Dilemma in Yellow Silk (6 page)

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.

If she hadn’t had on her full armor of gown, stays, and petticoat, the hedge would be pricking her back. Mr. Stewart was pressing too hard. “We should really return.” Ah, now she understood what was going on. “You’re helping your sister now, are you not?”

His smile turned wry. “I’m afraid so. She bribed me with five guineas and time alone with you. You’re worth more than the guineas.”

“I should hope so.” If she tried to leave, she’d have to get past his body. He really had grown since she’d seen him last. Should she risk getting close to a man twice in two days? This time with none of the eagerness she’d experienced with Marcus.

As if she’d summoned him, his voice drifted over the hedge. “Miss Gates?”

“Here!” she called out before Mr. Stewart could prevent her. “We are trapped in the maze!” It seemed like the most expedient explanation, although she knew the place better than she knew her own bedroom. Oh, no, why did she have to think of bedrooms?

“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.

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.”