Dilemma in Yellow Silk

by Lynne Connolly

  “If you follow my voice, you will find your way out. It’s really not difficult.” He continued to talk, probably because that assured them that he was doing nothing he should not. And so that Miss Stewart could not claim anything of the kind.

  Within five minutes, including a detour she took for appearance’s sake, she’d left the maze. Miss Stewart had her hand on Marcus’s arm, but he appeared unharmed, positively cheerful.

  Miss Stewart glared at her. “You are quite disheveled, Miss Gates.”

  Viola plucked a twig from her hair. “So I am. When we return to the house you must excuse me while I right my appearance.” And change into a gown more suited to dinner, although she would not say that. She stuck her chin in the air and walked past them. “Thank you for rescuing me, my lord.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said, humor coloring his voice.

  He must know she needed no rescuing from the maze. She had rescued him just as much.

  Chapter 4

  The other dinner guests had arrived by the time they returned to the house. Excusing herself, Viola raced upstairs and into the red bedroom, the one she usually used when she visited here. Once the room had been a grand showplace. Now the lovely silk on the walls hung in shreds, the floor was bare, and the paintings had gone from the wall. It was even emptier than usual, only the bed remaining. The marquess must have decided to deal with the room at last. Viola would have to find another room to use in future.

  Tranmere had brought up her bag. Viola wasted no time shrugging out of her red gown and shaking out the yellow silk she used for dinners. A modest gown worn over a small hoop, it was nevertheless a reliable one, its cheerful color making up for its deficiencies in other departments.

  Hastily she pinned the lace ruffles to her sleeves and shook her petticoat. She was about to push her arms through the sleeves of the gown when a tap came on the door. “Come in!” A maid would be useful. She could help pin the gown to her stays.

  But it wasn’t a maid.

  Viola shrieked, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Maidenly modesty?” Marcus said, strolling into the room. “I never would have thought that of you, Viola.”

  “You’re doing it again!” She clutched the gown to her chest.

  “What?”

  “If they caught us, you’d be compromised. I’m a lady, you know. Kind of.”

  He smiled. “Kind of?” He advanced on her. “Ladies don’t compromise gentlemen.”

  “And gentlemen don’t compromise ladies!” She was still angry with him for his behavior in the music room. “What are you doing here?”

  He lost the smile. “I came to apologize.”

  “What for?” Not that he didn’t owe her an apology, but she wanted specifics.

  “For yesterday.”

  “For kissing me?”

  He shook his head and a trace of the smile returned. “Not that. I can’t regret that. But for what happened afterward. I should never have accused you of something that was my fault. I should not have come near you.”

  He spread his arms wide. He was in his shirtsleeves, and the pose gave her a view of the powerful muscles. That shade of intimacy sent a small shiver through her.

  She gripped the yellow silk. She wouldn’t admit she’d enjoyed it too. “You made me feel cheap. As if I were yours for the taking.”

  “Aren’t you?” He clapped his hand to his forehead. “No, I didn’t mean that, I swear it. I do apologize for everything. For the kiss if you need me to. Could we go back to the way we were before?”

  No. “Barely knowing each other?”

  He shook his head once more. “I want to be your friend, Viola. In truth—no, I can’t say anything on that score. But what I said afterwards?” He placed his hand on his heart and bowed. “Please forgive me.”

  Of course she forgave him, although she wasn’t quite ready to say so. “Why did you say it?”

  He regarded her solemnly, dropped his chin, and sighed. “Because I was angry with myself. I want to remain your friend, Viola. You’re a woman alone in the world except for your father, and you may need my help in the future. I want to be in a position to give it.”

  “My father is an extremely healthy man.” Marcus was right, though. “He will live for years yet. By then I could be a matron with children of my own. Plump and content,” she added because she wanted to see his reaction.

  He didn’t disappoint her. “You will continue to be lovely no matter what you do.”

  She let a smile curve her lips. “And I heard you were not a lady’s man.”

  “I’m not, but I am a truthful man.”

  His words unnerved her. She could not afford to believe him. He was not for her, and such talk would only lead her down paths she should not even think about, much less dream about.

  But those eyes, gazing into hers fearlessly, and his soft hair, worse since she had felt it for herself, were enough to push her mind to places she had never explored. The thought of touching those arms, sliding her hands over them, and more—was his chest as strong? Under the elaborate waistcoat did he have muscles to rival the ones on his arms?

  Likely she’d never know.

  She released her grip on her gown. She was perfectly well covered, after all.

  As casually as she dared, she slipped one arm into the sleeve and dragged it up. “I need to finish dressing.”

  “I like what you have on now.” He sounded half-strangled, as if he had something stuck in his throat. That was not true, but then she realized her action had pushed her breasts up in her stays. She was still decent, but barely. The stays fit her well; she’d had several new pairs made last year. The shoulder straps prevented them slipping, but her décolleté was extreme.

  “Thank you. Marcus, you should not be here.” Thus she broke her resolve to call him by his title. He should be “Malton” or “sir,” but she found it so easy to call him by his given name.

  “I know. I’ll leave in a minute.” He glanced around. “You can’t be comfortable here.”

  “No.” She followed his gaze and pushed her other arm through its corresponding sleeve. “It used to be better, but Mrs. Lancaster must have stripped it ready for its refurbishment.”

  “Ah, I see.” His attention went to the big old-fashioned four-poster bed. “We’ll find you somewhere better to use.”

  “This serves.” She glanced to where she was used to seeing the dressing table. Of course it was gone, and the mirror that lived on top of it. “Ah.” She would have to dress by guesswork. “The mirror’s gone.”

  “You could use my room.”

  Her incredulous laugh rang around the bare walls. “You are joking, aren’t you? Of course I cannot! But I would appreciate the use of a bedroom for a few moments so I can put my hair to rights. Just wait while I fasten the front.”

  She set to fastening the gown, hooking it together. Fastening the decorative ribbons over the top proved more difficult. She was used to accomplishing that task with the help of a mirror. She sighed. “Well, at least I’m decent.”

  “More than decent.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have everything? Let’s find another room you can use.”

  She cast a wistful glance back at the room. She liked it; it was at the end of the corridor with easy access to the side stairs. Convenient, when she’d helped with dirty work like cleaning the attics and she wanted to make herself clean for the walk home. However, she could not use it when it was so bare. He picked up the bag with her day clothes in it and held out his arm. “Let’s hope nobody sees me in this state.” Her hair was loose and tousled, and her bows done up any old how. She could not appear at dinner like this.

  Unfortunately, as they strolled along the corridor, a door opened and Miss Stewart popped out as if she’d been in waiting for them. She glanced at them and blinked. “Why, my lord!”

  “Indeed,” Marcus said, at his most urbane. “Good evening, Miss Stewart.”

  She curtseyed. She must have brought a change
of clothes too, as she wore a delightful white silk gown sprinkled with embroidered forget-me-nots. Her elbows sported double ruffles of finest Nottingham lace. Her hair was dressed up, a couple of curls left to tease and tickle the bare skin of her shoulder. “Shall we be seeing you downstairs, Miss Gates?” Her voice was frozen.

  Emboldened by the man next to her, Viola smiled and agreed. “Indeed. I merely have to find a mirror.”

  Miss Stewart did not offer the one in her room. If she had any sense, she would have, and then she would have had Marcus to herself for a while.

  With a nod to Miss Stewart, Marcus led Viola on.

  Viola could have died of shame. But Marcus showed no reaction as he led her into a room at the end. This was furnished in a much more modern style, with little Chinese people going about their duties all over the walls.

  The Chinese Room with its precious wallpaper was one of the best guest rooms in the house. “Oh, but I can’t!”

  Marcus raised a brow. “I fail to see why not. Feel free to enjoy it, Viola.”

  At least one of them appeared to have recovered his sang-froid. He released her and bowed. “I’ll go and make myself decent. If I appear at dinner in my shirt sleeves, my father will have my blood.”

  Alone in the lovely room, Viola allowed herself a skip of glee. The mirror sat on top of a draped dressing table, its three leaves artfully angled to allow her to view herself from most angles. Retrieving her packet of pins, she secured her bodice and then put her bows in order. Now she had a mirror, she took but a few moments to brush out her hair. She twisted it and secured it into a bun at the back of her head. Once accomplished, she tilted her head on one side and studied herself.

  She’d never make a London beauty, but she’d do. She touched the place where she could, if she wished, pull out strands of hair to make curls, as Miss Stewart had done. No, as Miss Stewart’s maid had done.

  Viola did not have a maid to adjust the lacings under the skirts of the gown that made for a perfect fit. But the gown would not disgrace her.

  After popping her brush and the remainder of the hairpins in her bag, she made her way downstairs to the drawing room.

  Dinner was unexceptional. The marquess had invited the prominent local gentry, most of whom Viola knew. They accepted her presence unquestioningly, but few treated her as an equal. More as one might treat a companion or a poor relative. The subtle distinction was not lost on Viola. These people might talk with her, the men dance with her at the local assemblies, but here she was most certainly the hired help.

  But she refused to behave like one, to retreat and behave deferentially to everyone. Graciously she offered food. She sent the buttered potatoes, almost marble-small and tender, to the marquess at the other end of the table because he liked them.

  He shot her a grateful smile and a nod. She watched the hake in parsley sauce go unused next to Miss Stewart and had the dish exchanged with the apple pie at the other end of the table. She discussed politics with the gentlemen—gently, the subjects of local interest rather than national—and listened to the Stewart ladies discuss the latest fashion.

  She learned something she had not been aware of before. Miss Stewart, in a bid to attract Marcus’s attention said, louder than she needed to, “Although we spell our name differently, we are related to the royal house of Scotland.”

  Silence fell, but only briefly. “We must assume not the disgraced branch,” Viola said.

  “Of course not.” Miss Stewart picked up her fan and snapped it open, fanning herself so vigorously the candle nearest to her was nearly blown out. “But our own dear King George is himself a relative, is he not? The Stuarts once had a benign influence. Before the Catholics gained the upper hand with them.”

  Ah, yes, the Catholics. Blamed for everything in certain quarters, especially with good county Tories. Because of her peculiar and distinctive background, Viola had always sought more than simply blaming someone else for her troubles. She wanted to know reasons, not excuses.

  This time she understood because she’d read widely on the subject. “The Young Pretender converted to Protestantism a few years ago,” she said. “Nobody cared.”

  “It’s too late for him,” Mr. Quick, a local magistrate, said. He held up his glass of wine, the red liquid wavering in the candlelight. “And since he has only a bastard daughter and his brother is a man of the cloth, we may see the end of that branch of the family soon. Certainly they are finished as monarchs.”

  He turned his attention to Miss Stewart and her mother and raised his glass to them in a silent toast. “However, the legends are romantic, if inaccurate. The Stuarts have a long and distinguished history far beyond the current generation and the one before.”

  “We all have our black sheep,” Lord Strenshall said. “Even the Emperors of London have their wicked side.”

  Thus he deftly moved the conversation on when it appeared to become mired in controversy. His own family—or rather, his wife’s family—was known as the Emperors.

  Viola toyed with the food on her plate. She had not eaten much of the delicious offerings, but her appetite had fled long before she sat at table. “Lord Malton is Marcus Aurelius,” she reminded them.

  Marcus groaned and clasped his forehead. “Don’t remind me.”

  “It could be worse,” she continued. “Your cousins Nicephorus and Antoninus have interesting names.”

  Mrs. Stewart tilted her head on one side. “I did not know your family was blessed with such unusual names.”

  In an age when men were often known even to their wives by their surname or their title, the remark would not raise brows. Except the Emperors were famous, if not notorious, and the gossip sheets loved to spread news about them, however scurrilous or defamatory. The worst of the papers rarely paused to check such trivialities as facts.

  “My siblings are Valentinian, Darius, Drusilla, Claudia, and Livia,” Marcus said, twirling his empty glass, watching the facets flash. “I have cousins called Julius Caesar and Poppea. Surely you knew this?”

  “I did not think the matter was relevant,” Mrs. Stewart said. Her jowls shook when she moved her head. “Why a gentleman is given as his first name is hardly apropos. But now you mention the names, taken together I understand the way you are referred to by the Grub Street press. My education did not include the ancients of Greece.”

  “Rome.” Viola mouthed the word but did not say it. That would have been rude, but the correction lay there. She couldn’t have been the only person here tonight to think it.

  Glancing up, she caught Marcus’s gaze. He was not smiling, but the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes revealed his amusement.

  He picked up his wine glass and tilted it toward her, the toast for her eyes alone. “My namesake was a great Roman emperor and a renowned general. I have no intention of following his example. He was also a philosopher, something I bear in mind in my less…philosophical moments.” The slight pause gave his words a wicked innuendo.

  Her face heating, Viola glanced down at her empty plate. No conversation was safe with Marcus. Why did other people not see that? It appeared only she had noticed the warmth in his eyes.

  Candlelight added warmth to features, of course, but it was more than that. It was as if his blue eyes were lit inside with a tiny flame of their own.

  She got to her feet. “Ladies, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?”

  Although the ladies had finished eating, some demonstrated a reluctance to leave the men. Viola wanted to get away, to compose herself for the next part of the evening. Although the clock chimed seven as they went into the drawing room, it felt like much later. It wasn’t even fully dark yet. “Daringly late for a dinner,” a lady remarked.

  “They eat at this time and much later in town,” Mrs. Stewart said airily, as if fully conversant with the ways of London. She had probably never been there in her life. Neither had Viola, come to that, but she never pretended she had.

  They were using the Blue Drawing Ro
om as it had windows that opened on to the garden. The scent of roses and honeysuckle drifted through the air. The maids had been in to light the candles. They sent a warm glow over the blue-upholstered sofas and chairs set in an informal arrangement.

  “Are we not to go into the state drawing room?” one lady asked. Viola was in danger of causing insult, so she gave the answer she’d heard the marchioness use once or twice before.

  “This is a private family room. His lordship thought you would enjoy the intimate atmosphere more,” she said and received a gratified smile and gentle agreement.

  Mrs. Stewart took control as much as she could. When the maids brought in the tea-trays, she organized them on the tables and took charge of one, while Viola took the other. Soon every lady was furnished with a dish of tea or a sweet cordial. Viola took a small glass of the elderberry wine.

  “Darling Emma, sing that new piece for us,” Mrs. Stewart said. The harpsichord in here was not as fine as one in the music room. However it had been tuned at the same time, and it sounded just as good.

  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.”