Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London)

by Lynne Connolly

  “Did he touch you?” Her father’s voice turned hard.

  “No.” She hated lying, but she could do nothing else. She rushed on. “But the thought of pandering to him, after— We were friends, Papa!”

  Marcus had faced her, white-faced, drawing his cloak of arrogance around him to accuse her of monstrous injustices. He had the right, as her father’s employer, to treat her that way, but not as the friend of her childhood.

  That was the truth. She had lost her friend. Even though they had grown apart, she’d always known she could turn to him if she needed help. But now—no. She wouldn’t turn to him if he were the last man on earth.

  “You will do your duty, daughter.”

  When her father spoke in that tone of voice, she could not argue with him.

  Viola curtseyed and said, “Yes Papa,” in as obedient a voice as she could muster.

  * * * *

  Despite the sunny weather, Viola set out at ten for the hall the next day with a heavy heart. She was to preside over afternoon visits and a dinner. She took a dinner gown packed in a bandbox, as well as her best wine-red day gown. She had few gowns that were presentable to company, but what she had served her well. Her father would have bought her more, but she couldn’t see the point. She spent most of her days in more practical clothes in fabrics she could have laundered.

  For all her stout declarations, she had to admit silk felt better against her skin in this hot weather.

  As she rounded the side of the house, a sound made itself apparent—a horse being walked, the clop of its hooves melting into the sounds of an English summer day. Birds chirruped, and the breeze made the trees and bushes rustle as if they were gossiping. About her, no doubt.

  Why had the marchioness not accompanied her husband? Was London so fascinating she could not tear herself away?

  Tranmere was on duty again. He touched his finger to his powdered wig as she entered. His face was gleaming and flushed.

  “You look hot,” she said.

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” the footman said, obviously on his best behavior. What a shame he could not doff his coat and wig, but he was in full blue-and-silver today.

  She passed on, climbing the stone steps, the iron rail cool to her touch. Today she adopted a sedate walk and set a polite half-smile in place on her face. She would go through the day by rote and try not to think about anything. Or anyone, come to that.

  They would open the Blue Saloon. It was not one of the state rooms, but a cheerful, sunny drawing room on the east side of the house that caught the morning sun. Mrs. Lancaster usually kept the curtains closed for fear the carpets and furniture should fade, but today the sun blazed through the sparkling windows.

  The marquess was already sitting there, his legs crossed over the knee, a newspaper in his hand, and his spectacles perched on his nose. At her entrance, he rose and smiled at her. “You are looking in good heart today, Viola. You did not linger when we arrived, so I could not greet you. You are well?”

  She dropped a curtsey. “Yes, my lord, I’m in good health.”

  “Unlike your poor father.”

  “He is immensely gratified by your visit, sir.”

  The marquess cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I could not leave him to handle matters. The message we received in London merely said he had suffered a fall from his horse and he’d taken to his bed. At first I thought him at death’s door. It was a relief to find he was not.”

  His lordship was as tall as his sons and easily controlled his boisterous and numerous family members, although they would have daunted a lesser man. Dressed fashionably in a green coat and waistcoat, his garb was nonetheless appropriate for the country. “I appreciate you stepping in today,” he said affably. “Since your father is about as far from his last breath as I am, I plan to return to London on Thursday.” The day after tomorrow.

  She tried not to allow her sigh of relief to disturb her too much. That meant Marcus would go too, and with matters between them, it was better so. “We were very pleased to see you, sir.”

  “And we are working on a few matters. In a way, your father’s enforced rest will help. The books need checking before quarter day. I don’t know if I will be here for that. There are matters in town clamoring for my attention.” He motioned the chair opposite his. “Please take a seat. Do you wish for tea?”

  “No, sir, I had sufficient before I left home.”

  He nodded. “Very well.” Being a man of impeccable manners, he waited until she had sat and disposed her skirts before he retook his seat. He plucked his glasses off his nose and placed them on the table by his side.

  The door opened. Marcus appeared. He wore riding-dress, but a lady leaned on each of his crooked arms and two gentlemen walked behind.

  They were early. The Stewarts lived closest, barely five miles from the Haxby estate. The marquess and Viola rose and made their greetings. Viola rang the bell for tea and received a sharp look from Lady Stewart. Her husband, a baronet, made Viola well aware of her position in local society. When the marquess and his family were not in residence, they led local society.

  Sir Henry Stewart had a certain solidity about him the marquess lacked, although the two men were equal in age. His wig sprinkled fresh powder on the shoulders of his velvet coat. The ladies also wore their hair powdered. While that was a valid choice, Viola disliked the fuss of having her hair done that way and frequently avoided it, as she had today. His lady was as thin as he was not, and Viola was hard put not to mouth their nicknames—Jack Spratt and his wife, only in reverse.

  Fortunately, she refrained, but in the tedium of settling them and attending to the tea, she caught Marcus’s direct gaze. She flinched, an instinctive reaction she could not stop. Fortunately nobody saw the tell-tale twitch and her sharp intake of breath.

  He was staring at her. Snared by him, she could not look away. She could not read what he was silently telling her, but at least he did not appear hostile. Still, her senses went on alert. In her imagination, she felt his lips on hers, his hands on her back. This time her shiver was not one of revulsion.

  She hated herself. Why, especially after his unspeakable behavior to her, could she not resist his gaze and force herself to be indifferent in his presence?

  A thought struck her. The marquess had said developments. Did that include Marcus? Did he know her darkest secret?

  Surely not. Lord Strenshall had always told her he would inform her if he found it necessary to tell another person. Not even his wife knew, because she’d asked him not to tell anyone. He would not have betrayed her with Marcus, surely?

  When the maids came in with tea and all the accoutrements—the china dishes, the deep saucers, plates of bread and butter and other delicacies—Viola busied herself helping them. She tried not to worry about Marcus and what he did or did not know. She handed around tea and offered tidbits on the delicate plates that were part of the Dresden set Lady Strenshall had received as a wedding present.

  When she met the eyes of the younger lady, Miss Emma Stewart, the woman looked away immediately. Her attention skittered from Viola to Marcus who sat next to her on the sofa. Marcus’s lips thinned, but Miss continued with her artless chatter.

  She had just cut Viola, treated her as a servant. Her brief word of thanks was no less than a servant deserved, and certainly no more. Did she resent Viola, or more likely, viewed her of little importance?

  Viola’s ire rose, but that smile she’d fixed on her face remained firmly in place, if a little harder at the edges. When she would have returned to her seat, she discovered her ladyship had taken her place next to the marquess. She glanced at Lord Strenshall, who raised a brow but said nothing.

  Viola found somewhere else, a seat near a young sprig and Sir Henry’s heir, Mr. Jeremy Stewart—a likely youth, just returned from Oxford, only a few years younger than Viola. With none of the attitude of his sister, he engaged her in chatter about the city of Oxford. She found his talk r
estful, even though his boyish enthusiasm, when he swept his arm wide to express a point, nearly cost Lord Strenshall one of his precious tea dishes.

  This being an informal visit, they could stay longer than the prescribed half hour. Soon Lord Strenshall bore Sir Henry off to his study to discuss business matters. That included a land dispute they hoped to settle without the help of the courts.

  When Marcus suggested a visit to the gardens at the back of the house, the others agreed.

  “It is too lovely to be cooped up indoors,” Viola said. She received a response from Lady Stewart that she would have said was less than friendly.

  “Indeed, Miss Gates, you are often abroad, are you not? It is surprising you are not brown as a nut from your outdoor excursions.”

  True, she spent much time outdoors at this time of year, but Viola always took care to wear her gloves and hat. At least, when people were watching. “It would be wrong to suggest that I don’t care what color my complexion is, would it not?” she said sweetly. “So I won’t.”

  A snort told her that Mr. Stewart had caught her remark. “I’ve never noticed your complexion any other but clear and healthy,” he said. “But I’m afraid I rarely look further than a lady’s address and figure.”

  That was nicely said. Marcus remained silent, but she felt his temper as if it were her own.

  After a necessary respite while they donned outer gear, they met again on the south terrace. The gardens sloped before them, and by mutual consent, they headed for the rose garden. “It is at its best,” Viola said. “Lady Strenshall was considering sending for a yellow rose.”

  “I did not think there was such a thing,” Lady Stewart said. “Is it not a legend? The fabled yellow rose?”

  “I have seen them,” Marcus said, “in London. But it is true. They are passing rare.” He glanced at Viola, who was tying her hat ribbon. “Precious.”

  “I have never seen one,” she said briskly. “But I have never seen a giraffe either, although I know they exist.”

  “I shall ensure you see one,” Marcus told her.

  What was he doing? He had said he never wanted to see her again. She could not believe his cordiality was due to anything other than common politeness. As soon as the guests had left, he would probably disappear.

  Miss Stewart pouted and put her gloved hand on Marcus’s sleeve. “Will you not show me the maze?”

  Where they could get conveniently lost. Her mother shot her a warning glance. “I doubt the maze is ready to receive visitors.”

  “The gardeners need to clip the hedges,” Marcus said smoothly. “Else the overgrown twigs would tear your charming gown to pieces.”

  Miss Stewart indeed wore a fetching gown of pale pink silk with rosebuds embroidered in relief rioting around the hem—not entirely practical for outdoor walking, but undoubtedly becoming to her porcelain complexion. She must sleep with lemon juice on her face to achieve that effect.

  Viola castigated herself for her acidity. Why should she care if Miss Stewart was intent on flirting? It was none of her business. She should be glad, because it took Marcus’s attention from her.

  She walked behind them, her hand on Mr. Stewart’s arm, conversing comfortably on the subject of roses. “My father loves the blooms. Our small garden has a number of bushes.”

  “You live on the estate, do you not?”

  “Yes,” she said, for they did not advertise the presence of the Scarborough house. Her father regarded it as a retreat and a safeguard against his old age. If the marquess should take against him, they would not find themselves sleeping in a ditch, he said. “The house is charming, perfect for my father and me.”

  Miss Stewart’s voice floated back to them, her piercingly crisp accent sending sparks flying. “I should hate to live as someone’s pensioner. However, I can understand people who do. It must be so convenient, living on the estate. Mr. Gates has hardly any distance to go to work.”

  “Since he has the managing of all his lordship’s estates,” Viola replied, doing her best to keep her tone level and reasonable, “he sometimes has to travel a great deal. His lordship has extensive holdings.”

  Miss Stewart turned her lovely face up to Marcus. “Have you seen them all?”

  “I believe so. The larger ones, certainly, and most of the smaller holdings. There is a small estate in Devonshire I’m particularly fond of.”

  “Oh, but there’s nowhere as lovely as Yorkshire!” Miss Stewart exclaimed.

  Marcus flashed a grin. “Spoken like a true Yorkshirewoman.”

  The gravel path was doing no favors to Miss Stewart’s skirt. Her maid would curse when she saw the increasingly ragged hem and the rosebuds that had picked up tiny stones. Not that Miss Stewart appeared to notice. A lady did not deign to pay attention to such trivial matters. Viola couldn’t help thinking of the poor seamstress who’d worked through night and day to produce the pretty effect.

  They turned off on to a harder packed gravel path to stroll between the roses. Lady Stewart, leading them, paused to sniff a pink rose. She made a charming picture, the cream color of her gown setting off the velvety petals. Her fingers cupped the bloom gracefully. She stood and cast a smiling glance at her daughter, and Viola realized the mother had just demonstrated a lesson to her daughter. The older lady’s gaze passed on to Viola and hardened a fraction, although Viola retained her smiling mien. Her jaw was beginning to ache.

  The scent of the roses wove around her, soothing her. She had always enjoyed their perfume. The warm day, the roses, and the lush grass all worked their magic on her. A dreamy sense of wellbeing filled her as they slowly strolled around the lovely garden. She strove to keep their little garden pretty and neat, but it did not have the magic that this one always evoked in her. She loved to sit on the bench against the old stone wall at the side of the house with a book. A house cat would often join her and wash itself before stretching out to bask. She’d do that tomorrow, when Marcus and his father had gone. That would give her something to look forward to.

  Not that the prospect of him leaving filled her with anything but resignation. He would return in a month, in any case, with a houseful of guests for the shooting season. She would see him then, unless she could devise an absence. She was not without friends. Perhaps she could go to Harrogate and do a little shopping or visit her aunt Charlotte in York. That would keep her out of his way.

  After what she was now categorizing as The Kiss, she could not look at Marcus without recalling how she felt in his arms. He’d controlled their embrace so well without overwhelming her. She badly wanted to try it again, but she would not. As he’d said, they’d had an aberration and nearly lost what friendship they still had.

  Rather than watch him with society ladies and his friends, she’d take herself off.

  Mr. Stewart held her arm rather firmly. When she made to follow the others along another path, he led her in the opposite direction. No harm in that, so long as they kept the others in sight. “Miss Gates, I am so glad to see you again,” he said as they walked. “I trust I may bespeak a dance with you at the next assembly.”

  “If I attend, I would be delighted, thank you.” Assemblies were held once a month in York and in Scarborough. The assembly rooms in York were housed in a particularly fine building. That was her excuse. She could visit her aunt and attend an assembly. “I was thinking of going in August.”

  “During the house party?” He sounded scandalized, his voice rising in tone and pitch.

  “It has little to do with me. I am only hostess here today because nobody else may serve.”

  “But you are a relative of his lordship?”

  She waved her hand. “Only distantly. The connection is hardly worth mentioning.”

  “I don’t believe that.” He was holding her very firmly now and rather alarmingly leading her toward the maze. Ostensibly built to afford people a chance to exercise without going too far from the house, it had become a trysting place for th
e younger members of any gathering here. It had formed the backdrop to not a few downfalls of young maids. Lady Strenshall had more than once demanded it razed to the ground. Perhaps that was behind her desire to remodel the gardens. The work would give her a chance to rid herself of the hated maze.

  Hedges rose higher than her head, the box-trees so dense she could not see through them. Too private. But Mr. Stewart was a boy, barely capable of overcoming her.

  Once inside and a few paths in, he turned and backed her against a hedge. Her spirits sank. She had no mind to upset his lordship’s guests. But if she had to, she knew how to bring her knee up and depress a few pretensions.

  “You should not allow my sister to speak to you in that way,” he said.

  She liked him for that. “She is a guest, and young besides.”

  “So are you, but you never traduce anyone.”

  She smiled. “Not within their hearing, at any rate.”

  His smile broadened. He was a good-looking man. In a few years he’d be a heartbreaker. “So we’re to dance. What if I want more?”

  “You will have to want.” Her heart beat faster. He was becoming too bold. If he tried to kiss her, how would she deter him without offending him? “Sir, we should be seeking your mother.”

  “We will, in a moment. You know my sister means to have the earl?”

  Viola tried not to laugh. “Why does she think she will succeed when so many have failed? The whole of eligible London seeks his hand.”

  “She means to trap him before that time.”

  She would not tell him Marcus was leaving the next day. Otherwise he might tell his sister, and then she might do something foolish, like try to entrap him. Marcus would be adept at avoiding his fate.

  That made their kiss even more inexplicable. Why would he kiss her alone in a room where they could be interrupted at any minute? What had pushed him to take that step? Not hard for her, because she had wanted to kiss him for a long time. But him? She doubted he thought of her from one end of the year to the next. Not half as much as she thought of him.