Someone to Care
Page 12

The church dignitary who had opened the afternoon’s activities with a lengthy speech earlier in the afternoon was on his feet again now and raising both arms to draw everyone’s attention. After the room had hushed he delivered another rambling speech before announcing to a cheer from the gathering that the dancing would begin on the village green in half an hour.
“I need to return to the inn first,” Viola said. “I would like to change my dress and comb my hair.” Among other things.
“I will do myself the honor of escorting you,” he said, getting to his feet and coming around the table to draw back her chair. “I need to comb my hair too.”
They walked back to the inn, her arm drawn through his, and went upstairs together. She paused outside her door, and he bowed and suggested that they meet downstairs in half an hour. The inn appeared to be deserted apart from the two of them. Before she closed her door, Viola was aware of him letting himself into the room opposite and one door down from her own.
It was probably foolish of her to prolong this unexpected gift of a carefree, happy day, she thought as she leaned back against her door after closing it. But why? Why not suspend reality for a few hours longer and dance with him on the village green? It was not as though she was going to fall in love with him and have her heart broken all over again, after all. Why not snatch a little more joy from this time-out-of-time adventure with which fate had gifted her? She was no longer a young woman, but she was not old either. She was only forty-two. The thought made her smile ruefully.
She changed into a dress that was suitable for evening wear but was neither too flimsy nor overly elaborate. She styled her hair as well as she could without the services of her maid. It was a little more fussy than the simple chignon in which she had worn it all day. She hesitated over her box of jewelry, but finally decked herself out in her newly acquired finery. Her family and acquaintances would be scandalized. But she actually liked it. It made her feel lighthearted, as though just the wearing of it could make her smile inside. She slid her feet into dancing slippers instead of the more sensible shoes she had worn all day, added a heavier woolen shawl for warmth, and bent to look at herself in the tarnished glass over the washstand. If the pearls of her necklace and matching earrings were real, she would surely be one of the richest women in the world. Perhaps the richest. She surprised herself by chuckling aloud.
She felt breathless by the time she left her room. And inexplicably nervous, as though there were something clandestine about going with him to join a large gathering of villagers on a very public village green. She had often attended ton events in the company of gentlemen who were not her husband. As far as she knew she had never so much as raised an eyebrow in the ton by doing so. It was perfectly acceptable.
But never with Mr. Lamarr.
He was waiting for her in the hall. He had changed too. Like her, he had avoided donning the sort of finery he would surely have worn to a ton ball, but he was immaculately turned out even so in black and white, with an intricately tied neckcloth despite the fact that he did not have a valet with him. A diamond solitaire winked from its folds. A real diamond.
“My diamond is larger than yours,” she said, waggling her fingers at him, making a jest because she was feeling awkward and self-conscious even though she had spent all afternoon in his company.
“And it shines brighter too,” he said, his eyes gleaming at her. They were dark eyes, like liquid chocolate. “But then the giver has immaculate taste.”
“And is the epitome of modesty too,” she said as his eyes moved over her from head to foot, not even making a pretense of being discreet.
“The pearls are a nice touch too,” he said. “Viola.”
The sound of her name on his lips sent shivers down her spine. Again. She was behaving like a gauche girl. It felt rather good.
“They do not clash with the diamond or the rubies?” she asked, displaying one wrist. “Or the garnets?” She raised the other.
“Clash?” he said, all astonishment. “Certainly not. One cannot wear too many jewels. Why have them if one is not to display them? But to be perfectly frank with you, Viola, I scarcely noticed your fine jewels until you drew my attention to them. The beauty of the woman who wears them shines brighter.”
“Oh, well-done,” she said, brushing past him in the direction of the door. Foolishly, though the compliment had been too outrageous to be taken remotely seriously, she was absurdly pleased.
She was only forty-two, after all.
He caught up to her and offered his arm. Fiddles and pipes were already playing with great enthusiasm beside the village green, from which the maypole had been removed, and a vigorous reel was in progress, boots thumping on the hard ground, skirts swaying, voices whooping, hands clapping, and voices calling out encouragement. Children dashed noisily about, probably overtired after the day’s unaccustomed excitement. Lamps along the street on their side of the green provided some light in the gathering dusk.
They were drawing attention again, Viola was aware. And a few shy smiles. And some comments.
“Are you going to dance with your lady, guv?” someone called out boldly, and Mr. Lamarr grasped the handle of his quizzing glass and raised it halfway to his eye. He did not reply.
“If you aren’t, I will,” someone else added to a general burst of merriment from those who heard.
“I believe I can manage without assistance,” Mr. Lamarr said in a languid voice. “But I thank you for the offer.”
“That’s putting you in your place, ’lijah,” someone shouted to another gust of laughter.
They joined the lines for a country dance, less vigorous, more intricate than the reel. He was an elegant, accomplished dancer, as Viola well remembered. He also had a gift for focusing his attention upon his partner, even when he was performing some figures of the set with another.
How wonderful it was, she thought as she danced, the cool evening air on her face and arms below her shawl, to be someone’s focus of attention, to be made to feel even for just a short while that she was the only person in the world who really mattered. It was not that she craved attention all the time. Far from it. She never had. But oh, sometimes it felt wonderful. They were surrounded by pretty, laughing young women, several of whom were darting half-frightened, half-appreciative glances at the formidable stranger in their midst, but he appeared to see no one but her.
It was all artifice, of course. It was part of his appeal, and part of the danger. But it did not matter. She was not for a moment deceived by it. When the dancing was over for the evening, or perhaps even before it ended, they would return to their rooms at the inn, and tomorrow they would be on their separate ways and would very probably never see each other again. She did not mingle with the ton any longer.
So tonight—this evening—was to be enjoyed for what it was. A brief escape offered by fate.
All the sets were country dances or reels. They were what the villagers and farmers from the surrounding countryside knew and wanted. Viola and Mr. Lamarr—Marcel—danced two of them and watched a few more. But when one tune started he lifted a finger as though to stop her from saying anything, listened intently for a moment, and then turned to her.
“One could dance a waltz to this,” he said.
She listened too and agreed. But no one else was waltzing. The dancers were in line, performing steps with which Viola was unfamiliar.