by Mary Balogh
The vicar’s wife met them at the door of the church hall with smiling formality and insisted upon seating them at a private table, while most people squeezed onto the benches flanking the long tables that stretched from one end of the hall to the other. And unlike everyone else, who had to line up for their food, they were served heaping plates of every dish known to man—according to Mr. Lamarr.
“Or woman,” Viola added.
“It is hardly surprising, of course,” he said, “when the harvest has just been gathered in from fields and gardens. But dear me, I do not recall ever before having been presented with such a vast pyramid of innumerable foods all piled onto one plate.”
The presentation did indeed lack something in elegance. It lacked nothing in either quantity or flavor, however. Viola, normally a dainty eater, cleaned off her plate, as did he. And then they both ate a generous wedge of apple tart smothered with thick, sweet custard.
And that was that, she thought with more than a little regret as she set her spoon down on the empty dish. Not just the banquet, but this whole precious day of escape from herself and her world. She would remember it for a long time, even for the rest of her life, she suspected. Perhaps the memory of it would somehow cheer her up, help her get her life back together at last.
Or perhaps it would do just the opposite.
“Miss Kingsley.” He was turning his cup of coffee in his hands, and she was aware again of the well-manicured elegance of his fingers and of the gold ring—real gold—on his right hand. “Are you going to doom me to an evening spent alone in my room, stretched out on my bed, hands clasped behind my head, toes pointing at the ceiling while I count the cracks up there and entertain the fear that it is about to fall on my head? Or are you going to dance with me?”
The image of him lying stretched out on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, was enough to turn her hot inside. But the idea of dancing with him did no less. She had agreed to spend the afternoon in his company and had added the meal because there was to be no alternative at the inn. It had been enough. More than enough. She must not be tempted . . .
But why not? Who was going to be harmed?
“If it will serve as an act of mercy,” she said, “then I will dance with you.”
“Ah.” He set down his cup and leaned back in his chair.
“Though my main reason for agreeing,” she added, “is that the evening would be long and tedious for me too if I were forced to spend it alone in my room.”
“How very flattering, Lady Riverdale,” he said. “But you are not Lady Riverdale. I cannot think of you as Miss Kingsley either, however. The name makes you sound like someone’s governess. Will you entrust me with your given name?”
It was an imposition. They were near strangers. Only her family members had ever called her by her first name.
“It is Viola,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. “The loveliest of the stringed instruments. Of a lower tone than the violin but not as low as the cello. It suits you even though the pronunciation is different. I am Marcel. Marc to my family and intimates.”
Strangely, one did not think of him as a man with family. But he had a brother. And had there not been children with his late wife?
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 vigo
rous 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.
“We will waltz.” It was an imperious command.
“Oh, hardly,” she protested.
But he was holding out a hand for hers. “I believe waltzing is something you and I never did together, Viola,” he said. “We will right that wrong. Come.”
“Marcel.” She frowned.
“Ah,” he said. “I like it—the sound of you speaking my name. But come.” He took her hand, and she did not resist as he led her about the green to the side nearest the church, where there were no people, perhaps because full night had fallen and the light from the lamps did not penetrate this far. Here there was heavy shade, though not total darkness. It was a clear night, illumined by both moonlight and starlight.
“You will waltz with me here,” he said. It was still not a question. He was offering her no choice. Neither, of course, was he coercing her.
“But people will see,” she protested.
“And?” She was aware that his eyebrows were raised. “They will see us dancing together. Scandalous goings-on indeed.”
“Oh, very well,” she said, raising her left hand to set on his shoulder as his right arm came about her waist. How could she possibly resist? She had always thought the waltz the most romantic dance ever invented, yet there had been no such thing when she was young. There were still people who thought there was something scandalous about it, a man and a woman dancing a whole set exclusively with each other, face-to-face, their hands touching each other.
He took her free hand in his, listened a moment, and then led her into a waltz, twirling about the uneven ground of the village green, the sounds of voices and laughter seeming far away though they were only just beyond the shadows. She was very aware of his hands, the one resting firmly against the arch of her back at the waist, the other clasped about hers. She was aware that there was only an inch of space between his evening coat and her bosom, that their legs occasionally touched, that he was looking down at her, that she was looking back. She could not see him clearly in the darkness, but she knew his eyes were on hers. She could feel his body heat, smell his cologne, feel his magnetism. She could hear his breath.
She did not know how long it went on. Probably no longer than ten minutes. The dance had already been in progress, after all, when they started. It might have been forever. Viola forgot everything except the waltz and the man with whom she danced it in silence.
“Viola,” he said softly next to her ear when the music stopped. He did not immediately release her, and she made no move to extricate herself from his arms. “Let us go see what is behind the church, shall we?”
A churchyard, she supposed. But actually there was a sort of meadow beyond that, sloping downward to a river she had only half noticed this morning from the carriage window. A willow tree leaned over from the bank and almost touched the water. A humpbacked stone bridge crossed the river a short way to their left. It must all be very picturesque in the daylight. But so was the rest of the village.
They stood halfway between the low churchyard wall and the river, which winked in the moonlight, and listened to the slight rushing sound of water. The music began again, but the sound of it and of voices and laughter seemed far away now, part of some other world that did not concern them. His arm, through which her hand had been drawn, came about her waist to draw her to his side, and she wondered idly, not if she ought to allow it, but if she would. She made no move to bat his arm away or to take a step to the side. Rather, she leaned against him.
She would allow it, then. But she was in no danger. She knew what he was about. She understood. It did not matter.
He nudged her head onto his shoulder, lifted her chin with his long fingers, and bent his face to hers to kiss her.
Ah, it was a shock. She was so very unkissed. The boy she had loved when she was sixteen had kissed her once—a fumbling, guilty, swift smacking of lips that had left her in rapture for weeks afterward. And Humphrey had kissed her a few times in the early years of their marriage when he came to her bed. But the kisses had always been a prelude to the bedding and had never been offered with anything resembling conviction or affection or even lust. He had never lusted after her. He had married her—bigamously—for her money because he had none with which to pay off his many debts, but her father had pots of it that he was willing to give in exchange for the titles and prestige that would come through marrying his daughter to an earl’s heir.
She had never been kissed with any expertise. Until now. The first shock was the lightness of it, the unthreatening nature of it. He did not grab her or grind his lips against hers. He did not even turn her and pull her against him. His lips were soft, warm, slightly parted, and he teased her own until they parted too. His breath was warm against her cheek. His hand moved from beneath her chin to cup the back of her head. He took his time. There was no urgency, no hurry, no agenda, no destination. No threat. It was she who turned at last in his arms to come against him—knees, abdomen, bosom. Her hands came to his shoulders.
The second shock was that it did not end, not after a moment, not even after several moments, though he did move his mouth from hers to kiss her face and her throat, to murmur soft words her mind did not even try
to decipher. Then he was kissing her mouth again, but again without urgency, teasing her lips farther apart, touching the flesh within with his tongue, reaching his tongue slowly into her mouth, stroking its tip over the sensitive roof.
That was when desire stabbed through her like a raw wound, and she knew herself to be in peril. She was, she understood, an almost complete innocent. She had been married—or had thought herself married—for more than twenty years. She had borne three children. She was a grandmother. But she knew virtually nothing. She had not even had . . . relations for almost twenty years. Soon after Abigail had turned out to be another girl and not the spare for Harry that Humphrey had hoped for, he had given up on their marriage in all but name—and even that was false.
She knew nothing about desire.
If she had thought about it at all, she had expected it to be a fierce thing. On the part of the man, that was. With willing submission on the part of the woman.
But this was not fierce. This was . . .
Expertise.
This was seduction.
She drew back, but only with the upper part of her body. Her hands were still on his shoulders. She could see him only faintly in the moonlight. His eyes were dark and heavy lidded. “We ought not to be doing this,” she said.
“Ought we not?” His voice was low. “Why not?”
She drew breath and . . . could not think of a single reason. “We ought not.” She was almost whispering.
“Then we will not,” said the master seducer, and he released his hold on her, took her hand in his, laced their fingers, and strolled closer to the water with her and along the bank toward the bridge. He led her to the middle of it, and they stood by the low parapet and gazed into the dark water that flowed beneath. The sounds of merriment seemed louder from here. The light of the lamps from the street on the far side of the green was visible again.