Someone to Care

by Mary Balogh

  “But our family?” Bertrand asked. “And hers? And Miss Kingsley herself?”

  “You are going to have to leave all that with me,” Marcel said.

  He knew something at that most inappropriate of moments.

  He loved Viola, by God.

  And he would set her free, even at the cost of his claim to be a gentleman.

  Nineteen

  There had been exactly this many people at the table last evening, Marcel thought, gazing along its length to where the marchioness, his aunt, sat at the foot with Viola on her right and the Reverend Michael Kingsley on her left. He had not particularly noticed then what a vast number it was. He noticed now. And somehow or other they were all relatives—his and hers—gathered to celebrate a merging of their families. He wished there were not a meal to contend with and polite conversation to be made with Mrs. Kingsley on his right and the Dowager Countess of Riverdale on his left.

  Estelle, roughly halfway down the long table, was flushed and looking a bit anxious. Bertrand, on the other side of the table, was grave in manner. But he always was. He was also bending his head attentively toward Lady Molenor, who was talking. He turned his face toward her even as Marcel watched, and he laughed.

  “It must be one of the loveliest views in all Europe,” Mrs. Kingsley was saying, speaking of what she could see from the front windows of her house on the Royal Crescent in Bath. “I am very fortunate.”

  “I know the view you speak of,” Marcel said. “I spent a few days in Bath a couple of years ago.” He had not stayed long. He had found very little there with which to amuse himself. Bath had become largely a retreat for the elderly and infirm.

  The meal seemed interminable and came to an end all too quickly. He almost missed the moment he had decided upon. His aunt was getting slowly to her feet at the foot of the table as a signal to the ladies that it was time to leave the men to their port. The first outside guests would begin arriving in an hour’s time. Viola stood too and turned to look along the table. She was drawing breath to say something.

  Marcel got to his feet and held up a hand. “Do sit back down for a while longer,” he said.

  His aunt looked at him in some surprise and subsided back onto her chair. A few other ladies who had begun to rise did likewise. Viola locked eyes with him, hesitated, and then sat. He gave the signal for the servants to leave the room.

  “I have something to say,” he continued when the door closed, “that will surprise most of you and perhaps distress a few.”

  If he had not had everyone’s full attention before, he had it now. He tried to gird himself with his famous disdain for anyone’s opinion of what he said and did. But it would not work this time.

  “I hold Miss Kingsley in the deepest regard,” he said, “and I flatter myself with the belief that she returns it. However, a little less than a month ago I forced a betrothal on her when I made the unilateral decision to announce it to four members of her family and then four of my own. It was wrong of me, for an hour or so before I made that announcement Miss Kingsley had expressed her wish to return home to her own family and her own life. With my impulsive announcement I placed her in an impossibly awkward situation, and she has become more enmeshed in its consequences ever since. She has told me a number of times that she does not wish to marry me. So I am making another announcement now to correct the first. There is no betrothal. There never has been. There will be no wedding. And I must stress that Miss Kingsley is entirely blameless.”

  Everyone had listened in absolute silence. There were a few murmurings when he stopped, and it became something of a babble when it was clear he had finished. Marcel took no notice. His eyes were locked upon Viola’s. She was looking like the marble goddess, the ice queen of memory, her chin raised, her face pale and utterly devoid of any expression except that which lent her unassailable dignity.

  No one asked questions. No one voiced any protest. No one challenged him to a duel. He held up his hand after a few moments and looked along both sides of the table as silence fell again.

  “My daughter has planned tonight’s party with meticulous care,” he said. “It is the first such event she has organized, and she has done it on a grand scale. She decided upon it because I have reached the milestone of my fortieth birthday and she wished to do something special for me. It is special, and I trust you will all help us celebrate.”

  “I certainly will,” Viola said, the first to speak up. “I wish you a happy birthday, Marcel, and Estelle a successful party.”

  “I will echo what Aunt Viola has said,” Anna, Duchess of Netherby, said. “Happy birthday, Lord Dorchester. And, Estelle, thank you for inviting us all to be participants in your party. It is a delight to be here, and I must confess to having peeped in at the ballroom earlier. I thought perhaps I had discovered a glorious flower garden instead.”

  The duke, across the table and a little way down from his wife, was cocking an eyebrow at her and looking faintly amused.

  Bertrand was on his feet, a glass of . . . water in his hand. “I hope everyone has some wine left,” he said. “Will you join me in wishing my father a happy fortieth birthday? I know you do not particularly like to be reminded of the number, sir, but enjoy it now. Next year will be worse.”

  Bertrand making a joke?

  There was general, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps a bit overhearty laughter and the scraping of chairs as everyone stood and raised a glass in a toast. And dash it all, they were going to bring this thing off in a civilized manner, it seemed, when everyone must surely be wanting a piece of his hide.

  “Thank you,” Marcel said. “I believe the gentlemen will be willing to forgo the port tonight in favor of getting ready for the party. I will see you all in the ballroom in one hour’s time.”

  And just like that, he thought as he turned to offer his arm to the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, the worst of it was over. He had in the nick of time saved Viola from having to make the announcement herself.

  André caught his eye from across the room and winked and grinned.

  “Well, young man,” the dowager said amid the babble of voices around them. “I have never heard anything more ridiculous in my life. You will regret this. So will Viola. But that is your business, I suppose.”

  She took his offered arm.

  * * *

  • • •

  Viola had always known that something immeasurably good—or, rather, three things—had made every difficult year of her marriage worth suffering through. She was not a demonstrative woman—another result of her marriage—and perhaps her children did not know fully how adored they were, but she knew. She had often thought they were the only good thing to have come of her marriage. But she had been wrong.

  During those twenty-three years she had learned to endure in full sight of family, friends, and society at large. She had learned to drag a gracious sort of dignity about herself like an all-enveloping mantle whenever she was not alone, and that meant most of her waking hours. That ability was her saving grace this evening.

  With palpitating heart and shaking knees she had been about to make the announcement herself. She had drawn breath and opened her mouth to speak. A few heads had begun to turn her way. Yet even at that moment she had not known quite what she was going to say. She had not prepared any speech, or if she had, she could not remember a single word of it. She had only known that it must be done—now. Suddenly time really had run out. It was now or never, and never was a temptation that must be resisted.

  Marcel had saved her by speaking up himself and risking all sorts of repercussions for violating his gentleman’s honor. It had not happened, however. To her knowledge, Joel had not challenged him to any sort of duel. Neither had Alexander nor Avery. And Michael had not denounced him. Everyone, in fact, had absorbed the shock of the announcement with remarkable civility despite the fact that a large number of her relatives had been dragge
d half across the country under false pretenses. Her daughters had hurried to her side before they left the dining room, and she had smiled at them both.

  “Everything he said was true,” she said. “It was noble of him to make the announcement himself and take all the blame. I do not hate him or even dislike him. Neither does he hate nor dislike me. We just do not wish to be married to each other.”

  “Mama,” Abigail said, and could not seem to find anything else to say. She looked her concern and distress instead.

  “We so wanted you to be happy,” Camille said, looking equally forlorn.

  “We have a party to attend and enjoy,” Viola reminded them. “For Estelle’s sake. And Bertrand’s.”

  “They must have known,” Abigail said. “He must have told them before tonight.”

  “Yes,” Viola agreed. “I think he must. Now, I promised to kiss Winifred good night before the party. I am going to go there without further delay before you and Joel go up, Camille.”

  And the party proceeded an hour later as a grand and noisy reception in the ballroom, followed after a while by some country dancing for the young people and eventually a lavish sit-down supper during which there were toasts and speeches and birthday greetings from Bertrand and various neighbors—and Marcel, who praised his daughter and son and thanked his guests and made a few dry remarks about being forty. He made the first cut into a very large iced fruitcake, which fortunately looked suitable for any occasion.

  If any of the neighbors had heard rumors of a betrothal announcement to be made tonight, none of them alluded to it or afforded Viola any more marked attention than they showed any other of the house guests. All was well, and Estelle’s party had been rescued from the disaster it might have been.

  “How very fortunate it is,” Louise, Dowager Duchess of Netherby, remarked to Viola soon after the party began, “that there was a birthday also to celebrate tonight.”

  “I daresay Dorchester will remember it for the rest of his life,” Mildred, her sister, agreed. “So will you, Viola. I must confess to some disappointment, though I came here quite prepared to line up with my sisters and subject the marquess to an interrogation that would reduce him to a quivering jelly. However, I daresay you know your own mind as he knows his.”

  “I am so sorry,” Viola said, “that you were all dragged here for nothing.”

  “Kicking and screaming,” Louise said after clucking her tongue. “It is a pity Bertrand is so very young. Jessica seems rather smitten with him, does she not? And who can blame her? That young man is destined to break a few female hearts before he finds the one for him.”

  Lady Jessica Archer had made her come-out during the spring. She could probably have made a brilliant match before the end of the Season if she had wished. She was both pretty and vivacious—and the wealthy daughter and sister of a Duke of Netherby. Instead, she had insisted upon returning to the country even before the end of the Season, upset that Abigail, her very best friend, could not make a come-out with her. She had been unable to accept the fact that Abigail’s illegitimacy disqualified her from entering society on a level with her own.

  “He looks exactly like his father,” Mildred said.

  Viola seemed to spend half the evening apologizing for what had not been her fault.

  “I would rather have the two of you admit your incompatibility now, Viola,” her brother told her, “than in the middle of next January.”

  “But I am so glad we all came,” Elizabeth assured her a little later, and Cousin Althea, her mother, nodded agreement. “I think this evening would have been dreadful for you if you had only had Abigail for moral support.”

  “Aunt Viola,” Avery, Duke of Netherby, said with a languid sigh after she had expressed her regret at his having come all this way with Anna and the baby for a nonevent. He had wandered her way to rescue her from a gentleman farmer who had settled into a lengthy description of all his livestock and the bounty of his recent harvest, which somehow surpassed that of all his neighbors. “People who are forever begging one’s pardon are almost invariably crashing bores. I shudder at the unlikely possibility that you might become one of them. Do come and dance with me. I believe I may remember the steps of this one well enough not to disgrace you.”

  “You must not apologize, Viola,” Alexander told her not long before supper. “It is not your fault that we were invited as a surprise for you and ended up being a bit of an embarrassment instead. And we are glad to be here to lend you some support.”

  “If you are truly sorry, Viola,” Wren said, a gleam of mischief in her eyes, “then you will come to Brambledean for Christmas regardless of what has happened tonight. Everyone else will still come even though there is no longer to be a wedding. I know you well enough to predict that you will not want to be there. But you must. Family is so very important. I know. I grew up without any except my aunt and uncle. At least now I have my brother back in my life—and I have all of Alexander’s family. As you do. Your mother is still going to come, and so are your brother and sister-in-law. I just asked them. You must come too.”

  “Wren is an expert at twisting arms,” Alexander said. “I have the sore muscles to prove it.”

  Viola was horrified at the very thought of yet another family gathering in little more than two months’ time. But she would not think about it yet. She could not. “I will let you know,” she said.

  “That will have to do for now,” Wren said. “But do remember how we dared each other back in the spring to step out into the world, and how we did it and felt enormously proud of ourselves.”

  But she was not being dared to step out into the world, Viola thought. She was being asked to step into her family and accept their collective embrace.

  “Come and dance with me, Viola,” Alexander said.

  And then, after supper, just when Viola was wondering if she could slip off to her room without appearing unduly bad mannered, Marcel appeared before her and Isabelle and the vicar and his wife. They had successfully avoided each other all evening. Yet she had been aware of him every interminable minute. He looked elegant and almost satanic all in black and white with a silver embroidered waistcoat and his solitaire diamond winking from the intricate folds of his neckcloth. He looked austere and a little intimidating, though he had made an effort to mingle with all the guests and make sure that refreshments were brought to the more elderly among them. He had begun the dancing with Estelle, and Viola had watched, feeling sick at heart as she remembered dancing the very same country dance with him on the village green a lifetime ago.

  She was horribly, painfully in love with him, and resented the fact. She was no girl to be made heartsick by a handsome face and figure. Except that it was more than that, of course. Far more.

  She wanted to be gone—from the ballroom and from Redcliffe. She wanted to be home. She wanted . . . oblivion. It was the worst wish of all and something that must and would be fought. But she would be gone from here tomorrow. She had decided that. All the houseguests had expected to stay for a few days after the party, of course—a few days in which to enjoy their surroundings and celebrate a new family betrothal in a more leisurely way. She had no idea how her leaving would affect everyone else. Staying after the betrothal was ended and she was gone would be more than a little awkward, and—good heavens—her family had arrived here only yesterday, after a few days of travel in most cases. But she would not think of that or of them. Sometimes—yet again!—she could think only of herself. She must leave, as soon in the morning as it could be arranged.

  Yet now he was standing before her. Well, before all four of them actually, but it was at her he was looking, as though he were unaware of his cousin or of the vicar and his wife.

  “Viola,” he said, “will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  Ah, it was unkind. It was cruel. He was doing it no doubt in order to demonstrate to their families that there w
ere no hard feelings between them, that—as she had told her daughters after dinner—they did not hate each other but just did not wish to marry each other. But he ought not to have chosen this particular way to do it.

  “Thank you.” She set her hand in his, and his long fingers closed warmly about hers as he led her onto the floor.

  “We are perfectly coordinated, you see,” he said. “Had we announced our betrothal tonight, Viola, the guests would have assumed it was planned.”

  She was wearing her silver lace over a silver silk evening gown. She had always considered it elegant in an understated sort of way, and modest without being prim, and flattering to her figure. She had always thought it suited her age without making her look frumpish. It was, in fact, her favorite, and she had chosen it to boost her confidence.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “For speaking at dinner,” she said.

  “And saving you from having to do it yourself?” he said. “It was what you were about to do, wasn’t it? I assume you would not be thanking me if that were not the case. You were not about to announce your undying love for me and your commitment to a happily-ever-after that would stretch into our old age and beyond into eternity?”

  She could not help but smile, and his dark eyes fixed with some intensity on her face. “You did not misunderstand,” she told him.

  “Ah,” he said. “I did not think I had.”

  The musicians played a chord and Viola looked about her, startled. They were not in line. She had not heard the announcement of what dance they were to perform. There were a few other couples on the floor, none of them the very young people and none of them in line. There were Alexander and Wren, Mildred and Thomas, Camille and Joel, Anna and Avery, Annemarie and William, and two other couples. Almost before the chord had finished she understood.