The Kissing Bough (4 page)

“He’s young, he’s handsome and titled, what reason could you have to turn him down, since one presumes he’s already aware of your unfortunate past. He would have had to have had his head buried somewhere exceedingly pretty not to be aware of it.”

“He knows,” she confirmed.

“Then why is he not right now speaking to your father?”

She shook her head, refusing to divulge her reasons. Aunt Clara wouldn’t understand. She’d be shocked to the tips of her knitted stockings. Also, how did one explain that you feared you’d be exchanging a prison for a gilded cage? Although, when she thought about it, one did sound a lot nicer than the other.

“You’re stubborn, girl. It’s ever been your undoing. You’ve an opportunity to make something good of yourself, take it before you’re compelled into accepting something far less agreeable.”

Foreboding tickled at the back of Viola’s neck. “Whatever do you mean?”

Aunt Clara’s attention remained focused on her knitting. “Your father has a match in mind for you too,” she said after a moment or two. “And it’s not to Lord Ricborough or even anyone of his standing.”

“Father has!” She sprang from the rocking chair and began to pace back and forth across the threadbare rug. “To whom?” Who could her father have possibly found that would marry her? Some impoverished distant cousin perhaps, or a man with “new money” and no pedigree? “Will he be here tonight?”

“Aye,” her aunt dipped her head in affirmation. “I imagine, unless he’s given a
reason
to do otherwise, your father will look to announcing the engagement at breakfast tomorrow. You know he does so enjoy having an audience to witness his triumphs, and you have to admit, finding a match for his sullied daughter is quite an accomplishment.”

“But…but…Don’t I have any say in this matter?”

“Of course,” her Aunt said, giving her head a little shake. “You get to say, “Yes” and do whatever you’re told. Beyond that, I’m sure he would listen if you were to present Lord Ricborough as an alternative match. Your father’s easily swayed by status. I don’t think he’d object to you marrying a future earl.”

“Yes, but…” She couldn’t possibly make such a momentous decision in one night. Gracious, she didn’t even have the first inkling of what loving William and Percy might entail, and she didn’t want to contemplate giving herself to whatever man her father had chosen. Suddenly, staying in the nursery didn’t seem so bad after all. At least she knew what was expected. It might be dreary dull, but at least she knew she could comply with minimal fuss.

“Do stop pouting,” Aunt Clara chastised. “Any young woman ought to be thrilled to be in your position.”

“Of course.” She smiled meekly. Whatever was she supposed to do? She needed time to think, to consider all possibilities and weigh them up. “Suppose you thought that someone was only interested in you because they thought you were something you weren’t.”

Aunt Clara immediately levelled her with a very shrewd stare. “Then I’d dispel them of the notion immediately. Lies are not a good foundation for a marriage. I advise stepping into it with both parties quite clear about their expectations.”

Oh damnation!
Why hadn’t she admitted the truth? Dispelled them of the notion that she was experienced? She’d said it over and over to everyone else, but when it had really mattered, she’d kept silent, and now it would be excruciatingly awkward to bring up, not to mention a very real possibility that William would withdraw his offer.
What a horrid, horrid mess.

“You ought to go down, girl.” Aunt Clara rose from her chair to shoo Viola toward the door. “Stop brooding and go and choose your future.”

Chapter Six

Knasebrook’s grand salon always looked its finest at Christmas. This year proved no exception. Great wreaths of holly and painted apples decorated the glittering bank of mirrors that graced the long wall, while mistletoe hung in loops from the chandeliers and a huge yule long burned on the fire. Outside, the gently falling snow provided a festive backdrop to the sextet of musicians.

Viola remained on the periphery of the room, watching the other guests dance and listening to the music. The only noise that ever disturbed the environs of the old nursery was the clack of Aunt Clara’s knitting needles, so the harmony of the stringed instruments was a true delight. Nobody spoke to her. Guests moved away from where she stood, and the women raised their fans so that they could whisper behind them.

It wasn’t long before she spotted William and Percy. Her heart stirred at the sight of them in their finery, and butterflies awakened in her stomach. She’d not truly appreciated them out in the cold, on the green, beneath the mistletoe. Percy’s slightly unkempt curls made him stand out and seem so very vital next to all the mincing dandies, while William was by far the handsomest man in the room in his blue tail-coat and white waistcoat, with the possible exception of Lawrence Bellshawe, an old macaroni who still favoured mouse-fur eyebrows and star-shaped patches. She’d always had a soft spot for Bellshawe, ever since she was a very small girl. He still spoke to her sometimes too, unlike everybody else, who treated her as though she had an infectious disease. Would William and Percy be prepared to talk to her she wondered? It was one thing to converse with her on a deserted green, another entirely to openly acknowledge her in a roomful of their peers. Maybe she could use this as a test of their worth, a way of discerning what kind of relationship they would truly have. She made the decision to go to them, only for Tom intercept her as she tacked across the room.

He scowled at her. “I’m to dance with you. Father says so.”

Every year her father insisted that each of her three brothers take a turn about the floor with her, and while Viola very much enjoyed dancing, none of her siblings ever made it a pleasant experience. The elder two inevitably used the occasion to berate her over her past conduct. Tonight they had so far left her alone, both seemingly preoccupied with pursuits of their own. Edward was wooing the imperious Lady Anne Claythorpe, while Samuel was chasing a pretty Scottish heiress.

Tom didn’t give a fig about any woman; his passion was reserved for lady luck.

“Do let us get this over with,” he complained, as he pushed her into the line of ladies that was forming for the next dance. He slotted himself into the line of gentlemen. “I suppose you think you were awfully clever running off earlier. Father has given me no end of grief about it. He even threatened to reduce my allowance.”

“Was I supposed to stand in the snow until I was completely frozen through? You vanished, Tom, and the snow was falling thicker. It would have been ridiculous to stand there. It wasn’t as if I was certain you were returning. You did leave without a word as to where you were going.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed so happy standing there with your lips puckered. I sense however that your future husband didn’t fall from the sky.”

The dance required them to part ways and skip to the head of the line before reuniting again; else Viola might have said something she’d have regretted. The moment apart gave her time to squash her irritation. She was not going to let Tom goad her into a revelation; he would only use the information to spite her. Nor was she going to allow him to make her feel guilty. He had been the one in the wrong. He oughtn’t to have left her alone on the green, though she was jolly thankful that he had, else William and Percy would not have had the opportunity to approach her, and whatever choice she made tonight, she would never forget that kiss.

“Why are you here, Viola?” Tom demanded, as they looped arms and swung round in a circle. “A civilised gathering isn’t any place for your sort. You forfeited your right to belong here.”

She did so wish she knew some ribald phrase she could use to deride him with.

“This is the only engagement father permits me to attend. You’re a dolt if you can’t see why I’d choose to come.”

“And you’re a bigger dolt for not seeing why you shouldn’t.”

Viola deliberately stepped on his toes.

Tonight she had more reason to be here than on any previous occasion. “It’s not my fault you have to dance with me. It’s father’s rule, not mine.” As a matter of preference she would have willingly skipped being partnered by Tom, but she knew better than to argue with her father’s rules. “As none of you pay me a single thought the rest of the year, is it truly such a hardship to spare me a few minutes of your time on Christmas Eve?”

“What’s a pity is that you never spared any thoughts for us when you surrendered the only asset that you had.” He scowled.

Viola skipped away from him, wishing the dance would end. There was no point in wasting her breath defending her actions. She’d done so hundreds of times before to no avail. Not one of her brothers would acknowledge their role in what had happened. If they’d looked out for her, as elder brothers ought, then…then she would never have had to endure Sarah Walsingham’s abuse, and there need never have been a scar upon the family name.

The dance did finally come to an end. However, instead of releasing her to go about her own business, Tom held on tight to her wrist. “Father wants me to bring you to him.”

“He’s busy at present.” She could see he was talking to Sir Hutsby Mede.

“He said right away.”

“Oh, very well, but I’m sure he’d rather I didn’t intrude.”

“And I’m certain he wants you to.” Tom gave a malicious laugh that made her dig in her heels.

“No,” she protested, realising who her father was intent on matching her with. Not Hideous Hutsby. He couldn’t. Surely he couldn’t be so cruel. Didn’t he value her a little more than that? “He’s buried eight wives already.” Numerous rumours abounded as to how they’d met their various ends.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Viola. You should be honoured he’s even interested in you. He is after all a hero.”

She swallowed slowly, and tried to get her desire for flight under control. Sir Hutsby may well have returned from India a hero, but he’d left part of his nose behind, sliced from his visage during the Battle of Assaye. He wore an un-fetching silver one in its place.

There was no choice to make. Two men versus Sir Hutsby-Mede; her decision was already made.

She looked around frantically; desperate to spot Lord Ricborough, but she couldn’t see him. Nor Percy either.

Then somehow her father and Sir Hutsby were right before them. “You danced beautifully tonight, Viola. Don’t you agree, Sir Hutsby? Do allow me to present my daughter.”

“A delight.” Sir Hutsby bowed his head. “Miss Marsh, my pleasure.”

Viola reluctantly offered him a curtsy.

“Perhaps the baronet would like to partner you for the next dance,” Tom suggested, a huge smile eating up his face.

Why the little weasel. She would’ve kicked him, had not the horror of a future spent with Sir Hutsby almost paralysed her.

“That would be—”

“No,” Viola blurted, before he could finish the sentence. “That is…What I mean is, I’d be honoured, but I can’t.”

Her father’s beetling brows furrowed. “Why not?”

“Because…” She dragged her teeth across her lower lip as she spotted William re-entering the room. “I’m already promised to someone else.”

Her father blinked in absolute astonishment. “You are?”

Tom shook his head, refusing to believe a word of it.

Viola plucked her dance card from her reticule and pretended to consult its blank surface. “Yes, sir. To Lord Ricborough.”

“Ridiculous! Ricborough—Lord Ricborough asked you to dance?” Tom near choked on his own incredulity.

“Yes,” she squeaked. “He did.”

“Then what the devil are you standing her for?” asked her father. “Don’t keep him waiting.” He gave her an encouraging shove in the right direction. “Ricborough, eh?” She heard him mutter. “Well there’s an interesting development.”

“You don’t believe her, do you father?” Tom probed. “She’s never even met the man. She’s not spoken to a soul since she set foot in this room.”

“Aye, well, all will be apparent soon enough.”

Viola sensed her father’s gaze burning a hole in her back as she crossed the room to reach Lord Ricborough. For once she was pleased when the folks surrounding him retreated as she approached.

“Miss Marsh.” His elegant brows lifted as he greeted her. Close to, he looked even more magnificent in his finery than he had done from across the room.

“You have to dance with me,” she blurted. “I told my father that you’d asked me, so that I wouldn’t have to dance with Sir Hutsby-Mede. You will, won’t you?” He’d asked for her hand in marriage, surely he wouldn’t balk at turning her about the salon.

“Not because you wanted to dance with me, then?”

“Well…I…” She peeped up at him, to find him smiling. “Actually, yes I would. Very much so.”

He held out his hand to her.

Viola heard the gasps of those around them as she accepted it.

“Do I need to watch out for my toes?” he asked, as he slid his arm around her waist. “I saw what you did to poor Tom.”

“It was no more than he deserved.”

“Then I’ll endeavour to keep my remarks civil. Here. You need to put your hand here.”

Oh, my!
Viola gulped, realising they were to waltz. She ought to have realised it would have been included in the roster. Her mother had grown up in Vienna, and dearly loved the
Spinner
or
Walzer
, as she’d called it. They’d often danced it together, but this was the first time she’d been crushed so close to a man. William was joyously light on his feet, but it raised her pulse every time his leg brushed her skirt, and she was hyper aware of every inch where their bodies touched. She wallowed in the scent of him too. Cinnamon and cloves, mixed with that heady masculine scent all of his own. If only he was prepared to take her for his own, without any addendums to his proposal.

“I believe you may have a few takers after this,” he remarked a few minutes into the movement. “Please promise you’ll save a space on your dance card for Percy, and one or two more for me.”

“People will talk if we dance that many times.”

“Sweet Viola, people are talking already. We’re causing quite a stir. I fear they may already have matched us and married us off. We’re not going to disappoint them, are we?”