Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(85)

“He looks exactly like his father,” Mildred said.

Viola seemed to spend half the evening apologizing for what had not been her fault.

“I would rather have the two of you admit your incompatibility now, Viola,” her brother told her, “than in the middle of next January.”

“But I am so glad we all came,” Elizabeth assured her a little later, and Cousin Althea, her mother, nodded agreement. “I think this evening would have been dreadful for you if you had only had Abigail for moral support.”

“Aunt Viola,” Avery, Duke of Netherby, said with a languid sigh after she had expressed her regret at his having come all this way with Anna and the baby for a nonevent. He had wandered her way to rescue her from a gentleman farmer who had settled into a lengthy description of all his livestock and the bounty of his recent harvest, which somehow surpassed that of all his neighbors. “People who are forever begging one’s pardon are almost invariably crashing bores. I shudder at the unlikely possibility that you might become one of them. Do come and dance with me. I believe I may remember the steps of this one well enough not to disgrace you.”

“You must not apologize, Viola,” Alexander told her not long before supper. “It is not your fault that we were invited as a surprise for you and ended up being a bit of an embarrassment instead. And we are glad to be here to lend you some support.”

“If you are truly sorry, Viola,” Wren said, a gleam of mischief in her eyes, “then you will come to Brambledean for Christmas regardless of what has happened tonight. Everyone else will still come even though there is no longer to be a wedding. I know you well enough to predict that you will not want to be there. But you must. Family is so very important. I know. I grew up without any except my aunt and uncle. At least now I have my brother back in my life—and I have all of Alexander’s family. As you do. Your mother is still going to come, and so are your brother and sister-in-law. I just asked them. You must come too.”

“Wren is an expert at twisting arms,” Alexander said. “I have the sore muscles to prove it.”

Viola was horrified at the very thought of yet another family gathering in little more than two months’ time. But she would not think about it yet. She could not. “I will let you know,” she said.

“That will have to do for now,” Wren said. “But do remember how we dared each other back in the spring to step out into the world, and how we did it and felt enormously proud of ourselves.”

But she was not being dared to step out into the world, Viola thought. She was being asked to step into her family and accept their collective embrace.

“Come and dance with me, Viola,” Alexander said.

And then, after supper, just when Viola was wondering if she could slip off to her room without appearing unduly bad mannered, Marcel appeared before her and Isabelle and the vicar and his wife. They had successfully avoided each other all evening. Yet she had been aware of him every interminable minute. He looked elegant and almost satanic all in black and white with a silver embroidered waistcoat and his solitaire diamond winking from the intricate folds of his neckcloth. He looked austere and a little intimidating, though he had made an effort to mingle with all the guests and make sure that refreshments were brought to the more elderly among them. He had begun the dancing with Estelle, and Viola had watched, feeling sick at heart as she remembered dancing the very same country dance with him on the village green a lifetime ago.

She was horribly, painfully in love with him, and resented the fact. She was no girl to be made heartsick by a handsome face and figure. Except that it was more than that, of course. Far more.

She wanted to be gone—from the ballroom and from Redcliffe. She wanted to be home. She wanted . . . oblivion. It was the worst wish of all and something that must and would be fought. But she would be gone from here tomorrow. She had decided that. All the houseguests had expected to stay for a few days after the party, of course—a few days in which to enjoy their surroundings and celebrate a new family betrothal in a more leisurely way. She had no idea how her leaving would affect everyone else. Staying after the betrothal was ended and she was gone would be more than a little awkward, and—good heavens—her family had arrived here only yesterday, after a few days of travel in most cases. But she would not think of that or of them. Sometimes—yet again!—she could think only of herself. She must leave, as soon in the morning as it could be arranged.

Yet now he was standing before her. Well, before all four of them actually, but it was at her he was looking, as though he were unaware of his cousin or of the vicar and his wife.

“Viola,” he said, “will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Ah, it was unkind. It was cruel. He was doing it no doubt in order to demonstrate to their families that there were no hard feelings between them, that—as she had told her daughters after dinner—they did not hate each other but just did not wish to marry each other. But he ought not to have chosen this particular way to do it.

“Thank you.” She set her hand in his, and his long fingers closed warmly about hers as he led her onto the floor.

“We are perfectly coordinated, you see,” he said. “Had we announced our betrothal tonight, Viola, the guests would have assumed it was planned.”

She was wearing her silver lace over a silver silk evening gown. She had always considered it elegant in an understated sort of way, and modest without being prim, and flattering to her figure. She had always thought it suited her age without making her look frumpish. It was, in fact, her favorite, and she had chosen it to boost her confidence.