Dilemma in Yellow Silk (4 page)

In another moment that fichu would not have been tucked into anything. Need to the point of agony had come to life inside him, roaring for its release. He’d have had her across that bench on the silk-tufted carpet. Hell, on the gravel path outside if someone had not moved next door.

He’d heard it too, the telltale shift of furniture, reminding them where they were and what they were doing.

What had started as a kiss of friendship, of re-acquaintance, had served to push them apart again. Because as sure as Styx rowed the dead to Hades, he could not come anywhere near her again. She was temptation personified, a reminder of what he wished for when he awoke alone in the middle of the night in his luxurious bed in Mayfair. A symbol of everything he could not have and should not want.

What was that woman’s name, the one he’d danced the quadrille with a week ago at Lady Costigan’s ball? Ah, yes, Lady Myra Smedley. His mother had introduced them. On paper Lady Myra was his perfect match, a woman of taste, refinement, and no passionate emotions. Just the kind of wife he needed. Not a wanton like this one. And unlike many of his compatriots, he did not intend to cuckold his wife before the sheets on the marriage bed had cooled.

He could not afford to get close to Viola again. She was dangerous to him, and what he wanted to do with her was dangerous to her. He would take what steps he could to get her to stay away. Unfair accusations should do it. He curled his lip into a sneer. “Have you been practicing on the nearest ploughman, Viola?” No, of course she had not. Her kiss had been tentative, unpracticed, and utterly delicious.

He would not debauch the daughter of the estate manager. Such behavior was below them both.

“No!”

“While I’m here,” he said, keeping his voice low for fear it would shake, “Do not approach me. Spend as little time in my company as possible. I don’t know where you learned those tricks, but you will not use them on me.” Clearly he could not trust himself around her. The discovery made his head spin.

A woman of sense would have gathered her skirts, held her head high, and walked out of the room, keeping her dignity intact. Not Viola. He might have known she’d retaliate. She was always a spitfire.

Instead of retreating, she advanced. “How could you say those things, Marcus? My first kiss—my first grown-up kiss—and you think I’ve been doing it with every footman and farmer who comes my way?” She waved her hand. “Do you really think I would do that with anyone? How do you imagine I could do that? Oh, wait, because you do it?” Her eyes sparked fire. “Do you kiss every half-decent woman you come across? Does it lead to more? I heard you had a good reputation, but you just put the lie to that, did you not? Perhaps you keep your affairs to yourself, unlike your brother Val!”

Marcus gritted his teeth. How dare she compare him to Valentinian, who chased anything in a skirt and then lost interest the next day? “How else do you explain…?” Lost for words, he gestured. “You, me, the way you know what to do?”

Her first kiss? He’d given her her first kiss? Deep down, the knowledge staggered him. Surely she could not have reached the age she was—mid-twenties? Yes, she must be that—without kissing someone. Not fond kisses, friendly kisses, but passionate ones? How had the local gentry kept their hands off her?

He spun around and headed for the door to the library. “Remember what I said. Do not come near me again!”

A dry, “Yes, my lord,” followed in his wake.

He didn’t regain his senses until he’d arrived at the relative privacy of his chambers. Dismissing his valet with a request for coffee, he strode to and fro, eating up the floor and carpet with his restless walking.

He was a fool. The sight of her pinched white features as he left told him that. She’d retaliated, and so she should after he’d hurled so many insults at her. How could he have destroyed their tentative friendship that way? Kissing her, proving his lack of self-discipline. Of all things he was proud of, his self-control came first.

He was afraid. No, not afraid. He had nothing to be afraid of. Her sweet, innocent kiss had taunted him with the things he could not have, the foolish boyhood dreams he’d put aside. Love, happiness, and friendship were all tainted by his position. His damned responsibility.

He drove his fingers through his hair, dislodging the velvet ribbon tied neatly at his nape. “What is wrong with me?” he moaned aloud, but it didn’t sound any better in words than it had in his head.

Marcus was born to a position most people would give their eye teeth for. It involved nothing he could not do and no life-threatening duties. As a soldier, his cousin Antoninus had stared death in the eye. Marcus would do no such thing. Instead he’d be master of great estates, have the attention of the greatest men in the land, and control the country. Why would that fill him with terror in the dead of night when he couldn’t sleep?

When his valet returned, the well-trained man didn’t blink at his master’s restlessness. Instead he put down the tray with the coffee, picked up the ribbon, and stood by the dressing table, ready to apply a fresh one when Marcus was ready.

Viola had given him a vision of freedom he had no right to expect or even consider. He owed her an apology, but he did not know how to deliver it without putting both of them in peril.

He must regain control of the emotion that had broken free when his mouth had touched hers. Viola deserved better than what he could give her.

* * * *

How much better Marcus had not realized until his father called him into the meeting with Gates later that afternoon. Expecting to discuss estate business, he went down to the estate office to discover his father and the estate manager sitting at the large circular rent table. But none of the usual account books and bills littered the table. Only a few papers.

“Close the door, Marcus. Come and sit.”

Marcus did as his father bade him. Lord Strenshall pushed the papers across to him. Marcus perused them in silence and then closed his eyes.

He’d seen similar documents before—copies of a marriage certificate, a birth certificate and a letter written in Italian. He did not need to know the language to know what it said. He’d seen one of those before, too.

The birth certificate was for a baby girl, born in Rome in 1729 to a woman named Maria Rubio and a father named as James Francis Edward Stuart. The marriage certificate was dated 1719, wherein it stated James Francis Edward Stuart and Maria Rubio were man and wife. The letter was from Maria Rubio, certifying the accompanying documents were genuine and asking the bearer to care for the baby girl.

Maria Rubio had married James Stuart, otherwise known as the Old Pretender, and borne him God knew how many children.

“It’s Viola,” his father said. “We’ve kept the secret since she was born, but we have to do something about it now.”

Marcus didn’t want to believe what he was seeing. “No. It’s not true.”

“It is,” his father said quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He knew as much about the affair as his father. At least he’d thought so.

“Because the fewer people who knew, the better,” the marquess replied. “Until recent developments, we thought the marriage certificate at least was false. But now we know it is not.” That discovery had brought the children into danger. It made the Young Pretender, Charles Stuart, and his brother, Henry, bastards, and it gave remaining Jacobites a new cause.

Marcus and his relatives had discovered two children so far and a bastard girl, the product of another of the Old Pretender’s liaisons. Viola made three legitimate children.

“Does she know?” he demanded.

Gates grimaced. “She discovered the papers, but she believes it’s a fanciful legend. Indeed, until recently we considered the marriage part to be false. The rest?” He shrugged. “Kings and pretenders have bastards.”

Marcus dropped the certificate as if it were steeped in poison and addressed his father. “So that’s why you wanted to rush here.”

The marquess nodded. “I needed to tell Gates of recent developments and get his permission to tell you. His accident was a good excuse. We need to keep Viola safe. That is why I elected not to tell anyone of this. I still believe secrecy is our best defense.”

“But what about Viola? Doesn’t she have a right to know?”

“Why, when it would only upset her?”

Marcus needed to talk to his cousin Julius, who knew much more about this affair than he did. But every sense went against him leaving Viola here in the country, unsuspecting. Enemies were gathering on the horizon, and with the current state of affairs in London, very little would urge the more hotheaded amongst them to action. “Viola is a grown woman,” he insisted. “She should know.”

Her father shook his head. Or her foster-father, more like. But as her guardian, he had more rights than Julius to say how his daughter should be treated. Marcus hated that, but he could not go behind Gates’s back and tell her. He’d try to persuade the estate manager his daughter should know.

“We will continue as normal,” Gates said now. “Behave as if nothing has changed. Because if people are watching and they see unusual activity, the game will be up.”

At least Marcus could agree with that decision.

“His lordship wants us to come to dinner,” Viola’s father said the next day.

“Why?” Viola demanded.

“The usual reasons.” Her father smiled at her mildly. “To catch up on local gossip, to ascertain that I’m recovering properly, to speak about the weather, I have no doubt. The day after, he will have me conveyed to the offices, and we will spend the day closeted with Lord Malton, going through the accounts. Quarter day is not far off.”

“Quarter day is never far off.” With four a year, the seasons tended to be marked by the quarter days. Rent days, the days when magistrates were busy, and country life coalesced into a mild climax. Then on to the next one. The process was comfortable, never-ending and reassuring. Only the seasons were different. Now they headed into summer, and after that came the frantic activity of harvest. But first, mellow days when plants were tender.

Mr. Gates shook out his paper, which the marquess had sent over once he’d done with it. She should see to ordering one for her father while the marquess was in residence, but cancelling it could be more trouble than it was worth. Making an order was always easier than cancelling.

Fear rose in her throat. She had not seen Marcus since he’d told her to get out of his sight. In fact, whenever she’d heard his voice or sensed his presence, she turned around and went the other way. She would not face such humiliation again willingly. He was the lord. He could do as he pleased, but he could not have her.

They had guests due today at the house, local visitors—another reason for her not to venture forth. Many of the local residents knew her well. The village held two houses of reasonable size, and a little farther off, Scarborough and York held people who knew them. Once the marquess and his son had let people know they were in residence, the local gentry had sent in their cards. The marquess had announced an open day.

“While you were out this afternoon, the marquess sent a note. He wants you to act as hostess for a few days,” her father said. He gazed over his spectacles at her, his brows drawn together in a frown.

Her immediate reaction was, “No,” but she should have known better.

“I accepted on your behalf,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “What else could I do?”

“I cannot.” Frantically she searched for an excuse and came up empty. As well born as many of the gentry hereabouts, she had acted as the marquess’s hostess before, when the marchioness had been absent. Ladies could not visit gentlemen on their own, even to accompany their husbands, so her presence was necessary. Her status as distant relative made Viola the most eligible.

“Yes, you can. And you will.” Her father picked up his cane from its perch at the side of his chair. “Viola, what has happened? You came back from the house the day before yesterday in an agitated state. Has something occurred?”

She had not realized he’d noticed. Nothing of note had happened, after all. Only her first kiss from a man she should never consider as anything but her father’s employer. “No. I was merely surprised to see Marcus again. Lord Malton,” she corrected herself. Too late. Her father would have noticed that slip. “We spoke, but Papa, he was insufferable!” She could tell him part of the truth, at least. “Arrogant and behaving as if my only reason for being present was because he was there.”

“Did he touch you?” Her father’s voice turned hard.

“No.” She hated lying, but she could do nothing else. She rushed on. “But the thought of pandering to him, after— We were friends, Papa!”

Marcus had faced her, white-faced, drawing his cloak of arrogance around him to accuse her of monstrous injustices. He had the right, as her father’s employer, to treat her that way, but not as the friend of her childhood.

That was the truth. She had lost her friend. Even though they had grown apart, she’d always known she could turn to him if she needed help. But now—no. She wouldn’t turn to him if he were the last man on earth.

“You will do your duty, daughter.”

When her father spoke in that tone of voice, she could not argue with him.

Viola curtseyed and said, “Yes Papa,” in as obedient a voice as she could muster.

* * * *

Despite the sunny weather, Viola set out at ten for the hall the next day with a heavy heart. She was to preside over afternoon visits and a dinner. She took a dinner gown packed in a bandbox, as well as her best wine-red day gown. She had few gowns that were presentable to company, but what she had served her well. Her father would have bought her more, but she couldn’t see the point. She spent most of her days in more practical clothes in fabrics she could have laundered.

For all her stout declarations, she had to admit silk felt better against her skin in this hot weather.

As she rounded the side of the house, a sound made itself apparent—a horse being walked, the clop of its hooves melting into the sounds of an English summer day. Birds chirruped, and the breeze made the trees and bushes rustle as if they were gossiping. About her, no doubt.