How to Be a Proper Lady: A Falcon Club Novel (33 page)

She backed away. “Why did you even return here if you knew you would only leave again? And don’t tell me it was to settle that debt with Alex, because you could have seen him in London.”

“I returned here, Viola, because I could not stay away from you. Even now when I wish to be gone from here, when I have matters I must attend to elsewhere, you hold me here. You alone.” The manner in which he spoke these words was the least loverlike she had ever heard him. Instead, anger seemed to color them, attuned to the sharply glittering crystals of his eyes. Yet still her joints turned liquid.

“At this particular moment you do not seem as though you wish to be where I am,” she managed to utter.

He came to her, wrapped his hands around her arms, and bent his head.

“I once believed you were insane. I was quite certain of it. But now I know, rather, that I am.” His voice was rough by her brow. “You are merely willfully naïve.”

“I cannot imagine how you think that, when I know a great deal more of the world than any lady I have encountered in England.”

“You do not understand why I am not the man for you. That makes you naïve. And impossible.”

He wanted her, yet he did not want to want her. This was quite clear. Raw panic enveloped her, colder than the rain. This was truly the end.

“So you are really leaving? At this moment? Now?”

He released her and nodded.

No
. God,
no
. “From London? Is that where you have your ship berthed?”

“Yes.”

“London?
All
this time since we returned? That must be costing you a fortune. How on earth can you—?”

“Viola.” He looked away, it seemed with impatience.

“Where will you go?” She had lost. She had lost again. But this loss was beyond the greatest pain she had endured, beyond the cruelty of heartbreak during those first months in America, beyond the endless ache of loneliness. “To Boston, to your new ship? Or I suppose Malta.”

“East.”

“After you conclude your business there, you could return here.” Her tongue ran on its own, driven by desperation. “Or you could simply delay your journey a bit.” She was laying her heart open for him to stomp on again. She didn’t care.
She could not let him go
. “Serena and Alex were talking about having an open house at the Park soon, which from all I have heard seems to be a lark, although—”

“Viola, stop.”

Her lips snapped shut. He watched her distantly, like that day on her ship when her hope had been new and untested, when she had indeed been naïve enough to believe this man could love her.

“Just say it.” She steadied her voice with the greatest effort. “You may as well. You look exactly as you did that day when you won the wager.” She needed to hear him say he did not love her. Of all things, she knew he would not lie to her about that.

“My sentiments have not altered since then.” Just as on that day, it seemed difficult for him to tell her. He cared for her enough to pity her.

Viola’s insides quivered, then simply melted into misery.

“Well, I suppose you are entitled to your sentiments, whatever they are.” She squared her shoulders, but the gown pulled and the stays poked and she felt trapped and quite like she might begin to cry shortly, which would be categorically disastrous if she were still standing before him.

“Well then, good-bye, Seton. I hope you have a nice life.” She thrust out her hand for him to shake. He did not move to take it.

“Aidan Castle does not deserve you.”

Viola swallowed over the foremast stuck in her throat. “As astounding as it may seem to you, Master Arrogance, I do not particularly care for your opinion on the matter.” This hurt beyond bearing. She pivoted, blinking back rising tears. “
Bon voy
—”

He grasped her wrist and pulled her to a halt and lifted her fingers to his mouth.

“Someday a man who deserves you will come around, Viola Carlyle.” His voice was low. “Do not settle for less.” He kissed her knuckles, then her brow. She gulped in the scent of him, his nearness and everything she dreamed of. He released her, then turned and strode toward the stable.

Viola went inside the house, locked herself in her bedchamber, and wept tears enough to fill the Atlantic basin.

Chapter 28

W
ith Jane’s starchy assistance Viola managed to make her puffy eyes and pale face look presentable enough to join her sister and the others the following morning for breakfast.

“Is your megrim improved, Miss Carlyle?” Caitria asked kindly. “Lady Fiona and Lady Savege have worried about you. Mama and I too. And my brother, of course.”

Viola glanced at Aidan across the dining room. He looked tired, but he offered her a tentative smile.

Later, he found her alone in the library.

“I suppose a rainy day calls for a good book and a pot of tea,” he said as he came toward her.

She closed the volume she hadn’t read a word of in an hour and watched him take a seat on the chair beside hers. He was comfortable, decent, and she understood now finally why she had believed she loved him all those years; she’d needed a friend and hadn’t known what love truly was.

“What are you reading?” He drew the book from her hands and flipped open the cover. “Virgil? Isn’t this Latin?”

“Oh, is it?” She untucked her feet from beneath her and smoothed out her skirt. It was wrinkled, but she didn’t care.

He set down the book and reached for her hand.

“Viola, this is a terrible time for us all, with what Seamus did and how he is paying for it. I have asked Lady Savege’s pardon for bringing my cousin into her home, and she has been forgiving. But . . .”

“But?” She didn’t care what he had come to say. Mostly she wished he would leave her to solitude. Somewhere about the house Lady Fiona and Madame Roche were teaching Caitria how to braid rushes in the French style, Lady Emily no doubt sitting nearby with a book making clever comments. Her sister would be in the nursery with the baby. But she only wanted to be alone to lick her wound that would never heal.

His fingers tightened around hers. “Viola, Seamus will not be returning to the Indies with me. Nevertheless I must be on that boat when it leaves Bristol in six days. I want you to be with me. As my wife.”

“You are asking me to marry you now? To
be
married now, finally, that is to say?”

“I know it has been a long wait for us. But I have always known you would be my wife, Viola. Always.”

She drew her hand away. “Aidan, why did you leave Trinidad two and a half months ago? I imagine it was difficult leaving the repairs and new building in another man’s hands. Honestly, it surprised me that so abruptly you decided to visit your family.”

His eyes crinkled in a tender look. “You must know that I came here because I did not wish to be apart from you.”

“After all those years of being apart, suddenly you could not tolerate it?” She frowned. “Did my father lend you the money for your farm on the condition that you would marry me and bring me back to England to live?”

His face slackened.

She stood, feet sore, heart sore, uncertain that any man could be trusted not to lie to her. They would all use her for their own purposes. Her father had used her for bait to win back his lover. The baron was now trying to use her to enliven the memory of that same woman. And Jin had used her for gain, and for pleasure. That she had wanted him to did not exonerate him. It only made her a tragic fool.

“That day at the inn in Port of Spain before you apologized to me about kissing Miss Hat and assured me of your lasting devotion, Jin told you the truth about my family. My whole family. Didn’t he?”

He came to his feet. “Violet, I have loved you since you were a girl, and yes, I promised Fionn to bring you to live in England, but I had no idea of your family then and I would have wed you still. What does it matter?” He gestured impatiently. “Marry me and let us put the past behind us now and make a new future together.”

Her throat was thick but her eyes dry.

“No, Aidan. I do not wish to marry you. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am not the same girl who followed you about deck ten years ago. I have changed.”

“I see,” he finally said, brow pleated. “Then I have lost my opportunity. I acted too late.”

She needn’t respond.

“If you wish to be rid of me,” he said stiffly, “I can be on my way this afternoon. My parents and Caitria must remain until Seamus is well enough to travel. But I will go if you wish it.”

“You needn’t.” In truth, she didn’t care where he was. He nodded reluctantly and left the library.

But his stiffness persisted and she didn’t care about that either. After two days, she greeted with relief Serena’s suggestion that they all remove to town.

“You will not miss Papa too much?”

“A little. But, Ser, he is . . . clingy.”

“Clingy? Is that another delightful Americanism?”

“Aren’t you impressed with my accent lately? I sound fabulously English.” She attempted a smile, but Serena’s clever gaze studied her a bit too intently.

She turned away. “When will we leave?”

“Tuesday. Fiona and Emily and Madame Roche are no doubt eager to return to town as well. Tracy will come with us and we will make a party of it.”

“It sounds delightful.”

S
he watched Aidan ride off down the drive alone. He had gone sanguinely, in the end accepting her refusal with resignation. Despite his broken bones and raw wounds, Seamus refused to remain after his cousin left, and the Castle family departed.

The following day five carriages laden with servants, gentlemen, ladies, and Viola started on their way to London. She had seen a little of the countryside during the rushed drive from Exmouth to Savege Park. Now they took the journey in slow stages, pausing at charming inns along the route and dining merrily each evening, all as if it were some sort of holiday. After the first day Viola managed to claim the carriage with Lady Emily each time, whose nose in her book and lack of conversation made the trip bearable.

London was to Boston what Savege Park had been to Aidan’s plantation. Sprawling, with endless streets and countless people and every sound imaginable—from animals’ snorts and neighs to the clatter of carriages and the shouts of vendors. Thick with coal-scented air, it teemed with motion and life. She stared out the window, pulling off her shawl and peeling away her gloves from sticky palms.

“The air in town is remarkably insalubrious this early in the autumn, Miss Carlyle,” Lady Emily said, finally closing her book, her green eyes bright. “But there are a great many places a lady may enjoy the finer pleasures of life.”

“Lady Fiona told me about Gunter’s confectioner’s shop,” she said distractedly. Far to the right the unmistakable points of ship masts clustered beyond the roof of a building. A trickle of relief went through her. London was not all alien.

“I meant museums and scientific exhibits and lectures, of course.”

“Are we near the river? I see ships.”

“Several blocks to the north. Are you fond of sailing, Miss Carlyle?”

“A little.”

A grand, elegant, and astoundingly large abode, Alex and Serena’s house sat on a corner of a square and seemed a veritable mansion. It boasted two parlors, a receiving room, a drawing room, dining room, broad foyer, a modest ballroom at the rear, a garden behind, and innumerable bedchambers above. Serena had furnished it with an eye toward comfort but also with simple beauty. Viola supposed she must become accustomed to the splendor. Despite being titled nobility, Serena was still Serena, after all, and Alex was as kind and solicitous as ever, and baby Maria had made the journey well. She told herself she was more fortunate than most anyone she had ever met.

But without the constant company of friends, and without a bluff overlooking the sea to wander along, she swiftly grew restless.
Stationary
. When Sir Tracy called to drive her in the park in his new curricle, she gladly accepted. When Lady Emily invited her to an afternoon lecture by a noted female essayist, she agreed with a bit less alacrity but enjoyed it even better. The famous essayist employed any number of cuss words that Serena and Mr. Yale had strictly enjoined Viola never to utter, and her lecture was all about how women should be allowed to explore the professions as any man. Several ladies left the lecture hall pale and whispering behind their fans, but Viola felt positively buoyed up.

It took very little to batten her down again, however. Against her inclination she accepted an invitation from Lady Fiona and Madame Roche for an evening of cards.

“But,
ma chère mademoiselle
, you play less well
ce soir
than at the country house of your sister.” This said in a French whisper.

“In point of fact, I am playing wretchedly.” This said in a grumble.

“How are the pins doing to hold up your hem?” Lady Fiona looked hopeful.

“They are sticking me in the ankles. But that is the least I deserve for stepping all over them when dismounting from the carriage.”

“The tears, they will occur!” Madame Roche laid down the King and Queen of hearts.

“Tears?” Prickles erupted at the backs of Viola’s eyes.

“Tears as in rips, Miss Carlyle.” Lady Emily peered at her cards with a furrowed brow. “Clarice’s accent is quaint but occasionally inconvenient.” She flickered Viola a focused glance.

Indeed, Viola feared her friends and sister mistook none of her melancholy. They were solicitous to the point of annoyance. London’s sights and marvels could not be fully enjoyed in such a state of irritation, and in any case Viola disliked feeling irritated. She required activity to scare away her fidgets.

With that in mind, four days into their London residence she accompanied Serena and Alex to an evening supper party with dancing. She danced. She trod on gentlemen’s toes. None of them teased, or laughed, and perhaps most devastatingly of all, when the music halted there was no perfect man striding down the corridor to take her into his arms and make love to her.

He was gone. She was living like a lady although she most certainly was not one, with no connection to what she had known for so many years. And that was the mess she had made of her life.

The following evening, beyond the parlor windows the sunset layered gold and gray, terraces of shimmering bronze stacked upon billowing smoke. But Viola could not enjoy it. She sat in a beautifully upholstered chair, an embroidery frame on her lap, a book on the table beside her, and could do nothing but stare out through the glass and wish she were back at sea on the quarterdeck of the
April
. For then she could revel in the loneliness that gripped her so powerfully still, here in London, surrounded by those she loved. All but one.

Serena touched her on the shoulder. She jumped, knocking the embroidery frame to the floor.

“I am sorry.” Her sister sat on the ottoman before her, a vision in aqua silk and pearls.

“Are you going out tonight?”

“Yes. At breakfast I told you of this evening’s musicale fete. I came looking for you to tell you the carriage will be about shortly. But I see you are not dressed.” She tilted her head.

“I am sorry, Ser. I don’t think my disposition is suited for company tonight.”

She touched her on the back of her hand. “Vi, are you unwell? What I mean to say is, are you happy?”

He had asked her that, told her he could not stay away from her, then he left.

“I am so glad to be here with you, Ser. And Alex and Maria. And tomorrow we shall meet Kitty and Lord Blackwood. After all I have heard of Alex’s sister, I do look forward to that.”

Serena’s fingers tightened around hers. “But are you
happy
?”

Viola’s throat tightened.

“He brought me here,” she whispered, allowing the words to finally come, “and you made me a lady, but I will never really be one. Not truly, no matter how hard I try. On the outside I might rub my face with lemon juice and pluck at the harp—albeit wretchedly—but on the inside I am still cussing like a sailor.” She turned her gaze back to the sunset, now pale pink and gray, the gold entirely gone. “But I cannot go back to my old life. Oh, Ser, what am I fit for now?”

“Don’t you want this, Vi?”

“Yes, I want this.” She ducked her head and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “But I want him more.”

“Him, Mr. Castle?” Serena sounded skeptical.

“Him, Mr. Seton.”

A moment’s silence. Then, “Oh, Vi.”

“I
know
,” she groaned, leaped up and went to the window, as close to the sunset as she could. “I
do
know. I think I have known since the moment I met him.” She gripped the brocade drapery and leaned her brow into its thick folds. “Yet to him I have been nothing but a bounty to line his pockets.” And momentary pleasure. She had given him that, at least. Perhaps even some amusement. It felt good to make him smile, to see stars. But that joy was not to be hers again.

“A bounty?”

Viola sank onto the window seat. “The bounty Alex paid him for finding me and bringing me home.”

Serena came to her. “Alex paid him no bounty, Vi.”

“Of course he did.”