“Ah, I see,” Viola said, “and you changed your mind about going to the theater and came here instead.”
“I was never going to the theater,” Lord Baderston said.
“Oh, so she looked at the wrong day?”
“She looked at the wrong calendar,” he said. “The real one is locked away and she has been studying one I made for her eyes only.”
“You did not,” Viola said.
“I most certainly did. I wondered how long it would take her to perceive it, as I did put some ridiculous engagements in there. For next Tuesday, I put down that the queen and I were to ride horses in the park and then sail on the Thames for tea.”
Viola could not control a peal of laughter. Lord Baderston really was so clever, he was such a wit. Further, she was gratified to know that he was not overburdened by his mother’s opinions. Those opinions had not swayed him in the least.
When the dance concluded, she and Lord Baderston walked casually along the edges of the ballroom. Were anyone to consider what they were doing, it might be thought that they were admiring the room, or the couples who danced.
They were hardly conscious of the room or other couples. Their admiration was for themselves alone.
Naturally, they walked very close together in order to avoid interfering with the dances. Hands may have brushed one another from time to time, but that could not be helped.
Despite her aunt’s unfortunate encounter with too much champagne, Viola could think nothing but that it was a glorious, spectacular night.
*
Roland guided Tempestthrough the darkened streets. What a night!
Lady Viola was really a marvel. Her looks could not be equaled, but that was only the beginning of it. Many a pretty lady haunted the ballrooms of London, but was there any other so clever, so genial, so eager to laugh? Really so…her?
He could not think so.
His mother’s behavior had been, once again, highly unpleasant. He could not think where she thought to arrive with such behavior. Her power over him had long ebbed—where once she might have directed his actions, he was no longer a pliable boy.
He was a man, with his own preferences. The sooner she took that in, the better.
Perhaps shehadtaken it in when she found herself on the floor at the hands of Miss Mayton.
Roland laughed out loud, his laughter ringing through the quiet streets.
It had been too ridiculous. Miss Mayton was the founding mother of English eccentricity. From her outlandish stories, to her medieval widow’s shroud that he was certain was not at all based on any historical fact, the lady danced to her own tune.
That tune had included copious amounts of champagne, broken glasses, and a dowager’s ruff ruined on this particular night.
But what was any of that compared to walking the ballroom with Lady Viola?
Oh, he knew people had noticed. They would probably talk about it. Especially when Lord Barnard approached and asked for a dance with Lady Viola and Roland had said she was already engaged in walking with him.
He did not care what anybody had to say about it. Not in the least!
They had strolled and talked and strolled and talked. It had led him to imagine doing the same through his own gardens. He might show her the apple orchards and the hothouse.
It was amusing to think what thoughts he’d brought into the evening with him. He had been sure it would be an uncomfortable sort of night. He’d been certain that the talk he’d heard about the tinker’s boy at Lady Hightower’s musical evening would have bloomed and spread like ivy up the side of a house.
It had not though. Nobody had said anything about it. Nobody had stared unduly or whispered behind their fan.
Was it possible that it had gone no further? That it had just died out?
Perhaps the talkers were afraid of Conbatten. That could be the case.
But then, Lady Viola had asked him if he was afraid of gossip. He’d answered that he was not, in the strongest manner possible. Had she been referring to that story?
