How to Be a Proper Lady

“I can see.” It seemed from the appreciation in his regard as it flickered along her hair and shoulders that he meant something other than his words. She could not bear it, not wanting it as she did.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what? Like a beautiful woman is standing before me and…” He paused. “I seem to recall once already having a conversation quite like this.”

At the inn when they arrived at Port of Spain, before her whole world changed.

“You are only looking at me like that because I have been plucked and powdered and am now essentially unrecognizable.”

“Rather, recognizable and irrational.”

“Je vous en prie.” She curtsied, flicked open her fan, and smacked herself in the nose. She rubbed her palm over it.

His perfect mouth crept up at one corner. “You have learned French in a month?”

“Ou peut-on danser?”

His grin broadened. “You do know what that means?”

“Yes, but the only other phrases I have memorized are ‘The prawns are delicious’ and ‘Will there be cards tonight?’ And were we to dance, I would almost certainly tread upon your toes, which would be satisfying. Why did you call me irrational? This time.”

“You know that I thought you beautiful before this. I told you.”

And there she stood, on the terrace of an earl’s house, warm and aching in places she knew no proper lady should be warm and aching under such circumstances, and wishing to throw herself upon his chest quite urgently.

She must say something to press away the desperation inside her, to push him away before she cast polite society and every ounce of her pride to the wind and adhered herself to him like a mollusk to a rock.

“Mr. Yale flirts a great deal more subtly than you.”

“I am not flirting with you, Viola.”

Oh, God. Why had he returned? It hurt and she didn’t know how to make it stop hurting.

“He calls me Miss Carlyle.”

Something glimmered in his eyes now. Something not perfectly settled. “Do you wish me to call you Miss Carlyle again, then?”

“No,” she answered too quickly.

“Viola.”

Something in his tone-a question, perhaps-made her heart trip, which made her snap, “What? ” because the tumult of these emotions was not welcome.

His brow lifted and he made a sharp sound as though to retort. But he halted, his mouth becoming a line. “No.”

She did not wish to know what he meant by no-why he had stopped himself from responding. It could not be good, and every mote of blood in her was shivering now.

“No… what?”

“No, I will not match your foolishness with foolishness of my own. I came out here only to say hello and that I have missed you.”

Her stomach dropped to her toes. “H-have you?”

“Yes.”

The horizon overtook the sun and the pink fell away from the sky, draping the sloping lawn and austere walls of Savege Park in pearly gray. But, tinted pink or blue or any color, his eyes were still beautiful, his jaw still resolute, and Viola did not like the sensation of sinking onto the slate terrace like a puddle of melting jelly.

She attempted a smirk. “You had your chance, Seton.”

The single brow rose again. “I did not miss this, though.”

“Oh, well.” She struggled to maintain a light tone. “I am certain you can find more conciliating company inside.”

“I have no doubt of that.” His mouth crept up at the edge again, scattering stars across her vision.

“My sister, for instance.” She spoke to smother her distress. “She seems to like you very much, God knows why. And of course, there is Lady Fiona.”

“I am being dismissed, it seems, as though I am still a lieutenant aboard your ship.”

“You are being dismissed as though you are a man that a lady does not wish to speak with.”

“Hm.” Finally he smiled. It hit her midsection full force.

“Why are you grinning?”

“You told the truth that day when you said you were only one woman. One…” He paused. “One woman.” He turned and went toward the terrace doors. Her fingers itched to grab his arm and stay him, to keep him with her in the waning light. Simply, to touch him. She wanted to touch him more than she’d wanted anything for weeks. Or perhaps forever.

“What did you do in London?” she blurted out.

He looked over his shoulder. “Nothing of note.”

“I thought you had business to attend to there. Why did you return here?”

His eyes sobered once more. “To settle a debt.”

“With Lord Savege, concerning me, of course. But he was in London. Didn’t you see him there?”

“No.” He came back to her until he stood very close. She tilted her chin to look up at him and the evening breeze stirred the dark lock dipping over his eyes. She saw him draw a slow, deep breath, her own breaths short and quick. “Are you happy here, Viola?”

“This is a surprise. I cannot imagine that you actually care.”

“I do.”

“If you did, you would not have forced me to come here.”

“The wager,” he said, his voice low, “was your idea, of course.”

Her cheeks were hot. Every part of her was hot. He was standing too close, but she could not move away. She wanted to be even closer. His body radiated a waiting tension, his gaze scanning her features, and it was as though he was touching her with his fingertips, on her cheeks and brow and lips. She could not stop staring at his mouth. She wanted to kiss him quite a lot. She wanted to make love with him again. She had never wanted to make love like this with a man before. And she wanted him to hold her, to not wish to let her go.

“Are you happy?” he repeated quietly.

The intimacy of it tangled her insides unbearably. She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

A muscle flickered in his jaw, his gaze hardening. “Yes, or I would not ask. But apparently the child has returned and I shan’t have my answer.” He moved away.

She wanted to shout that she was not a child but a woman, and the woman hurt. But she only swallowed back the thickness in her throat and wondered if real ladies allowed gentlemen to make them feel like they were dying. If she were on her ship-

If she were on her ship she would not allow him to chastise her, then walk away.

She went after him. Perhaps he knew she pursued him. At the threshold with beveled glass doors the like she’d never seen before, which were simply another part of this house that had nothing familiar about it-except him now-he waited for her.

“I am…” She sought any words. “Too stationary.” It was true, after all. And she could not tell him what was really in her heart. Let him think she resented him for her changed life, but nothing else. Nothing for which he could imagine he had bested her. “I am unaccustomed to being stationary.”

“That is to be expected.”

“You aren’t going to say that I will soon become comfortable with it? That I will forget all about my life before?”

“Why should I say that? I never wished you to be unhappy, only reunited with your family. If you wish to resume your life in America, I will not hold you from it, nor will Lady Savege or anyone else, I suspect. They care for you and want only your happiness.” He said this not to her eyes, but to her cheeks and brow and mouth. Quite a lot