Then she stumbled over a fold in the carpet, and, seeing it all coming crashing down, he braced himself to get showered with biscuits, porcelain, scones, and blisteringly hot water.
But she caught herself at the last moment and staggered about the room in an odd dance, balancing the impossibly big tray.
“Don’t just sit there, help me,” she snapped, as the tray veered dangerously to the right.
He jumped up and grabbed the tray, steadying it. Except now they were in a power fight over who was to carry the blasted thing, pulling it back and forth, back and forth.
Then she let go. The water sloshed, the biscuits jumped, but he balanced it; he had it all under control. And slowly, ever soslowly, holding his breath, he lowered the tray onto the little table by his Nana’s bedside.
“That was a close call,” the milkmaid said.
He opened his mouth to dismiss her. He’d have to talk to the housekeeper later to discover what the deuce possessed her to hire one as her when his grandmother opened her eyes and saw her.
“Finally.”
The girl picked up Nana’s hand, stroked it gently and said, “I’m here, Nana. Your Viola is here.”
His jaw dropped. “Viola?”
That couldn’t be. Viola was an entirely different person altogether from what he had been told.
But this creature, this—this milkmaid, in a crumpled, plain cotton dress, with stains on her sleeve, and her wide, saucy mouth and untidy hair—surely, surely she couldn’t be the same Viola his brother always raved about.
His brother’s love.
His brother’s betrothed.
He dropped into the chair.
What, by all that was good and holy, had George beenthinking…!
“My Lola. I am so glad you are here, my child. I wanted to discuss the arrangements with you.”
“What arrangements, Nana?” She fussed over her blanket.
“The ball.”
Viola’s hand paused. Her eyes flew up to meet his. For one fraction of a second, there seemed to pass something akin to understanding between them. It disconcerted him greatly.
“Ahh. Yes. Of course. The ball.” She cleared her throat. “You see, Nana. Things turned out to be somewhat complicated, and George won’t be able to come in time for the ball. Not if it’s tomorrow. It’s a bit sudden, don’t you agree?”
“But George has to come!” Nana’s voice sounded child-like and whiny. “Where is he?”
“He is on the Peninsula, Nana.”
“What on earth is he doing there?”
“Fighting Bonaparte, of course. Someone has to put him in his place and do you know what? George is just the right man to do it. If George can’t do it, then no one can.”
“But he has to come to the wedding. And to the ball.”
“Naturally, George has to come. He would be heartbroken to miss it. And you, Sir Prig—that is—you must be George’s brother, aren’t you, confound it? I should have recognised you earlier but you look nothing like George, nothing at all—” she said in a rushedsotto voce, then she smiled at him cheekily, and two dimples appeared in her cheeks, which was so unexpected that it left him flummoxed.
Then she turned to Nana and raised her voice again. “But I know just what to do to get out of this dilemma. How about we do this: we move the ball sometime later to give George enough time to return?”
“How long did you have in mind?” Bastian asked in a low voice.
“End of summer,” she shot back quietly. “When George has his leave. If he has his leave. It isn’t guaranteed. It’s either that or not at all. Delaying is the only thing we can do now.”
