“That will have to do for now,” Wren said. “But do remember how we dared each other back in the spring to step out into the world, and how we did it and felt enormously proud of ourselves.”

But she was not being dared to step out into the world, Viola thought. She was being asked to step into her family and accept their collective embrace.

“Come and dance with me, Viola,” Alexander said.

And then, after supper, just when Viola was wondering if she could slip off to her room without appearing unduly bad mannered, Marcel appeared before her and Isabelle and the vicar and his wife. They had successfully avoided each other all evening. Yet she had been aware of him every interminable minute. He looked elegant and almost satanic all in black and white with a silver embroidered waistcoat and his solitaire diamond winking from the intricate folds of his neckcloth. He looked austere and a little intimidating, though he had made an effort to mingle with all the guests and make sure that refreshments were brought to the more elderly among them. He had begun the dancing with Estelle, and Viola had watched, feeling sick at heart as she remembered dancing the very same country dance with him on the village green a lifetime ago.

She was horribly, painfully in love with him, and resented the fact. She was no girl to be made heartsick by a handsome face and figure. Except that it was more than that, of course. Far more.

She wanted to be gone—from the ballroom and from Redcliffe. She wanted to be home. She wanted . . . oblivion. It was the worst wish of all and something that must and would be fought. But she would be gone from here tomorrow. She had decided that. All the houseguests had expected to stay for a few days after the party, of course—a few days in which to enjoy their surroundings and celebrate a new family betrothal in a more leisurely way. She had no idea how her leaving would affect everyone else. Staying after the betrothal was ended and she was gone would be more than a little awkward, and—good heavens—her family had arrived here only yesterday, after a few days of travel in most cases. But she would not think of that or of them. Sometimes—yet again!—she could think only of herself. She must leave, as soon in the morning as it could be arranged.

Yet now he was standing before her. Well, before all four of them actually, but it was at her he was looking, as though he were unaware of his cousin or of the vicar and his wife.

“Viola,” he said, “will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Ah, it was unkind. It was cruel. He was doing it no doubt in order to demonstrate to their families that there were no hard feelings between them, that—as she had told her daughters after dinner—they did not hate each other but just did not wish to marry each other. But he ought not to have chosen this particular way to do it.

“Thank you.” She set her hand in his, and his long fingers closed warmly about hers as he led her onto the floor.

“We are perfectly coordinated, you see,” he said. “Had we announced our betrothal tonight, Viola, the guests would have assumed it was planned.”

She was wearing her silver lace over a silver silk evening gown. She had always considered it elegant in an understated sort of way, and modest without being prim, and flattering to her figure. She had always thought it suited her age without making her look frumpish. It was, in fact, her favorite, and she had chosen it to boost her confidence.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For?” He raised his eyebrows.

“For speaking at dinner,” she said.

“And saving you from having to do it yourself?” he said. “It was what you were about to do, wasn’t it? I assume you would not be thanking me if that were not the case. You were not about to announce your undying love for me and your commitment to a happily-ever-after that would stretch into our old age and beyond into eternity?”

She could not help but smile, and his dark eyes fixed with some intensity on her face. “You did not misunderstand,” she told him.

“Ah,” he said. “I did not think I had.”

The musicians played a chord and Viola looked about her, startled. They were not in line. She had not heard the announcement of what dance they were to perform. There were a few other couples on the floor, none of them the very young people and none of them in line. There were Alexander and Wren, Mildred and Thomas, Camille and Joel, Anna and Avery, Annemarie and William, and two other couples. Almost before the chord had finished she understood.

“It is a waltz,” she said.

His right arm came about her waist and his left hand, raised, awaited hers. His eyes never left her own. She set her hand in his and raised the other to his shoulder, and . . . Ah, and they waltzed again. As they had on the village green in that other lifetime when all had been carefree adventure. They had danced on uneven ground there and in semidarkness. Here they danced on a polished floor among banks of flowers with the light of dozens of candles flickering down upon them from the chandeliers, and with other couples twirling about the floor with them.

But she saw only Marcel, felt only his body heat and the touch of his hands, smelled only his cologne. His eyes never left her face—he had always had that way of making his dancing partner the full focus of his attention. It was part of his masculine appeal. She smiled, though there was a totally unreasonable sort of bitterness inside her. She had nothing of which to complain, except perhaps his announcement of their betrothal outside the cottage—surely one of his rare forays into gallantry.

Music engulfed them.

“I did love you, you know,” he said when the dance was almost at an end.

“Fourteen years ago?” she said.

He did not reply.

“You did not even know me,” she said. “Love cannot exist without knowledge.” She did not know if that was true or not.

“Can it not?” he said. “Then I did not love you, Viola. I was mistaken. It is just as well, is it not?” There was a curious twist to his mouth.

And a thought struck her—was he talking about fourteen years ago? But it did not matter.

The music ended and he led her from the floor in the direction of her mother, who was seated on a love seat with the marchioness, his aunt. But Viola did not stop beside them. She hurried away, trying to slow her footsteps, trying to smile and make some eye contact with people she passed on her way to the door. Once she reached the door, however, she broke into a near run and did not stop until she was inside her room, her back to the closed door, her eyes tightly shut.

Her heart breaking.

Twenty

A party involving dancing and unlimited refreshments and a lavish supper would have gone on until dawn in London. Fortunately, this was not London. Guests began to trickle away soon after midnight and then the trickle became a steady stream. Houseguests began to slip away quietly in the direction of their bedchambers after thanking Marcel for his hospitality and Estelle for the splendid party.

It really had been splendid, even though Marcel had hated every moment of it. Though that was not entirely true. Despite the fact that she was upset about the betrothal, Estelle had been flushed and bright-eyed and exuberant tonight at the success of her party. Bertrand had comported himself with dignity and charm. Marcel had been filled with pride over both of them, though he had done nothing to earn the feeling. And then there had been that waltz . . .

He went down onto the terrace to see the last of the guests on their way. Inevitably neighbors discovered things they absolutely must tell one another even though they had had all evening during which to converse. And everyone wanted to thank him again and again and yet again.