Through it all his enthusiasm for travel shone through. He would pause and relate some story of his travels to India, and to Caribbean islands where pirates roamed. Only when he turned to the end of the book did words fail him. The last two dozen or so pages were covered with close-written notes. Wes’s face went still.
“Is it his writing?” Viola ventured.
Silently he nodded, reading.
She slipped her hand into his. It must be bittersweet, to see his father’s journal entries in the back of the atlas and know he couldn’t have it. This was indeed the atlas the Duke of Wessex had purchased for the duchess.
After several minutes he closed the book, giving the cover one last brush of his hand. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps His Grace will be moved by your story,” she said.
Wes smiled wryly and shook his head. “I doubt it.” He pulled her into his arms. “You found it and gave me a chance to see it again. Thank you.”
“I wanted you to see it and know it wasn’t lost.” She glanced at the atlas in apology. “Even if His Grace won’t part with it.”
Wes looked at her for a long moment. “You,” he said at last, “are extraordinary.”
“No,” she scoffed. “Very ordinary.”
“Not remotely,” he whispered, and kissed her. She placed her palms on his chest and went up on her toes, kissing him back. She might not be extraordinary, but this—this deep-seated contentment and awe at the way he felt and the way he made her feel—this love was the most dazzlingly extraordinary thing she’d ever experienced. Whatever happened later, she would have this moment of true joy and love to remember.
“What the devil?” said a terribly familiar voice. Viola froze, her eyes flying open. Wes raised his head, and as one they turned toward the door.
The Duke of Wessex stood framed in the doorway. As Viola watched, stricken, Mr. Martin peeped around the duke’s shoulder before immediately retreating.
Oh dear heavens. She took a step backward and pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. His face as grim as a thundercloud, Wessex strode across the room. “Winterton, I presume.”
Wes bowed. “At your serv—”
The duke shoved him backward. “How dare you. Mrs. Cavendish is our cousin.”
Wes’s eyes flew to Viola, who shook her head mutely. “I meant no offense, sir.”
Wessex raised one dark brow. “And yet I find you making love to her in my own private study.” Then his gaze fell on the atlas, still on the desk behind them, and his eyes grew dark with anger. “I suppose that is the atlas you wrote to me about.”
Wes cleared his throat. “Yes, it happens to be, but—”
“Get out.” The duke glared at him.
“Wessex,” said Wes, “allow me a moment to explain.”
“I see,” said the duke with icy finality, “that you have persuaded Mrs. Cavendish to search my personal study to find the book you sought. And I suspect I know how you persuaded her.” He looked at Viola for the first time in minutes. “You may go.”
Viola wet her lips, but had no words. She never argued with the duke; she barely spoke to him at all. To protest now, when she had violated his trust by invading his study to show her lover one of the duke’s private possessions . . . “Sir,” she said bravely, “Your Grace . . . If I may . . . It was my fault.”
The duke’s expression didn’t change. “No, ma’am. I wondered at Lord Winterton’s persistence in seeking that atlas, but I didn’t imagine he would go to this length, corrupting you into helping him.”
“Viola? Oh—there are you are.” Bridget’s bright voice cut through the room. “And Gareth!” With a squeal Bridget launched herself at the duke, who caught her in one arm and kissed the top of her head. “When did you return? Did Helen have the baby? Is everyone well”
“Just now.” The duke smiled briefly at his sister. “I’m busy here, and Cleo will be able to tell you all about Helen, who is very well, as is her new daughter.”
“How brilliant! A baby girl! And how wonderful you’ve come home!” She beamed at him. “We’re staging a play tomorrow and now you can see it.”
“A play?” Wessex looked at Viola in alarm.
“A farce,” Bridget amended. “I wrote it! Everyone is in it except Mama and Aunt Sophronia. It will be the best entertainment at Kingstag in years. I’ve come to fetch Viola; Lord Gosling is dripping feathers everywhere and no one sews better than she does. Oh, and Lord Winterton must come rehearse his scenes.”
Slowly Wessex turned to look at Wes. “He is in your play?”
Bridget nodded. “He plays the king who dies.”
The duke’s expression darkened. “Very well,” he said, still watching Wes. “He’ll be down soon. I need a word with him first, Bridget.”
“Thank you, Gareth.” She bounced up on her toes and kissed his cheek, then hurried out of the room.
“When is the play to be performed?”
“Tomorrow, Your Grace,” Viola murmured.
The duke jerked his head. “You may stay until the play is over,” he told Wes. “The next morning you leave. I will not have my own cousin’s widow seduced under my roof. And if you think to wheedle that atlas from me, I suggest you spare your breath.”
Wes’s eyes were stormy blue. “If you’ll allow me to explain, sir . . .”
“Winterton,” said the duke, “I don’t care to hear it.” This time when he pointed, Viola rushed for the door.
Outside, Geoffrey Martin waited. He was a kind man, and now he simply gave her a sympathetic smile. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Cavendish.”
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Martin,” she murmured, feeling as though she would be ill. The duke was not happy. He might be taking it out on Wes at the moment, but eventually he would focus on her part in the debacle. She had escaped being blamed for Alexandra’s indiscretion, but she had done even worse.
The study door opened again and Wes stepped out.
