Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London)

by Lynne Connolly

  Her daughter stood and went to the harpsichord, where her sheet music lay ready. Quelle surprise, Viola thought.

  “I would rather concentrate on singing the piece,” Miss Stewart said, leafing through the pages. “Is there nobody who will play for me?” She glared at Viola. Hardly a gentle hint.

  Taking her glass with her, Viola stood and went to the harpsichord, taking a moment to go through the pages. “Would you prefer to start with something more traditional?” That was a kindness, because the piece Emma Stewart handed to her was fiendishly tricky to sing. Viola sang indifferently, and she would never have attempted this piece. Perhaps Emma had been taking lessons.

  After Emma decided on a sweet popular ditty, Viola played the introduction and Emma began to sing. She had a pretty voice, better than Viola’s for sure, but not opera standard. But Viola had to give her credit for singing the song about a soldier leaving his lass at home with feeling and intonation.

  When the gentlemen came in, Emma did not stop. She bowed her head at the patter of applause and nodded to Viola, just as if Viola was hired for the evening. “The new piece, please.”

  Viola did not argue, but began to play. She had to concentrate on the unfamiliar air. That meant she didn’t notice anyone standing behind her until an arm clad in figured green velvet reached over and turned the page for her. Even if she had not been aware what Marcus was wearing, she’d have recognized him from his distinctive male aroma. Spicy and slightly peppery—that was Marcus.

  The ruffles at the end of his sleeve brushed the bare skin of her neck as he withdrew. Viola suppressed a shiver of response. As always, her senses went on alert, although she tried to conquer her reaction to him. Every time he had that effect on her she swore he would not again. But here she was, responding as if he’d taught her body to do so.

  Determinedly she turned her mind to the music.

  Emma began to sing. She’d given Viola the music, so she must have been working on this piece for some time. It was Italian, an aria from one of the newest operas. At first Emma made a fair attempt. She hit all the notes and even managed a trill or two. However in doing so, she lost the meaning of the piece. That was a shame, since the song was a lament that the lady was waiting for her lover, the one man she could never openly give her heart to.

  As the song wound its way along, Emma lost her way. She missed more notes and forgot the trills. She was obviously finding it hard work. She should have kept to ditties.

  And all the time Marcus stood behind Viola, turning the pages.

  Relief filled Viola when they reached the end.

  While he leaned over to gather the sheets together, Marcus murmured to Viola, “How on earth did you allow yourself to be maneuvered into this?”

  Lady Stewart had taken charge. She was dispensing tea and leading the conversation as if born to it.

  “I gave up the fight,” Viola confessed.

  Marcus straightened but remained by Viola’s side. “Why don’t you give us the piece you were playing the other day?” he said mildly, when the applause was done and compliments given. “You remember, the one you used to test the other keyboard.”

  What was he doing? She glared at him. “It’s just a local song.” She began one of the innocent airs, but he interrupted her by touching her hand. Immediately she stopped.

  “Not that one. The one you played last.”

  The scurrilous one. Could she remember the words for the sweet version? No, damn him, she could not. Only the other rang through her head, mocking her.

  Stepping over the bench, he joined her, sitting by her said. “Perhaps just the tune,” he said softly. His eyes gleamed, but with wickedness.

  She wanted to hit him, but all she could do was glare.

  They played the two-hander. Over the tinkle of the notes, talk swelled and then faded. Someone laughed. At her, no doubt. She kept her head down as she finished the piece. Despite the smatter of applause, she felt tainted, as if caught out playing a trick.

  “Goodness, that was clever,” Lady Stewart said. “My lord, I did not know you played.”

  “Everybody plays,” he drawled. He turned toward the lady, allowing Viola a moment to recall herself. “Do you not?”

  “No,” her ladyship said shortly. “I do not. I take it Miss Gates learned with you?”

  “We learned together,” he said, “But my sisters spent more time in the music room. I believe at one time they formed a quartet, but after my mother begged them to stop, they went their separate ways.”

  The marquess laughed. “Oh, yes. Each played their own version of the piece. Only Viola ever kept in time.”

  “And Drusilla,” Marcus said quietly.

  Dru had been a solitary child. Sandwiched between two sets of twins in birth order, she had spent much time alone. Viola recognized something of her own situation, except that Dru was alone in the middle of her family, and Viola was an only child. However the two girls had not gravitated together. For some reason their fathers worked to keep them apart, even when they were small.

  Viola sometimes wondered if the cool and collected Dru had ever found someone as a particular trusted friend. Viola had her father to keep her company.

  Tonight Dru’s brother was tormenting Viola, sitting next to her much closer than a gentleman should, but the cramped stool they shared necessitated that. He must know that, surely. Would he tease her so if he knew what he was doing to her? Probably not, and he must never know. She would die if he discovered how deep her feelings went for him. He’d marry a grand lady and become a marquess in the fullness of time. His wife would give him a quiverful of children for the title and estate, and they would most likely remain content.

  She would be happy for him; she truly would. Heartbreak did not last forever.

  Marcus got to his feet and held his hand to help her up. “Yellow suits you,” he said softly. “I like this gown. Will you wear it again for me?”

  She swallowed and smiled. “Of course. You’ll see it again without a doubt. I only bought it this year, so it has to last me for a while.”

  “It is extremely becoming,” Lady Stewart said, seemingly heedless of joining in a private conversation. She must have ears like a bat. “A little simple for my taste, but if you need it to last a few years, it is best to keep the style simple.” She made the decision sound like a sin. She shook back her triple ruffles. “Come and take some tea, my dear. You must be parched.”

  “I find singing fills me with inspiration,” Emma said. “I shall take out my sketchbook tomorrow.”

  Only Viola was close enough to hear Marcus’s soft groan. No sign of his unspoken comment appeared on his face, a skill she would dearly love to emulate. He made her smile. Far too much, if truth be told.

  The party did not decide to call for carriages until nine o’clock. All that time Lady Stewart had animadverted on her daughter’s skills and their plans for the year.

  It took until ten before they all left.

  In the now quiet drawing room, the marquess turned to Viola. “I must thank you for this evening,” he said. “You showed a great deal of fortitude. Lady Stewart can be a little wearing. When she began on the family tree of the Scottish Stuarts, I thought she would be here all night.”

  Viola dropped a small curtsey. “It was my pleasure, my lord.”

  “I doubt that.” But he raised her and kissed her cheek. “I will leave first thing in the morning, probably before you are awake. You will stay here tonight?”

  She had not expected that. “Oh, but it’s not far. Only half a mile. It’s a fine summer evening.”

  “And full dark,” the marquess said. “I insist. Do you need a maid to help you?”

  When he spoke in that tone she knew better than to argue with him. And, she realized with a flip of pleasure, they had put her in the Chinese room. They could not mean her to use that. “I can manage perfectly well, my lord. Should I find a room?”

  “I took her to t
he Chinese room,” Marcus said. “She should be comfortable there.”

  His lordship smiled and nodded. “Yes, indeed. Since I intend to leave at dawn, I’ll bid you goodnight.” He bowed over her hand. Enchanted, Viola loved it, even the wink he bestowed on her when he straightened.

  She could smile back, none of the reticence she felt when the Stewarts patronized her tainting her mood. “If you will excuse me, then, I’ll make my way upstairs.”

  “Of course. Feel free to ring for whatever you need.”

  As if she would. But with another word of thanks, she lifted her skirts to run upstairs.

  His lordship said to Marcus, “A word with you before you retire.”

  So they were leaving in the morning. Gloom settled on her. They would go back to London, and she would return to her father and spend her days caring for him and his house, as she always wanted to. Why should she not be happy with the prospect?

  In the room, she lit the candles in the sconces and pirouetted in front of the mirrors. The light played over the gleaming folds of her skirt. But her enjoyment had faded with the prospect of losing her friend so quickly. Yes, her friend. It was all Marcus could ever be and she should feel glad. He might write this time, now he had the opportunity. She’d like that.

  Reluctantly she took off her clothes, plucked her day gown from the bag, and laid it out for the morning. The yellow silk she folded carefully and put away. Perhaps she’d attend the assembly next month in York and give it another airing. If the Stewarts deigned to attend, no doubt they would remark on the reappearance.

  Hot water sat in a can by the door. She washed with the finely milled white soap on the dish and finished undressing.

  She had no night-rail with her, so she climbed into bed in her shift. The sheets were fresh and the room smelled of lavender from the sprigs used to preserve the linen. What would it be like to live this way? To have the best all the time?

  She’d be bored in a month.

  Determined to enjoy her night of luxury, she snuggled down and laid her head on the pillow.

  Chapter 5

  Viola opened her eyes to the sound of carriage wheels bowling along the drive. Dawn filtered through the windows, but she was awake. She would not sleep any more tonight. Today.

  Turning her head, she could just make out the little clock on the mantel, but she could not read the time. She didn’t really need it. With the light at this level, it must be around six. Time to get up.

  She could get some food in the kitchens here, but Mrs. Lancaster would tut at the disruption. The housekeeper’s formidable counterpart in the kitchens would most likely do the same. They’d be serving breakfast at her house, so she’d get up and work up a fine appetite on the walk over.

  Besides, with Marcus gone, she wanted to get back to her real life as soon as possible.

  Her decision gave her the impetus to swing her legs out of bed, wash in fresh water—cold now—and dress. It did not take her long. The only sign of her presence was the not-quite-straight cover on the bed and a few hairs in the brush on the dressing table.

  Time to go back to normal. Her deflated spirits would revive in no time.

  Downstairs, she was surprised to find Tranmere standing in the hall, in full livery. They usually had them in storage when the family were not in residence.

  “So his lordship left in good order?”

  “Yes, Miss Gates, he did.”

  “Back to normal then,” she said, swinging her bag as she left the house.

  She could probably walk back to her house blindfolded, but she decided to enjoy the day. Until a voice hailed her. “Viola!”

  Spinning around, she nearly stumbled when her skirts tangled around her legs. “Marcus?”

  He was close enough to speed up and catch her, but he put her on her feet as soon as her skirts settled. “You’re up early. I was looking forward to sharing breakfast with you.”

  “I thought you left with your father.” She blinked, not sure he was really there. She’d set her mind to her normal life, and seeing him again had thrown her senses. When he’d steadied her, the brief touch of his hands had sent her senses spinning.

  “I decided to stay behind. The Stewarts cannot visit me when I’m alone in the house, can they?”

  “I thought you quite taken by Emma.”

  He laughed. “No, you did not. You knew what a bore she was. Oh, she’s pretty, and she’ll do well, but I desire more than looks in a wife. And that mother of hers… I have no wish to saddle myself with such a creature.”

  “You should not speak so of her. She means well.”

  “No, she does not. At least she doesn’t where it concerns you.” His voice lowered. “I need to speak with your father. My father gave me some information last night that I’m eager to discuss with him. Do you mind if I walk along with you?”

  She glanced down at him. He was dressed for riding. “Will those boots take to walking?”

  “Yes, of course. What, you thought I was the kind of coxcomb who had boots for different occasions? Sometimes when I ride I like to get off my horse and stroll apace. How could I do that with boots I could not walk in?”

  He fell in by her side, although thankfully he did not offer her his arm. But he did take her bag. She knew better than to argue.

  They enjoyed their walk, chatting about the countryside and the estate and their neighbors. Nothing of consequence. But oh, she’d miss him, if only as a friend. At one point she said, “Shall I write to you?” Then unaccustomed shyness seized her. “No, no, I should not.”

  “I would like that, but I will return next month.”

  “With a houseful of guests.” Who would keep him busy.

  “Indeed, but I will make some time for you.”

  “You don’t have to.” Looking anywhere but at him, she lengthened her stride.

  * * * *

  Since Viola was pointedly avoiding his gaze, Marcus had an opportunity to study her. Now his father had let him into her secret, he could see the resemblance to the disgraced royal family plainly.

  According to the marquess, Viola spent little time worrying about it, instead preferring to believe it was a falsehood. Indeed, everyone had believed it a falsehood until recently. Yet another political lie put out by the enemies of the King to try to dislodge him from his throne.

  Slightly taller than the average female, Viola was built on slender lines, which also fit with his information. Her black hair was darker than others he’d seen, but his cousin Tony’s wife resembled her more than somewhat.

  How would Viola feel when he told her the legend was real? Once he had confirmed the details from her father and acquired his permission, he had every intention of telling her. She should know; she had every right.

  But for this brief twenty minutes they had peace and companionship. He longed to make it half an hour and stop to kiss her, but he had no idea how she would take it. Their kiss should never have happened, but now it had, he wanted more.

  He could not make her his mistress. Would she even consider the position of wife? She was uncomfortable in society, not herself. He would not be the leash around her neck, holding her back when she wanted to run free.

  His parents would be bitterly disappointed if he threw himself away on the estate manager’s daughter. Society wouldn’t approve, either, and that could prove tricky.

  With regret, he discarded the passing thought.

  He’d read a poem that reminded him of Viola recently. Ah, yes. He recited it aloud.

  “Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am

  And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.”

  She stopped, turned and faced him. “That’s pretty. Who wrote it?”

  “Thomas Wyatt. He wrote it for Anne Boleyn.” He should have remembered before he quoted the poem. That affair did not have a happy ending.

  But she smiled. “It’s pretty.”

  “So are you.” The words emerged before he cou
ld put a cap on them. But it was true. She was pretty. Very much so, her lively personality showing through when she danced, or smiled when she thought nobody was by. Or with a tranquil expression lost in reading unfamiliar music.

  He was not sorry he’d spoken. But he could not allow any more. They were on their own, and she was vulnerable. So was he, the way his mind was going this morning.

  “I’m returning to London soon,” he said, as much to remind himself as her.

  “Yes.” Her face lost a little of its animation, her eyes slightly duller.

  That made him happy, although it shouldn’t have. It meant she would miss him when he was gone. He was a selfish bastard for thinking that way, but his spirits, unlike hers, lifted. He would see her again in August, and despite what she obviously believed, he would ensure he had time for her.

  Marcus no longer bothered denying he desired her, but the knowledge his father had imparted complicated matters. He would have to force patience on himself and bide his time. As she was right now, she was safe. As safe as anyone in her position could be.

  Impotent fury filled him, as it had last night when he demanded to know why the marquess had not told him before. “It’s getting obvious that we are racing to discover the children before the Dankworths. Viola knows nothing of this, or of our struggle. How could you not tell her?”

  “Her father knows,” his father had told him calmly. “He is keeping her safe.”

  She should know, and today Marcus would ensure she did.

  The news would distress her, that the father who had cared for her all her life was no blood relative.

  Her father’s house came into view. Not far now, and then all hell would break loose. Marcus didn’t imagine for a moment Viola would accept her fate meekly and let the men take charge of her life. Oh, no, she was more likely to do something completely unexpected and shock everyone.

  “You nearly made me laugh at the most inopportune moments last night,” she said abruptly.

  “Why?” Shocked, he stopped walking once more. “I don’t make anyone laugh. What did I do?”