“Hopefully very little. Now put that down and stop the gossiping,” Lady Tenby carried on, exasperated as she patted her upswept gray hair. “You girls shouldn’t be spending so much time at the buffet table anyway. You’ll never find husbands if you don’t keep your trim figures.”
Her daughter complied by placing her yet untouched cake back on the sideboard. “Viola has already experienced the joys of marriage, Mother,” she said with false sweetness. “I don’t think she needs or wants another husband.”
“Nonsense. Joy has nothing to do with it,” the older woman huffed. “All ladies of good breeding need husbands, including young widows. Now stop the unbecoming chatter and go, all of you. Mingle.”
With that pronouncement, Lady Tenby straightened, turned, and disappeared into the ever-growing throng of inebriated but apparently worthy nobles in need of wives.
“She exhausts me,” Isabella said, raising her fan and swishing it in front of her.
“Mothers always do,” Daphne replied through a groan.
Viola smiled. “When you two become mothers, you’ll understand. We want nothing but the best for our children.”
Isabella scoffed. “You have a son.”
“And he’s four years old and titled,” Daphne chimed in as if that explained everything.
Viola rubbed the back of her neck, feeling tension rise again, as it always did when she worried about her son and his future. The Duke of Fairbourne had probably already arrived, without ceremony as was his nature, which meant his friend roamed the ballroom as well. Most of her recent artwork wouldn’t be considered the collectable kind, though if this particular gentleman wanted his garden painted, she would be the one to contact. What made her apprehensive, she supposed, was his calling himself a collector of art. Most of her original V. Bartlett-James artwork had been sold to gentlemen collectors.
“Oh, good heavens, who is that?” Daphne asked excitedly, cutting into Viola’s thoughts as she pulled on her sleeve.
Viola turned toward the dance floor, seeing nothing but a scurry of colorful skirts and bobbing heads, hearing the usual blur of conversation and outbursts of laughter intermixed with a perfectly played Bach Minuet in G.
“Who is who?” Isabella asked, raising up on her tiptoes to try to get a better view.
“Fairbourne?” Viola offered.
Daphne shook her head. “No, someone else. Someone much more attractive. But—he’s disappeared now.”
“Nobody is more attractive than Fairbourne,” Isabella said forcefully.
Suddenly Daphne stiffened, lifted her chin a fraction, and said flatly, “I was wrong. It is him.”
“And he’s coming this way,” Viola added, catching her first glimpse of the man’s magnificent stature striding easily around lingering couples, who parted automatically for him.
“He is so handsome,” Isabella whispered through a sigh.
Daphne said nothing to that, even though, still yards away, the undeniably handsome duke stared directly at her for a long, intimidating moment.
Abruptly, Daphne cleared her throat and turned. Brightly, she said, “Excuse me, dears, but since I refuse to cross paths with the deplorable duke, I think I’ll look for Lord Neville. I believe it’s time for our second set.”
With that, she lifted her skirts and slipped around the buffet table, head held high, her dark curls bouncing with every forceful step as she disappeared into the crowd.
“When will their ridiculous feuding end?” Isabella asked seconds later, brows pinched as she stared after her.
Viola shook her head minutely. “She’s protecting Fairbourne. Her brother would call him out if the man so much as requested a dance.”
“Lady Isabella, and Lady . . . Cheshire, is it not?”
Viola flipped around, dazed for a second or two as Lucas Wolffe, tall and domineering, stood directly in front of her, acknowledging her in a deep, cool voice.
“Your grace,” Isabella said at once, breaking the spell first with a proper curtsey.
Viola automatically followed with the same, lowering her body gracefully as she tipped her head down in respect, her heartbeat quickening as it always did when she found herself in the company of someone so important. And then past and present collided in swift, brutal force when, as she pulled herself upright and raised her lashes, Fairbourne moved to his left to offer full view of the man standing behind him.
Oh, my God . . .
She blinked, instantly spellbound by a new and vivid unreality.
“Ladies, may I present to you Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford, Duke of Chatwin.”
The room began to spin. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.
Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford . . .
He’s found me.
Isabella curtseyed again, mumbled something. He nodded brusquely in response, then slowly turned his attention to Viola.
Those eyes . . . Ian’s eyes. Pleading . . .
Run!
She couldn’t move. Their gazes locked, and for an endless moment, time stopped, if only between them. History suddenly became now, their shared memories, both distasteful and passionate, fearful and vibrant, passing intimately between them in a heartbeat.
Viola stumbled back a step; her champagne glass fell from her fingertips to shatter on the marble floor at her feet. And still, she couldn’t take her gaze from his face. That beautiful, expressive face, so changed. Perfected in time.
“Viola?”
Footmen scattered around her to quickly sweep up the glass and pale liquid that pooled at the hem of her gown; others in their vicinity backed up to make room. The bluster of sudden activity jarred her and she blinked quickly, glancing down, bewildered.
“I—I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded clipped, hollow.
Isabella wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right? You look ready to faint.”
“No, I’m—I’m fine. Really.” She tried to lick her lips though her tongue felt thick and dry. “I’m just—hot.”
Concerned, Isabella opened her fan. “Take this. And sit. Catch your breath.”
Fairbourne chuckled, interrupting her disorientation as he reached out and grasped her elbow, helping her into a chair a footman placed beside the sidebar. She looked at him, attempting to draw a full inhale as she fanned herself without thought. “Thank you. I—I apologize, your grace.”
“Not at all, I’m very flattered,” he returned in a good-natured drawl. “It’s not often I have such an effect on a lady.”
She tried to smile—then shot a glace at the very real cause of her turmoil.
He stared down at her, his sharp gaze focused intently on her face, his expression unreadable. Then his lips curved up at one corner. “Nor do I. You swooned even before we’d been properly introduced. I usually have to speak before that happens.”
Isabella laughed lightly at his charm and cleverness. Viola, however, had no idea what to say to him. But his voice . . . oh, how she remembered his voice! It mesmerized her then as it did now—husky soft, low and rich, begging—
“Forgive me,” Fairbourne said after an awkward pause, his tone slightly amused. “Lady Viola Cheshire, his grace, the Duke of Chatwin.”
The man took a step forward to tower over her, blocking the brilliantly illuminated chandelier with his powerful form. Then, with a gentle nod, he reached out with his hand, palm up.
Viola stared at it for several long seconds, unsure what to do. But her head had begun to clear. The music played around them, the champagne flowed, and the party carried on as the first great event of the season. They were only two among many. She also realized something else: he’d inherited a new title, and a grand one at that. As a gentleman of such distinguished rank, he certainly wouldn’t expose her, or their past, in front of his peers. Not tonight.
Not here, like this. She had no idea why he acted as if he didn’t remember her, and he no doubt enjoyed her discomfiture, but for now her reputation was safe, and that was all that mattered. She had time.
Feeling relief wash over her, more confident for the moment, she inhaled another deep breath. Then staring at his long, hard fingers, she lifted her gloved hand and placed it gingerly atop his.
He closed his thumb over her knuckles, then, second by second, gently helped her rise. Standing before him once more, she curtseyed with elegance, playing the part she’d learned.
“Your grace.”
“Lady Cheshire.”
Her name seemed to roll off his tongue as if the sound of it fascinated him. Or perhaps it was only her imagination. But the strength she felt from him as he touched her now, hand to gloved hand, permeated her skin to shock her thoroughly, inside and out.
Strong. Vibrant. Alive. Because of her.
He released her and took a step back, standing tall, arms behind him. “Feeling better, I hope.”
She shook herself and rubbed her palm down the bodice of her gown. “Indeed. Thank you.”
He nodded once.
Another strained moment skipped by. Then Isabella said, “So . . . Mother informed us you’re an art collector?”
“I am,” he replied without elaboration.
Viola swallowed. “And a friend of Lord Fairbourne. How delightful for him—for you. As it were.” It was likely the most ridiculous thing she’d ever said, and she felt like cowering inside the moment it was out of her mouth.
Isabella glanced from one to the other, then thankfully saved her more embarrassment. “Uh, Lord Chatwin, Lady Cheshire is an exceptional artist. Perhaps you’ve seen her work?”
Viola felt Ian’s stare on her again and she forced a flat smile even as she felt renewed heat creep up her neck.
“I’ve no idea,” he replied evenly. “Are you perchance famous, madam?”
The tenor of his voice teased her to the core, just as it did all those years ago. But there also appeared a telling confidence about him. She raised her lashes to capture his gaze once again, immediately sensing an undefined boldness in their dark depths, something calculating that sent a ripple of warning through her body.
Fairbourne, who’d been silently watching for the last minute or two, crossed his arms over his tailored evening coat. “No need to be humble, Lady Cheshire, you may admit it. I’ve already told Chatwin you’ve painted most of the nobility’s formal portraits in recent years and are celebrated as one of the finest artists in London. It’s why he’s here.”
“Why he’s here?” Isabella repeated.
Viola reached up to wipe a stray curl from her forehead, not because it bothered her but because she felt more uncomfortable at that moment than she had in the last five years and desperately needed something to do.
“I apologize if I’ve been vague,” Ian murmured, his smile pleasant as he continued to scrutinize her. “But I’ve just returned to London and expect to remain only for the season. Since your good reputation precedes you, I wanted to meet you straightaway, Lady Cheshire, in the hope that we can discuss a commission of your work while I’m here?”
Again, she felt dumbstruck, numb. She had no intention of working for him, being alone with him. Not ever. And yet when he asked like this, standing before her in a crowded ballroom, dressed formally, and presenting himself as a man of great wealth and power, she simply could not deny him his request for one innocent meeting. Not if she was to maintain her status as a lady of quality and her reputation as a professional artist.
There was something about this entire encounter that just seemed bizarre. No mention of their past, no recognition from him at all, really. And yet she felt a tension between them that threatened her composure, forcing her to play his hand for the moment.
Overcoming her reluctance, she nodded once, clutching Isabella’s fan to her waist in a measure of defense. “I’ll have to review my schedule.”
“Of course,” he replied at once, as if expecting such a standard response.
The orchestra struck up a waltz. Isabella cleared her throat and Fairbourne took the cue.
“Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?”
She smiled beautifully as she placed her silk-covered palm on his arm. “I’d be delighted, your grace.”
Suddenly, watching her friend wander into the noisy group of mostly inebriated nobility, Viola felt more isolated in the crowded ballroom than she would have in a dinghy in the middle of the sea. With growing trepidation, she lifted her gaze one more time, meeting his.
Don’t ask me to dance. Please don’t ask me to dance—
“Lady Viola Cheshire,” he drawled in a whisper.
She felt an instant thundering in her breast as he used her given name. “Yes, your grace?”
His lids narrowed, and very, very slowly, he studied the length of her, from the hem of her full, ruby red gown, through her tightly corseted bodice, pausing briefly at her low, rounded neckline and the golden locket resting in the crease of her bosom before moving up her throat to her flushing face. When at last he looked back into her eyes, her breath caught in a whirlwind of panic. For the slightest second she felt hunger within him. Not lust as she knew it, but something else. Something she couldn’t possibly define.
His lips twitched. “I don’t feel much like dancing at the moment.”
A palpable relief swept over her even as she felt the slightest twinge of disappointment.
His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Would you care to walk with me on the promenade instead?”
She swallowed, simply unable to look away from him, or answer.
He smiled again as if sensing her hesitation, a beautiful smile that softened the hard planes of his face, then lifted his arm for her.
She took it because she didn’t dare deny him, and in the course of ten seconds, they were heading out of the ballroom.
Chapter Two
He is drugged again, but still so restless and in great pain. Oh, please, God, tell me what to do. . . .
Darkness had fallen and Viola shivered as they stepped into the cool night air. He couldn’t have felt it, though, as she only touched him with her gloved palm to his forearm. Instinct told her she needed to get away, and quickly, but running would bring suspicion upon her. For the moment, she had no idea what to do or say.
He remained quiet as he led her toward the balcony’s edge, which overlooked a large garden and pond below, lit up beautifully by torchlight. There were others around them, couples strolling or mingling in the distance, muted laughter and music coming from the ballroom, and knowing they weren’t completely alone gave her at least a small sense of security.
At last he stopped and turned to her, resting his elbow casually atop the railing as he studied the side of her face. She stood rigidly erect, gazing down to the pathway that wound through the flower garden below, clutching Isabella’s fan in front of her. Any moment now she suspected he would tell her he knew who she was, that he had found her purposely to confront her, that he’d wanted to get her alone outside to accuse her of being privy to his kidnapping five years ago and doing nothing to help him escape. Part of her wanted to blurt out an apology before he could mention it, explain her actions, but she knew it would sound hollow at this point, and she just didn’t want to be the one to break the silence anyway.
“It’s a perfect night to be outside,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.
The small talk disconcerted her. “Yes, lovely.”
“Lady Viola Cheshire,” he repeated very slowly.
The richness of his voice when he said her name again enthralled her. Bravely, she looked up to his face, now hidden partially in shadow, illuminated only by faint light from the ballroom behind her, revealing nothing in expression. Suddenly she knew
he was about to reveal his intention, and she waited, unable to tear her gaze away from his. Silence lingered for several unbearable seconds, and then he cocked his head to the side to eye her speculatively. She couldn’t move. Or breathe.
Then, with a crease of his dark brows, he murmured, “Forgive me for being blunt, but there is something so . . . oddly familiar about you. Have we met before?”
For the second time that night, Viola nearly fainted. She blinked quickly several times, unable to avoid gaping at him as the blood left her face and a deep confusion enveloped her. “I—I beg your pardon?”
He continued to gaze at her, seemingly unaware of her incredulity.
“I apologize for staring, but your . . . face, and voice, have arrested me.” He shook his head, mystified, his eyes narrowed. “I know I’ve seen you before. I just can’t pinpoint the time, or where it might have been.”
A rush of air escaped from Viola’s partially opened mouth and she sank momentarily into her stays, feeling a sudden, inexplicable exhilaration at the possibility that maybe he didn’t actually remember her, hadn’t come here to challenge her at all. Yet the mere notion seemed so totally unbelievable. True, he’d been drugged almost all of the time he’d been in captivity, kept in near total darkness, and she’d never given her name to him during those few respites alone where he’d appeared more lucid. But could he really not remember her as the woman who’d shared his horror?
“Lady Cheshire?” he prompted softly.
She straightened, heeding the warning within that if he truly didn’t recognize her, she wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him. “Sorry. I was just thinking, trying to place you, but alas, I cannot.” She sighed and gave him a half smile. “If we’ve met before, I can’t recall the time or circumstance.”
His lips turned down and he nodded. Seconds ticked by as he continued to study her, making her ever more uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Then he grinned slyly. “Perhaps you’re right, though I rarely fail at remembering beautiful women, and you are very beautiful.”
His unexpected compliment warmed her inside as much as it surprised her. Aside from the shape of her face and her coloring, she looked nothing like she did five years ago, and nobody would have called her beautiful then. Pretty maybe, but not beautiful. Still, his flattery seemed genuine even if she didn’t now understand where the conversation headed.
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