Someone to Care
Page 72

“He is here?” she said again.
He frowned. “You are not about to faint, are you, Mama?” he asked. “Do you want to see him?”
The reality of it was just striking her. He was here, at Brambledean. In the library.
“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I ought.”
He was still frowning. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I will not have you upset, Mama. Not at Christmas. Not at any time, actually.”
“He is here,” she said. She did not phrase it as a question this time.
“Good God,” he said, “do you care for him, Mama? He looks like the very devil.”
“I want to see him, Harry,” she said.
He was here. He had come.
But why?
She went downstairs on her son’s arm and waited while a footman opened the library door. She slipped her arm from Harry’s and stepped inside.
And, oh, she could see what Harry had meant when he told her he looked like the very devil. His face was surely thinner than it had been, and harsher. He was wearing his many-caped greatcoat—she never had counted the capes—and looked large and menacing with the light of the fire behind him, his hands at his back. His eyes, dark and hooded, met hers.
“Marcel,” she said.
“Viola.” He made her a stiff half bow.
* * *
• • •
Marcel had been feeling savage—a not unfamiliar feeling whenever Viola was concerned. This was not something he ought to be doing. It was not something he wanted to be doing. He had never enjoyed making an ass of himself, and to do it deliberately, as he was doing now, was insanity.
Good God, that puppy had treated him as though he were a worm he would squash beneath his foot at the slightest encouragement. And Riverdale had stood just inside the door, as he was still doing now, hard faced and silent, like a damned jailer.
What he ought to do, he thought after the son had gone back upstairs, was leave right now without another word. And without waiting to be dismissed. He should stride from the room and from the house while some shred of dignity remained to him.
But no, it was too late for that. There was no shred left.
He had made a prize ass of himself.
All because he had wanted to prove something to his twins. That he loved them. And even that was a head scratcher. How could he prove he loved them by proposing marriage to a woman who had been about to leave him while they were having an affair, who had told him with perfect clarity after he had announced their betrothal that she was having none of it, who had repeated that rejection when she had come to Redcliffe, who had not uttered one word of protest when he had announced that they were not betrothed, and who had left his house the following morning as though she were being pursued by the hounds of hell?
Sometimes he wondered after all about the upbringing Jane had given those two. How could they have grown up so muddleheaded that they could believe that she loved him? How could they think he could possibly love her? And want to marry her? And why did they care after the way he had neglected them?
But here he was, and there they were, established in two far-from-luxurious rooms at the village inn nearby. They had seen him on his way as though they were sending him to his execution, Estelle teary eyed as she gave him a hug, Bertrand with tight lips and an unreadable expression and a handshake that might have ground to a powder all the bones in a lesser man’s hand.
“Good luck, Papa,” he had said.
It had almost been Marcel’s undoing. It was the first and only time his son had called him Papa. He had never managed even a Father before, but only a deferential sir.
Riverdale had had a servant come in to light the fire and had lit two branches of candles himself before he went upstairs to fetch Captain Harry Westcott and then took up his silent vigil inside and to one side of the door. The fire was warm at Marcel’s back now, but he did not remove his greatcoat. He felt damned silly. Here they were, two grown men standing silently in the same room, as though they had never heard of making polite conversation. The weather at least ought to have been a decent topic. It was surely going to snow, though it had not happened yet.
The door opened.
Estelle was quite right. Viola had lost weight, though not enough to detract from her beauty. And she did have dark shadows below her eyes, though they were not as pronounced as he had imagined. There was not a vestige of color in her face. Even her lips were pale. Her posture rivaled that of her military officer son.
“Marcel,” she said, her lips hardly moving.
“Viola.” He made her a half bow and looked from Westcott to Riverdale, his eyebrows raised. “Do we need nursemaids?”
It was probably not the best start he might have made, but he was damned if he was going to deliver a marriage proposal in the hearing of two men who would as soon run him through with a sword as give him the time of day.
“You can go back to the drawing room, Harry,” she said. “And you too, Alexander. They are all very curious up there to know who the visitor is.”
“There is a footman in the hall outside should you need him,” Westcott said, and they left, shutting the door behind them.
Marcel stared at Viola and she stared back before he pulled impatiently at the buttons of his greatcoat and tossed it onto a nearby chair.
“I am not going to ask questions,” he said. “Not yet, at least. That would put the burden upon you, and I have been told that doing so would be unfair. I am going to make statements. To begin, I will say again that I thought it was going to be a brief, thoroughly enjoyable affair. I was right about everything except the brief part. I was not finished with you. I was annoyed when you were finished with me. That had not happened to me before. If only you had given me another week or so, I would have been done with you and ready to move on.”
“Marcel,” she said.
“No,” he said, holding up one hand, “I will not be distracted. That was what I thought. Then I made that rash and foolish betrothal announcement and felt angry and injured and blamed you. I had not been given the time to work you out of my system. You were still there when you came to Redcliffe. You were still there when I told everyone I was not going to marry you after all—and after you left. I could not rid myself of you.”
“Marcel—” she said again.
“I am not doing very well, am I?” he said. “I had a speech. At least I think I did. I do not think I planned to tell you that I could not rid myself of you. What I meant to say was that I could not forget you because you were there to stay. Because you are here to stay. In me. I hesitate to say in my heart. I would feel too much of an ass. And I suppose I should apologize for using that word. I am never going to be over you, Viola. I suppose I am in love with you. No, I do not suppose any such thing. I am in love with you. I love you. And if there is any chance, any remote possibility that you have changed your mind since that day on the beach, then please tell me and I will ask you to marry me. If there is no change, then I will go away and you need never see me again or listen to any more of this drivel.”
He stopped, appalled.
“Marcel.” She had come a few steps closer, and her eyes were bright. She blinked them. “I had not tired of you.”
He frowned at her in incomprehension. “Then why did you say you had?” he asked.
“I did not.” She came one step closer. “I told you I needed to go home. I felt disconnected from my family and my life. I was afraid because my life had become so vivid and so happy and I was so in love with you and I knew it was not in the rules of the game to become too emotionally involved. I sensed the end coming, and out of a sense of sheer self-preservation I wanted some control over how it ended. I thought perhaps I could keep my heart from breaking if I ended it.”