Map of a Lady’s Heart

by Caroline Linden

  “No,” she scoffed. “Very ordinary.”

  “Not remotely,” he whispered, and kissed her. She placed her palms on his chest and went up on her toes, kissing him back. She might not be extraordinary, but this—this deep-seated contentment and awe at the way he felt and the way he made her feel—this love was the most dazzlingly extraordinary thing she’d ever experienced. Whatever happened later, she would have this moment of true joy and love to remember.

  “What the devil?” said a terribly familiar voice. Viola froze, her eyes flying open. Wes raised his head, and as one they turned toward the door.

  The Duke of Wessex stood framed in the doorway. As Viola watched, stricken, Mr. Martin peeped around the duke’s shoulder before immediately retreating.

  Oh dear heavens. She took a step backward and pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. His face as grim as a thundercloud, Wessex strode across the room. “Winterton, I presume.”

  Wes bowed. “At your serv—”

  The duke shoved him backward. “How dare you. Mrs. Cavendish is our cousin.”

  Wes’s eyes flew to Viola, who shook her head mutely. “I meant no offense, sir.”

  Wessex raised one dark brow. “And yet I find you making love to her in my own private study.” Then his gaze fell on the atlas, still on the desk behind them, and his eyes grew dark with anger. “I suppose that is the atlas you wrote to me about.”

  Wes cleared his throat. “Yes, it happens to be, but—”

  “Get out.” The duke glared at him.

  “Wessex,” said Wes, “allow me a moment to explain.”

  “I see,” said the duke with icy finality, “that you have persuaded Mrs. Cavendish to search my personal study to find the book you sought. And I suspect I know how you persuaded her.” He looked at Viola for the first time in minutes. “You may go.”

  Viola wet her lips, but had no words. She never argued with the duke; she barely spoke to him at all. To protest now, when she had violated his trust by invading his study to show her lover one of the duke’s private possessions . . . “Sir,” she said bravely, “Your Grace . . . If I may . . . It was my fault.”

  The duke’s expression didn’t change. “No, ma’am. I wondered at Lord Winterton’s persistence in seeking that atlas, but I didn’t imagine he would go to this length, corrupting you into helping him.”

  “Viola? Oh—there are you are.” Bridget’s bright voice cut through the room. “And Gareth!” With a squeal Bridget launched herself at the duke, who caught her in one arm and kissed the top of her head. “When did you return? Did Helen have the baby? Is everyone well”

  “Just now.” The duke smiled briefly at his sister. “I’m busy here, and Cleo will be able to tell you all about Helen, who is very well, as is her new daughter.”

  “How brilliant! A baby girl! And how wonderful you’ve come home!” She beamed at him. “We’re staging a play tomorrow and now you can see it.”

  “A play?” Wessex looked at Viola in alarm.

  “A farce,” Bridget amended. “I wrote it! Everyone is in it except Mama and Aunt Sophronia. It will be the best entertainment at Kingstag in years. I’ve come to fetch Viola; Lord Gosling is dripping feathers everywhere and no one sews better than she does. Oh, and Lord Winterton must come rehearse his scenes.”

  Slowly Wessex turned to look at Wes. “He is in your play?”

  Bridget nodded. “He plays the king who dies.”

  The duke’s expression darkened. “Very well,” he said, still watching Wes. “He’ll be down soon. I need a word with him first, Bridget.”

  “Thank you, Gareth.” She bounced up on her toes and kissed his cheek, then hurried out of the room.

  “When is the play to be performed?”

  “Tomorrow, Your Grace,” Viola murmured.

  The duke jerked his head. “You may stay until the play is over,” he told Wes. “The next morning you leave. I will not have my own cousin’s widow seduced under my roof. And if you think to wheedle that atlas from me, I suggest you spare your breath.”

  Wes’s eyes were stormy blue. “If you’ll allow me to explain, sir . . .”

  “Winterton,” said the duke, “I don’t care to hear it.” This time when he pointed, Viola rushed for the door.

  Outside, Geoffrey Martin waited. He was a kind man, and now he simply gave her a sympathetic smile. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Cavendish.”

  “Happy Christmas, Mr. Martin,” she murmured, feeling as though she would be ill. The duke was not happy. He might be taking it out on Wes at the moment, but eventually he would focus on her part in the debacle. She had escaped being blamed for Alexandra’s indiscretion, but she had done even worse.

  The study door opened again and Wes stepped out. He nodded once to Mr. Martin, who slipped obediently inside and closed the door again. Wes looked at Viola.

  “I must go,” she said in a rush. “See to the rehearsal—the costumes—the play is tomorrow, you know—”

  He reached for her hand. “I’ll speak to Wessex when his temper cools and tell him you weren’t to blame.”

  She backed up, shaking her head. “No. I—I will explain to him. He’s been very kind to me so far, and I hope . . . I hope not to lose my position.”

  A thin line creased his brow. “About your position—”

  “No!” She tried to smile, but failed. “I cannot lose my place here, Wes—Lord Winterton. I cannot. The salary is far above what I could expect anywhere else; I told you the duke has been very kind. If I lose this position, my brother will have to leave university, and I don’t want that. I won’t allow that.” She took another step backward. “Please don’t anger the duke further, if you have any care for me at all.”

  Grim-faced, he gave a faint nod.

  Viola blinked back a tear. She had known it wasn’t to be forever between them, but she hadn’t thought to lose him so soon. Then again, she’d never thought she’d fall in love with him. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Viola,” he said in a low urgent voice, but she turned and ran, away from his beautiful hands and beguiling laugh and eyes as blue as the midsummer sky.

  * * *

  Wes seethed with frustration.

  The duke refused to listen to his explanation. Part of him wanted to punch the fellow in the face and make him listen, and part of him knew the duke was absolutely right. If it had been any other fellow kissing Viola in there, Wes would have thrown that blighter right out into the snow.

  The look in her eyes though, when she said she dared not lose her position . . . That look gutted him. She had risked a great deal to show him that atlas, and he was bound and determined that it would not cost her everything.

  On the other hand, he didn’t like the duke’s plan at all. Wessex had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to pack his trunk and be ready to leave early in the morning after the play. It ought to have given him a bit of hope, that the duke was willing to allow him to stay so that Lady Bridget’s play wouldn’t be spoiled, but all Wes could think of was the second part of the duke’s order: never come back.

  What are your intentions? echoed his own voice in his head.

  He intended to make Viola happy. He intended to win her favor and make her smile at him again. He intended to get her back into his bed, as often as possible. He intended . . . to make her fall in love with him.

  What had he told Justin? If you don’t see yourself marrying her, don’t kiss the girl.

  He knew that was the answer. Even more, it was the answer he wanted. When he woke in the dawn to see her dark hair spread across the pillow and her beautiful face soft with sleep right in front of him, Wes had known. He would have been content to stay there in that room with her forever, he who had never felt content in one place for more than a few weeks. He had never felt more at home than with her.

  Because he was in love. He’d kissed her, he’d fallen in love, and he wanted to marry her.

  And that meant he wasn’t about to leave without asking her, no matter wh
at the Duke of Wessex said.

  Chapter 11

  The play was going to be an epic disaster.

  It began with Miss Penworth declaring that her music had gone missing. Bridget scowled and stomped around until Withers located the pages, under a tea tray in the parlor. Lord Gosling’s costume dropped its feathers again, and it took Viola more than two hours to replace them. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten their lines or lost some part of their costume, and two footmen were required to track down people who had wandered off before their scenes. In addition, the Duke of Frye had arrived at last, and no one knew quite what to say to him now. Only Lady Charlotte Ascot seemed willing to speak to him, while Serena had to restrain Bridget from pushing him out into the snow. Blessedly the duchess resumed her role as hostess, both sparing Viola from the job and preventing the duchess from delivering any sort of remonstrance about Lord Winterton.

  There was a sharp little pain in her chest every time she thought about Wes, and how he would depart the next morning. She’d lain in bed all night, wishing he could come to her once more and yet terrified that he would. Was it worse to see him as much as possible and lose even more of her heart to him, or to cut herself off now? She didn’t know, and ended up stealing longing glances at him across the room as she sewed feathers.

  At long last the production was ready to begin. The dowager duchess sat in the audience beside her daughter-in-law and the duke, who wore a wary expression. Sophronia looked filled with eager expectation, which only deepened Viola’s sense of impending disaster. Bridget had directed Viola to sit behind the stage with a copy of the script and remind everyone of their lines before they went on. If women could join the army, she reflected, Bridget would be the most fearsome general of them all.

  The script had become utterly ridiculous. Viola had Bridget’s own copy, which was covered with crossed out sections and additions in the margins. She did her best to keep up, but when Wes approached to make his entrance, dented crown in place, she faltered and busied herself with adjusting Alexandra’s ghostly draperies. He strode past her onto the stage. Just hearing his voice made her flinch, and she accidentally stabbed a pin through the draperies into her finger.

  When Alexandra went on stage to issue her prophecy about the death of the king, Viola found herself face to face with Wes.

  “Do you know your lines, sir?” she asked formally.

  He nodded.

  “Very good. I’ll go where I’m needed, then—”

  “Viola!” He caught her hand before she could retreat.

  “Please don’t,” she whispered in distress. It was gouging out her heart to think that he must leave tomorrow morning and she would probably never see him again.

  “Just for a moment. Please.” She hesitated, undone by the urgency in his face, and he pulled her back behind the curtain at the back of the stage—which had been borrowed from the billiard room.

  “The play,” she began.

  Wes waved one hand as if to shove the play away. “I’ve just died by decapitation and had my entrails eaten by wolves. I’ve done my service to Lady Bridget’s play. I need to speak to you before Wessex tosses me out.”

  He wanted to say good-bye. Another wave of misery rolled over her, but she managed a slight nod. She could do this. She had to.

  He took a deep breath. “Marry me.”

  Viola blinked.

  “I came here determined to get the Desnos atlas,” Wes went on. “I wanted to retrace my father’s last journey with it, see what he saw and experience what he did. I’ve barely spent six months at a time in England since I was eighteen, and I wanted to be off as soon as I recovered the atlas.

  “But you said something about travel the other day, that it was no hardship to stay home when everything dear to you was here. When Wessex told me to get out, I didn’t even think at all about my father’s atlas—all I could think of was that I didn’t want to lose you. I don’t want to go anywhere without you.”

  “But . . .”

  “I love you,” he added softly. “If you could care for me enough to give me a chance—”

  A sound escaped her, half laugh, half sob. “I fell in love with you when you took me to see the stars.”

  “Did you?” His face lit up. “Then I have a chance.” He pulled her into his arms, his dented crown slipping to one side. “Will you marry me, my darling Viola? Will you travel the world with me and manage my household perfectly when we’re home? Will you have a pack of children with me, who will surely vex us almost as much as Justin and Alexandra?”

  “Oh, but—but . . .” Viola blushed. “My brother,” she said in despair.

  “I should be very proud to sponsor his fees,” he said. “He can teach me how to navigate.”

  She smiled, then she laughed, and then she kissed him. “Yes. Yes, Wes, yes.”

  “You should always say my name that way.”

  He kissed her again, long and thoroughly. There was an outburst on the other side of the curtain. Viola ignored it for once. The duke and duchess could intervene in any uproar caused by their guests.

  “It sounds like Lady Serena has got over being jilted by the Duke of Frye,” Wes murmured against her hair.

  Viola pressed her cheek to his chest and smiled. “I know.”

  His laugh rumbled though her. “Did you really?”

  She squeezed him tighter. “Since the Christmas Eve rehearsal. She’s in love with someone else. I recognize the look.”

  “Do you?” He tipped up her face to kiss her. “What does it look like?”

  She put her hands on the side of his face and smiled, reveling in the way he looked at her. “Like this.”

  Epilogue

  One year later

  Wes woke early, as usual, and reached for his wife, as usual.

  Unusually, she was not there.

  He opened his eyes. The room was quiet and dim, the drapes still closed. The door to the dressing room stood ajar, and no light or sounds came from it, either. Viola must have risen and left some time ago.

  Wes flopped back with a stretch and a yawn, and a flicker of disappointment. Tonight was Christmas Eve. Guests had invaded the house, and the only time he had her to himself was here in bed.

  One outstretched hand touched paper. There was a note on her pillow, his name on the outside. Intrigued, Wes rolled up onto one elbow and opened it.

  No, it was not a note. It was a riddle. His eyebrows climbed as he read Viola’s neat script. Once a wanderer, so at home by sea and saddle, Now confined to hearth and home, must hunger for adventure, To ease the pangs felt with each dawn…

  He re-read the note, a smile slowly forming on his lips. No, it wasn’t a riddle.

  It was a clue.

  * * *

  “Have a cup of tea,” urged Anne, Lady Newton.

  Viola hesitated. She’d meant to grab a roll on her way through the dining room, but the whole family had risen early. The children had been allowed downstairs and the table was filled, from infant Maggie in her mother’s arms to the dowager Countess of Winterton.

  After she and Wes married last Twelfth Night, nearly a year ago, they had come home to Winterbury Hall, where his very curious and amazed family awaited. Fortunately Anne, Wes’s oldest sister, had heard an earful from her son Justin, and she was waiting to sweep Viola into an embrace and thank her for dealing so well with Justin’s indiscretion.

  By summer Viola had become friends with all three of Wes’s sisters, Anne, Mary, and Lucy, and found an ally in Margaret, the dowager countess. “I never thought he’d find a woman to make him stay,” she’d confided in Viola, “and I’m unutterably pleased it was you, dear.”

  And now they were all at Winterbury Hall for Christmas, like a proper family. It filled Viola with happiness. The only flaw was the absence of her brother Stephen, but she could not hold it against him. Wes had helped Stephen secure a chance to study telescopes in Brussels, to Stephen’s delirious joy. Ah well. She was glad he was getting to do what he loved s
o dearly. He had promised to visit when he returned.

  “Yes, do sit down,” added Margaret.

  “You’ve been racing about this entire week, you deserve a proper breakfast at least,” put in Lucy from the end of the table.

  Viola put a hand on the empty chair. Hot tea sounded divine, but… “I still have so much to do.”

  “I’ll watch out for Uncle Winterton,” offered Justin, divining what made her hesitate. Viola gave the young man a grateful smile, and he grinned back. He jumped up from his chair and loped to the door, followed by his young cousin Tom, quietly begging to be allowed to keep watch, too.

  As Viola slid into the chair, the other ladies sprang into action. “Freddie, bring her some toast,” Lucy told her husband. Mr. McPherson obediently went to the sideboard while Anne poured a steaming cup of tea and Grace, her youngest daughter, passed the milk and honey.

  “Thank you all.” Viola took a sip, her eyes flickering closed in pleasure. “I must hurry, though.”

  “You must also eat,” said Margaret firmly. “Catherine, dear, pass the butter.”

  “And the strawberry jam.” Catherine gave Viola a jaunty smile as she slid the butter and jam across the table. Viola grinned back; she and Anne’s second daughter both loved their butter and jam.

  “Is all ready?”

  “Nearly,” replied Viola buttering her toast. “Thanks to Freddie and Sir Thomas.”

  Freddie McPherson and Sir Thomas Steventon both protested, but Viola insisted. “I could not have done it without your help—everyone’s help,” she added, looking around the table.

  “It was our pleasure, my dear,” Margaret assured her.

  “And the least we could do.” Mary shifted three-year-old Mary Anne from her lap to the chair beside her, and gave Viola an affectionate glance. “After you invited us all for Christmas.”

  A chorus of “Thank you, Aunt Viola!” sounded around the table from the younger family members. Sir Thomas raised his coffee cup in salute, and Freddie winked at her. Both Wes’s brothers-in-law had been invaluable, but even the children had been willing conspirators, once she explained what she wanted to do.