had run away together and what their intentions had been. No one knew that it had been a regular sort of sexual fling for him and an impulsive self-indulgence for her. No one knew that there was not and never had been any declaration of love between them or any intention of prolonging their liaison beyond its natural end. It had reached that end. She had yearned to return to her life, and he would surely have tired of her very soon if she had not spoken up when she had. Indeed, his words on the beach had been a clear indication that he was close to that point. He had already begun speaking of her as just one of his women.

That still stung.

Everyone was mistaken. Her relatives, who loved her and wanted her to be happy, were seeing in Marcel what they wanted to see, and he, as a gallant gentleman, was playing up to their expectations. After all, if she did not put an end to their betrothal, he would be compelled to marry her. But he could not possibly be happy about being so trapped—trapped by his own outrageous announcement, it might be added. He did not love her. He could not possibly settle down with her in a marriage that would bring her or himself any lasting contentment. She was not even young or youthfully pretty. She was older than he. And even if he did settle down to a certain degree, how could she settle for less than love? And she did not need to marry. She had been essentially alone all her adult life. She could continue alone. The only thing—the only one—that might induce her to marry was love. She could not even define it. But she did not need to. She knew love even if she could not describe it.

She loved Marcel.

But he did not love her. He had never said anything to lead her to believe that he did. Everyone was mistaken. Oh, they were all wrong.

At least she did not see much of him during the day. He was being interviewed by her well-meaning family members during the morning, and she believed he was with his children during the afternoon. She felt sick as the day wore on. Time was running out. The official announcement of their betrothal was to be made tonight, yet she had still said nothing of the truth to anyone but Marcel himself.

What would she say? And when?

Time was running out. She could not allow that announcement to be made. She was going to have to speak up at dinner. Just before the party.

She felt sick.

And when she thought of Estelle, who had been flushed and bright-eyed at breakfast, she felt even sicker.

Why, oh why, had she not simply spoken up when Marcel made that outrageous announcement to her family outside the cottage? It had seemed impossible at the time. But compared with now . . .

Well . . .



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