Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(86)

“Thank you,” she said.

“For?” He raised his eyebrows.

“For speaking at dinner,” she said.

“And saving you from having to do it yourself?” he said. “It was what you were about to do, wasn’t it? I assume you would not be thanking me if that were not the case. You were not about to announce your undying love for me and your commitment to a happily-ever-after that would stretch into our old age and beyond into eternity?”

She could not help but smile, and his dark eyes fixed with some intensity on her face. “You did not misunderstand,” she told him.

“Ah,” he said. “I did not think I had.”

The musicians played a chord and Viola looked about her, startled. They were not in line. She had not heard the announcement of what dance they were to perform. There were a few other couples on the floor, none of them the very young people and none of them in line. There were Alexander and Wren, Mildred and Thomas, Camille and Joel, Anna and Avery, Annemarie and William, and two other couples. Almost before the chord had finished she understood.

“It is a waltz,” she said.

His right arm came about her waist and his left hand, raised, awaited hers. His eyes never left her own. She set her hand in his and raised the other to his shoulder, and . . . Ah, and they waltzed again. As they had on the village green in that other lifetime when all had been carefree adventure. They had danced on uneven ground there and in semidarkness. Here they danced on a polished floor among banks of flowers with the light of dozens of candles flickering down upon them from the chandeliers, and with other couples twirling about the floor with them.

But she saw only Marcel, felt only his body heat and the touch of his hands, smelled only his cologne. His eyes never left her face—he had always had that way of making his dancing partner the full focus of his attention. It was part of his masculine appeal. She smiled, though there was a totally unreasonable sort of bitterness inside her. She had nothing of which to complain, except perhaps his announcement of their betrothal outside the cottage—surely one of his rare forays into gallantry.

Music engulfed them.

“I did love you, you know,” he said when the dance was almost at an end.

“Fourteen years ago?” she said.

He did not reply.

“You did not even know me,” she said. “Love cannot exist without knowledge.” She did not know if that was true or not.

“Can it not?” he said. “Then I did not love you, Viola. I was mistaken. It is just as well, is it not?” There was a curious twist to his mouth.

And a thought struck her—was he talking about fourteen years ago? But it did not matter.

The music ended and he led her from the floor in the direction of her mother, who was seated on a love seat with the marchioness, his aunt. But Viola did not stop beside them. She hurried away, trying to slow her footsteps, trying to smile and make some eye contact with people she passed on her way to the door. Once she reached the door, however, she broke into a near run and did not stop until she was inside her room, her back to the closed door, her eyes tightly shut.

Her heart breaking.





Twenty





A party involving dancing and unlimited refreshments and a lavish supper would have gone on until dawn in London. Fortunately, this was not London. Guests began to trickle away soon after midnight and then the trickle became a steady stream. Houseguests began to slip away quietly in the direction of their bedchambers after thanking Marcel for his hospitality and Estelle for the splendid party.

It really had been splendid, even though Marcel had hated every moment of it. Though that was not entirely true. Despite the fact that she was upset about the betrothal, Estelle had been flushed and bright-eyed and exuberant tonight at the success of her party. Bertrand had comported himself with dignity and charm. Marcel had been filled with pride over both of them, though he had done nothing to earn the feeling. And then there had been that waltz . . .

He went down onto the terrace to see the last of the guests on their way. Inevitably neighbors discovered things they absolutely must tell one another even though they had had all evening during which to converse. And everyone wanted to thank him again and again and yet again.

It took a while longer to see the stragglers inside the house off to bed and then to hug Estelle and shake hands with Bertrand and thank them for that most precious of birthday gifts—the party. But finally he was able to retreat to the library alone after favoring André with his most forbidding look when it seemed his brother might follow him. He stood in the middle of the room for a couple of minutes dithering, trying to choose between sitting down to read for a while and going straight up to bed.

So he went to Viola’s room and stood outside her door to dither. He could not be sure, but it seemed to him that there was a thread of candlelight beneath it. Or perhaps she had left the curtains open and it was merely moonlight. It must be half past one at least by now. He had not looked at the clock before leaving the library. But one o’clock, half past one, two o’clock—the actual time was not important. The fact was that it was far too late to be paying a social call, and even if it had been one o’clock in the afternoon it would still be improper to call upon a lady in her bedchamber. Which was a mildly ridiculous thought under the circumstances.

He tapped lightly on the door with one knuckle. He could hardly hear it himself. If she did not come before he counted at medium speed to ten, he would go away. One . . . two . . .