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Outside, she leaned on the parapet, hands joined on it, looking at the darkness of the garden. Her innerness quivered with the aftermath of the dance. She had been weakened, mellowed. Blistered.
“That was one hell of a waltz.” Her torso twisted to Viscount Carlton dressed in colourful finery.
“Oliver.” She smiled faintly. Only now did she see other couples strolling the wide terrace.
Trent offered her his arm. “Walk with me, my dear.” She put her hand on his coat sleeve, and they started ambling.
“I do not know what you are talking about.” Her eyes lowered to the soothing hand he placed over hers.
“Perhaps only I noticed, but you two were about to set fire to the dance floor with the heat you produced.”
A sigh escaped her lips. “I cannot acknowledge the fact. It is hopeless.”
His blonde head nodded. “I understand,” he replied. “It is hard to see you like this when I am so happy.”
“And I am happy for you, and Joshua,” she emphasised.
His dreamy smile said everything. “My jewel from the West Indies.” Carlton had travelled to the West Indies and met a freed slave who owned a tavern.
“I admire your courage for accepting who you are.”
“Even if I employ him as my ‘valet?’” His tone was a tad self-derisive.
“Your life is for you both to decide.” Her support would always be valuable to him, of that she had no doubt.
“You are right,” he admitted. “Now we must find someone for you.” His encouraging smile cheered her.
“An orphaned bastard will hardly find anyone willing to have a decent life with her.” It was not self-pity, merely reality.
“I would like to say you are wrong, but the ton is cruel.” The Viscount knew it, being different from the average lord. Though he hid it very well, he had ample awareness of how society would mince him should it sniff his actual nature.
“Precisely.” They walked on in silence for long minutes, each with their own thoughts.
“Perhaps we should marry,” Carlton started. “Yes,” he insisted at her quizzical look. “You know who I am and would have no illusions about me.”
“It is true but—”
“Those silly debutantes would expect a fairy-tale I cannot give them,” he interrupted her. “I need an heir, and, after we made it, you could follow your heart.”
“You mean have discreet lovers,” she translated.
“Why not?” he argued. “You would become a Viscountess, and your settlement would be big enough for all your whims. You would want for nothing.”
Had she been a more practical or materialist woman, she would have considered his offer. In her circumstances, it would be the perfect way out of her predicament. It promised a home, children and comfort. She attempted to picture herself there in the Carlton Townhouse or manor, living the Viscountess life. Breakfast with Oliver and Joshua, dinners she organised for their friends, tea parties, rides in the park, picnics in the country. A new bonnet, or a necklace he would give her.
And her loneliness. Utter, irrevocable loneliness.
Even if she found lovers, they would be a passing distraction with no depth of emotions. Carlton would be full of contentment with the love of his life. While Otilia… She would be condemning herself to a frivolous life. Frivolity was one of the most dreadful things she could think about in someone’s existence. Hollow and devoid of meaning, of warmth. This scene caused an abyssal sadness inside her. Along the years, she would surely become bitter and resentful for having shed an honest life for the security the Viscount availed to her.
In the end, the way out would become hell.
“We would live a lie, Oliver.” She shook her head in slow reflection.
“For the others,” he compromised. “We would always know where we stand.”
“Friends of a sort,” she completed.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Not all ton’s marriages can boast peaceful accord.”
