“I must go,” she said in a rush. “See to the rehearsal—the costumes—the play is tomorrow, you know—”
He reached for her hand. “I’ll speak to Wessex when his temper cools and tell him you weren’t to blame.”
She backed up, shaking her head. “No. I—I will explain to him. He’s been very kind to me so far, and I hope . . . I hope not to lose my position.”
A thin line creased his brow. “About your position—”
“No!” She tried to smile, but failed. “I cannot lose my place here, Wes—Lord Winterton. I cannot. The salary is far above what I could expect anywhere else; I told you the duke has been very kind. If I lose this position, my brother will have to leave university, and I don’t want that. I won’t allow that.” She took another step backward. “Please don’t anger the duke further, if you have any care for me at all.”
Grim-faced, he gave a faint nod.
Viola blinked back a tear. She had known it wasn’t to be forever between them, but she hadn’t thought to lose him so soon. Then again, she’d never thought she’d fall in love with him. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Viola,” he said in a low urgent voice, but she turned and ran, away from his beautiful hands and beguiling laugh and eyes as blue as the midsummer sky.
Wes seethed with frustration.
The duke refused to listen to his explanation. Part of him wanted to punch the fellow in the face and make him listen, and part of him knew the duke was absolutely right. If it had been any other fellow kissing Viola in there, Wes would have thrown that blighter right out into the snow.
The look in her eyes though, when she said she dared not lose her position . . . That look gutted him. She had risked a great deal to show him that atlas, and he was bound and determined that it would not cost her everything.
On the other hand, he didn’t like the duke’s plan at all. Wessex had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to pack his trunk and be ready to leave early in the morning after the play. It ought to have given him a bit of hope, that the duke was willing to allow him to stay so that Lady Bridget’s play wouldn’t be spoiled, but all Wes could think of was the second part of the duke’s order: never come back.
What are your intentions? echoed his own voice in his head.
He intended to make Viola happy. He intended to win her favor and make her smile at him again. He intended to get her back into his bed, as often as possible. He intended . . . to make her fall in love with him.
What had he told Justin? If you don’t see yourself marrying her, don’t kiss the girl.
He knew that was the answer. Even more, it was the answer he wanted. When he woke in the dawn to see her dark hair spread across the pillow and her beautiful face soft with sleep right in front of him, Wes had known. He would have been content to stay there in that room with her forever, he who had never felt content in one place for more than a few weeks. He had never felt more at home than with her.
Because he was in love. He’d kissed her, he’d fallen in love, and he wanted to marry her.
And that meant he wasn’t about to leave without asking her, no matter what the Duke of Wessex said.
Chapter 11
The play was going to be an epic disaster.
It began with Miss Penworth declaring that her music had gone missing. Bridget scowled and stomped around until Withers located the pages, under a tea tray in the parlor. Lord Gosling’s costume dropped its feathers again, and it took Viola more than two hours to replace them. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten their lines or lost some part of their costume, and two footmen were required to track down people who had wandered off before their scenes. In addition, the Duke of Frye had arrived at last, and no one knew quite what to say to him now. Only Lady Charlotte Ascot seemed willing to speak to him, while Serena had to restrain Bridget from pushing him out into the snow. Blessedly the duchess resumed her role as hostess, both sparing Viola from the job and preventing the duchess from delivering any sort of remonstrance about Lord Winterton.
There was a sharp little pain in her chest every time she thought about Wes, and how he would depart the next morning. She’d lain in bed all night, wishing he could come to her once more and yet terrified that he would. Was it worse to see him as much as possible and lose even more of her heart to him, or to cut herself off now? She didn’t know, and ended up stealing longing glances at him across the room as she sewed feathers.
At long last the production was ready to begin. The dowager duchess sat in the audience beside her daughter-in-law and the duke, who wore a wary expression. Sophronia looked filled with eager expectation, which only deepened Viola’s sense of impending disaster. Bridget had directed Viola to sit behind the stage with a copy of the script and remind everyone of their lines before they went on. If women could join the army, she reflected, Bridget would be the most fearsome general of them all.
The script had become utterly ridiculous. Viola had Bridget’s own copy, which was covered with crossed out sections and additions in the margins. She did her best to keep up, but when Wes approached to make his entrance, dented crown in place, she faltered and busied herself with adjusting Alexandra’s ghostly draperies. He strode past her onto the stage. Just hearing his voice made her flinch, and
