Dilemma in Yellow Silk (8 page)

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.

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 could 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?”

“You make me laugh. You looked at me just so, and when you suggested I play that tune for the guests, you very nearly overset me.”

She had noticed? “I shall have to guard myself closer. Everyone is convinced I’m a most staid, ordinary fellow. I am considered one of the safest prospects in London.”

“I have noticed that in you, of course.” She skipped over a molehill and back on to the path, her skirts swinging indecorously. Her plain stockings and stout shoes flashed into his view. “Not the safest prospect, I wouldn’t know that, but you think of yourself as ordinary. You are definitely not ordinary, Marcus. But people treat you with the greatest respect and the kindest consideration. They defer to you.”

He shoved his hands in his breeches’ pockets. “Yes, I know. It’s a bore, but if I tell them not to, they do it more. Or they become embarrassingly close. Overdoing it. I do have friends, of course, but most of them are in the same situation I am.”

She clucked her tongue. “Poor boy!”

So of course he laughed, and she joined in, which eased the situation considerably. Nobody made him laugh as much as Viola. Or sweat, like the time she’d taken the worst-behaved horse in the stables for a morning ride.

She’d explained to his father later that she didn’t realize she’d taken the gelding, mistaking him for another. He only half believed her. Viola had a restless streak, and every so often she had to release it or burst. Or that was how she’d explained it to him after the incident with the horse, one of the few times he’d sought her out. Killing herself was not the answer, he’d told her firmly before walking away.

He’d spent far too much time walking away from her. He would make an effort not to do so any longer. Time to face whatever waited for him here. To claim something for his own, in spite of his responsibilities. If their relationship deepened into friendship, he would enjoy it, but in his heart, he wanted more.

They had reached the gate. He swung it open and waited for her to go through. The land steward’s house was what his father had termed a “comfortable” size. “I’d have enjoyed living in a house like this.”

“What? How can you say that?” She paused in the act of finding her key for the front door. “We have four bedrooms and three servants, no more. How could it compare to what you have?”

“That’s the point.” He halted abruptly. “What was that?” Had that male shout come from inside the house? He laid a hand on her arm. “Go back. Go back now.”

A shot rang from inside the house, and someone yelled.

He didn’t even have his sword. “Where does your father keep his weapons?”

“In a locked case in the study.” Typical of her to keep her head. Thank God.

He pushed her behind him. “Stay out of sight.”

Two men rushed out of the side door and along the path, heading for the copse of trees nearest to the house. Marcus’s first instinct was to give chase, but if he did, he would leave her unprotected, and who knew how many men were inside? He had to let the ruffian go and hope someone remained in the house for him to beat senseless. Anything to assuage the fury seething through him.

“Papa!” she cried, and would have rushed inside, had he not seized her arm and held her back.

“Don’t do that. Wait for me.” They would go in through the side door. Likely he might find a weapon there.

No person stood inside. He spotted the sword, the one Gates always claimed his great-great-grandfather had wielded at the Battle of Marston Moor. Well, it would give him good service now. He wrenched the weapon from its scabbard.

“Keep close,” he told her. With those two men on the loose, he couldn’t risk her making a run for it. He would have to take care of her. He needed to keep his wits about him. Protect her with his life, if need be.

This house was a mile from the main gates and the wall, but anyone could bring a horse in if he knew the different entrances.

Sure enough, the sound of galloping hooves on turf met his ears. He firmed his mouth. The ruffian would not get far, if Marcus had anything to do with it.

Viola might have a wild streak, but it did not usually tend to the stupid, especially in such circumstances. She jerked her head toward the stairs, indicating the way they should go.

They crept up a stair at a time, listening for any response. The house was deadly silent. Where were the servants?

At the top, they heard a groan. She would have pushed past him, but he held her back and headed toward the source of the sound.

In the main parlor, her father lay on the rucked-up and torn carpet, holding his head. He struggled as they entered, revealing his tied hands. They had not bothered to tie his feet. The thick bandage around his ankle would have made the task too difficult. The room was smashed, the furniture tipped over, the ornaments, the lamp on the table, and a shelf of books overturned and broken.

Viola rushed forward and dropped to her knees by her father’s side.

Fear shaded his gray eyes. “You must go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Get out of here.”

“Is there someone else here?” she asked.

“How many people left?” He used a similar undertone when she spoke.