This led her to make a grave, no, a fatal error. She asked the question that a woman, under no circumstances, ever, should ask a man. “What does it make you think of—the moon?”
He appeared to contemplate for a while.
“Well?”
He shrugged. “An unwashed pie plate.”
“A—what?” She tore her gaze away from the moon and transferred it to him in disbelief.
“There are smudges on it,” he explained unhelpfully. “It is most irritating to behold an unwashed plate and to find specks of dirt on a dish that ought to be clean, or worse, stains on a salver that bears my correspondence. Imagine getting a stainon an important petition. Unthinkable. That is a sign that the household staff isn’t doing their job properly and Falks would have to spend an entire day polishing the silver. I detest it when the entire house reeks of plate-powder.”
Viola struggled for an answer. “You really do not have a single romantic bone in your body, do you? Not an ounce of sentiment. Not a single drop of-of- romance.”
“Indeed, I do not.” He had the audacity to look pleased.
“That was not meant to be a compliment.” She threw up her hands. Then she stomped back to the bed, crawled inside, pulled the blanket to her chin and turned aside.
He followed her. “I do not understand why you appear to be upset. You asked for my opinion; I gave it. You asked what it reminded me of, that infernal moon, and I told you. Undoubtedly, you wanted me to gabble on about some sappy sentiment or other, or, heaven forbid, some newfangled romance you have read about.” He yanked part of the blanket away from her, for she had appropriated nearly the entire thing. Since she did not relinquish the blanket, they engaged in a tug-of-war until Viola finally let go and buried her head under her pillow instead. “But that is not how my mind works.”
“No,” Viola groaned from under the depths of her pillow. “Heaven help me. It certainly does not.”
This was Sebastian, after all. It was more likely for a cherry tree to grow turnips than for Sebastian to speak about his feelings. Or, heaven help her, appreciate the romance of a full moon.
He drew the pillow away from her and bent close to murmur into her ear. He was so close that his breath stirred the fine little hairs on her temple, giving her goosebumps. “I have rather better ideas than staring at the moon and waxing sentimental rubbish…”
His lips lightly grazed the sensitive curve where her jaw met her ear.
She did not argue the point.
It wassome time past midnight. Viola tossed and turned, then finally decided it was no use. She was wide awake and rather than staring at the ceiling, she could take advantage of the time and work on her book. She slipped out of bed, and before she padded to the door, she lingered at the bedside, watching Sebastian sleep.
He looked years younger in sleep, more like the Bastian she had first fallen in love with so long ago. A thick brown lock had fallen over his brow, and the familiar furrow between his eyes had smoothed away, leaving his features open and unguarded, almost boyish. Her heart tightened with a sudden, piercing tenderness that caught her off guard.
How could they be lovers by night, yet such strangers by day? The curtain cord from that first evening, the one she had strung down the centre of the bed, had long since been forgotten. Viola snorted at the memory of the vehemence with which she’d initially set up that boundary, only to have had it fall the very first night.
And when would she finally tell him she was Mrs Selina Sable? He deserved to hear the truth from her before it was too late. Every morning she vowed that today was the day she would tell him.
Yet the moment never seemed to come. Perhaps she was simply a coward. The thought stung. Viola had never considered herself a coward before.
At least her manuscript was progressing nicely. The first draft was nearly done, and she had appeased Peregrine by promising to deliver it soon. She merely needed to edit it.
Viola slept the entire morning and woke to find that Sebastian had already left. It made her feel unreasonably peevish and morose.
She had been unusually emotional lately and wept over the most ridiculous things. Crying over a scene in her own book, which she herself had written, was one thing. But over a poor, dead fly that lay on the windowsill?
Maybe Sebastian was right, and emotions were overrated, Viola thought as she blew her nose noisily.
She rose, weary and restless, dressed herself, and visited Josephine. Perhaps her friend could help lighten her spirits.
Why Josephine bore the nickname ‘Rock of Gibraltar’ was a mystery to Viola. Once she carefully broached the topic of taxation, her friend proved anything but immovable.
“I knew you would come to me with this.” Josephine drew her to the sofa and patted the seat next to her, inviting her to sit. “Fane is no fool, and a chess master par excellence. He has made a strategic move and sent in his bishop.”
“Bishop?” Viola was bewildered. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You, of course. You are the bishop in a chess game, and Fane is the master moving the pieces.”
“I don’t play chess, you know.” Viola shrugged. “I know nothing of strategy, and I refuse to be a piece in any game my husband plays. I won’t be manipulated for political purposes, and he knows it.” She sat forward. “In fact, I object to this chess analogy you have just used. It shows me as easily manipulable, which is far from the truth. All I know is that I want to help a friend, Mrs Burns, who is locked away in that dreadful asylum in Dublin. They need money. Fane doesn’t have it. But he would if that motion fails to pass. Do you see? With those funds, something could actually be done. Mrs Burns could be saved. She is a friend I care deeply about. That is all that matters to me, and the only reason I am talking to you about it now.”
