Her hand had tingled for an hour where his lips brushed it. After she delivered the makeshift crown to Bridget, she fled the drawing room, even though it left Sophronia completely in charge. The earl had watched her go—Viola could swear his gaze made her feel warm and giddy from all the way across the room—but thankfully he didn’t follow. That was proper, she told herself; she was a servant and he was a gentleman of leisure.
So she ended up sitting in the small room off the duchess’s private parlor where she normally worked, staring out at the snow and wondering about the foreign lands Lord Winterton had been to. Had he seen the ancient pyramids in Egypt, which Stephen said were marvels of engineering? Had he been to India and seen elephants? Lord Newton had told the young ladies fantastical tales of his uncle’s journeys, and as much as Viola reminded herself it was not her place to know, she burned to ask him about all the places she had read of, but would never see herself.
It was true that everything and everyone she held dear was in England. Even more, the dearest person in the world to her, her brother Stephen, relied upon her being prosperously employed, and that was easiest to accomplish in England. She had neither means nor opportunity to go abroad, whether she wished to or not. Unlike the earl.
She sighed, brushing her fingertips over the knuckles he had kissed. Everything about her life was unlike the earl’s. She was an idiot to sit here thinking a kiss on the hand meant anything. He was being polite, or flirting, or even trying to persuade her to help him locate that atlas. Not that she didn’t understand his desire to have it. She’d made sure Stephen got their father’s astrolabe and sextant, and she’d kept her mother’s pearl necklace, which would have paid for a term at Cambridge.
But whether or not the duke would be willing to sell the atlas, if he even had it, Viola knew she ought to stay out of the matter. Her growing sympathy for and interest in Lord Winterton could only get her in trouble.
She was still torn when she went down to dinner. It was part of her duties to help oversee dinner and entertain the guests in the drawing room before and after the meal, but she was not expected to dine with the guests. When it was just family, she was often invited to join them, but during this party she receded to her proper place.
Naturally the first person she set eyes on when she reached the drawing room was Lord Winterton. No one else was in the room yet, so she felt safe enough returning his smile.
“How did the rehearsal progress?” she asked.
His eyes closed for a moment, as if in pain. “Apparently I die a very bloody death, though thankfully off stage.”
Viola giggled before she could stop herself. “I trust you’re quite regal and imposing before that.”
“Pompous and boring, I should say. ‘Let not my subjects make merry,’” he intoned. “‘There is too much frivolity in the kingdom, and I will have an end to it.’”
“Oh my.” Viola wondered what on earth Bridget was thinking. “To what end?”
“Solely to my end,” he replied dryly. “My role is to be pompous and boring, die savagely, then return as a ghost after the prince becomes a far more beloved king, to penitently pronounce that I was wrong to be so pompous and boring, but now I shall rest in peace because the new—much better—king has brought such joy and merriment to my former kingdom.”
Viola burst out laughing.
“I do not recall actually agreeing to be in the play,” the earl went on, although he was smiling now as well. “I suspect my nephew wrote my entire part, and I can only be grateful the rest of the guests shall be actors in the play as well, and not sitting in the audience watching.”
“I am so sorry,” Viola gasped, wiping at her eyes. “Lady Bridget is quite fanciful . . .”
“And Lady Sophronia is even worse!” he exclaimed quietly. “I shouldn’t say this, but I believe she patted me on my—er—hindquarters.”
Oh merciful God. Viola herself had noticed, more than once, that Winterton had exceptionally fine—er—hindquarters. And she knew Lady Sophronia had an eye for such things. “Perhaps it was inadvertent,” she suggested weakly.
Winterton gave her a look. He didn’t think so.
God save her. Viola could feel her face turning red. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, her voice shaking as she tried desperately not to laugh again. She could picture exactly how Sophronia would have lined it up.
Winterton’s face eased. “I took no offense. She reminds me greatly of my grandmother, who used to say she appreciated a pair of muscular calves on a man. She paid her footmen a bonus if they were strong runners, and not because they could deliver her messages faster. I hope I live to such a great age, when I may say what I like and not care a whit what others think about it.”
“I suspect Sophronia reached that age seventy years ago,” murmured Viola. “Thank you for being such an excellent sport about the play.”
He grinned. “When one travels, one learns to accept the unexpected and make the best of it. Often those surprising turns lead to the most memorable experiences of the journey. I find Lady Sophronia charming.”
Viola let out her breath in relief. No wonder Sophronia had patted his bottom; she must have recognized Winterton would let her get away with it. “I do as well,” she whispered, “but not everyone does.”
Winterton laughed. His eyes were so blue and friendly, and Viola found herself smiling back at him. Again.
The other guests came in then, discussing the play rehearsal in good spirits. Bridget had somehow procured a bucket of white feathers, and stuck them all over a coat and cap for Lord Gosling to wear in his role as a Lovesick Swan. The effect was quite ludicrous, but Gosling took the teasing in stride with a smile, declaring that he thought it a very handsome costume since Lady Bridget had made it herself. Bridget rolled her eyes at his flattery, but Viola could tell she was pleased. Bridget was pleased whenever anyone embraced her mad ideas.
When the butler announced dinner, Lord Winterton made sure to offer Lady Sophronia his arm. Viola’s heart gave a funny little jump at the easy way he had with the older woman. Sophronia was charming and amusing, when approached the right way—any sign of shock or indignation, and Sophronia would dig in with relish, purposely being even more shocking and inappropriate.
Viola went to take her own dinner before it was time to return to the party, to instill some order and decorum to whatever after-dinner activities Bridget persuaded Serena to do.
Tonight it was charades, which was perfectly acceptable. Viola settled at the side of the room and watched in amusement. As usual, Bridget’s riddle was ridiculous and took a very long time to guess. When Serena finally called out “chalk figures for dancing” and Bridget nodded, a small cheer went up.
“I wondered if anyone would ever solve it,” said a voice beside her.
Viola glanced at Lord Winterton. “Someone always does,” she assured him. “Lady Serena knows her sister well.”
They both turned to watch Serena, taking her place at the front of the room and pondering her riddle. She looked happier, Viola realized. The grave quiet air she’d worn for weeks after her engagement ended had vanished, and when she smiled at something Miss Penworth said in jest, it was open and warm. It brought a small curve to Viola’s own lips; all three Cavendish girls had become like younger sisters to her, and she took their sorrows and joys very much to heart.