*
Roland trotted hishorse through the streets, weaving round carriages that made their way home in the early hours of the morning.
What a night!
Of course, it had started off with a painful bump by way of his mother’s rude behavior and meddling. She had been unconscionable in her behavior to the Benningtons, and then she’d topped it off by foisting Lady Clara upon him.
Lady Clara, herself, had made him uncomfortable in some way. She mentioned the visit over the summer several times and made comments about the house that would be better spoken of by the house’s mistress.
He’d got a queasy feeling that perhaps the dowager had some sort of tête-à-tête with Lady Clara. If that was so, his mother would have misled the lady. He was sure of it. Furthermore, he knew in his heart that Lady Clara was not in love with him or even particularly attracted to him. If she did wish to go forward with an engagement, it was as calculating as his mother had been in marrying his father.
For all that had happened, though, the night had not ended on a bad note. No, not at all.
He’d made his mother’s excuses to Lady Viola as best he could. What a lady she was to tell him he ought not to dwell on it! He thought many a lady would have been in a pique and would wish to have nothing further to do with the Trewellians.
Lady Viola was so gracious—a lesson his mother would not be harmed in learning.
After his apology, it had all gone swimmingly between them. Lady Viola was everything he’d imagined she would be. So beautiful, so graceful on the ballroom floor, so charming and genial. Her hair was a delightful cascade of varying shades running from blonde all the way to tawny with gold and red glints. Her eyes were a deep shade of blue and so lively and sparkling.
There was something in her smile that touched him, as if it were meant for him alone. It had made him imagine being alone with her. And perhaps made him think of things he ought not think about before a vicar put his signature to it.
They’d had a thorough conversation at supper, getting to know one another.
What an amount of ground they’d covered; he did not suppose he’d ever had another conversation like it.
He’d been able to work in his new love of ham very smoothly. Then he’d heartily endorsed the idea of liking to look at paintings.
Roland had not had the first inkling that Lady Viola was so talented in that area. To think, she’d come to the notice of portrait painter Mr. Thomas Lawrence. It was a striking idea. He could not say he had ever spent any great amount of time staring at paintings, but he was prepared to do it.
There had been a few points in the conversation where he’d not been entirely certain where his opinion ought to land. He’d been asked what he thought ofOthello, and he’d thought he better say he preferred it. Else, why would she have mentioned it?
That had seemed right, though Lady Viola appeared to have a special place in her heart for Desdemona so he probably should go back and read that play again. As far as he recalled it, the play was about a crowd of hysterical people bent on revenge, murder, and suicide.
Then had come the subject of poetry and he’d really thought Wordsworth would be a safe choice. Who did not like Wordsworth? People were always talking about that fellow and spouting off quotes.
As it turned out, Lady Viola found the gentleman on the verbose side. She thought his poems were too long. Her sister wrote poems of four lines, which he assumed were special in some way, as Lady Viola had mentioned them.
What famous poet did she like, then? Was there a fellow known for brevity? He would have to ask around and find out.
But those few questions were easily remedied. He would stare at paintings and learn to like it, rereadOthello, and dig up a poet who kept things short.
If there had been any moment in their exchanges that might have been concerning, it had been her opinions on loyalty.
He was all for it, of course. But Lady Viola seemed determined on the idea that it must be proved.
How did one go about proving loyalty? Naturally, had there been some crisis on the horizon and people choosing sides over a matter, he would march firmly into Lady Viola’s camp.
But there was no such crisis looming. How was one to demonstrate loyalty when everything went along so well?
Perhaps he ought to ask Conbatten about it. He supposed Conbatten had been asked to prove his loyalty to Lady Viola’s sister and had thought something up that was suitable.
Whatever it was, he would very happily do it in service to Lady Viola. He would see her in two days’ time, at Lady Rawley’s theatrical evening, so perhaps he might have opportunity to prove it then?
After all, itwasrather loyal to attend Lady Rawley’s theatrical evening. He’d never consider going if Lady Viola had not mentioned she would go. It was always a painful thing to watch. Not only were Lady Rawley and her friends particularly unskilled actors, but they’d taken to rewriting poor Shakespeare’s plays to suit their liking. He’d gone once, years ago, and had been very surprised to see that Romeo and Juliet lived happily ever after.
None of that mattered, though. Lady Viola had explained that Miss Mayton very much enjoyed the evening last season and had even been called upon to step into a role after Lady Agatha had been taken ill. They were very much looking forward to it this year, as it was to beMuch Ado About Nothing.
He would dig out that invitation and accept first thing in the morning.
