Page 27 of A Tale of Two Dukes
Having taken that decision made a difference, Viola found.
No matter that she had been manipulated into it, almost pushed into her lover’s arms, no matter that when she thought about Edward, she felt sick and angry; still, she was choosing this for herself.
She would not think now about the fact that she might be also giving Winterflood what he wanted – that didn’t seem to signify much at the moment.
This was what she wanted, and what Richard wanted, and tonight, that would be all that was allowed to matter. Something for themselves.
It was a day of flirting, of pretending that she was as free to flirt decorously with the man of her choice as any other girl her age.
The reflecting pool was frozen still, and Richard found skates in some cupboard that he remembered from his childhood.
Once they had strapped these metal contraptions securely over their boots, he took her out on the ice, both of them bundled up against the penetrating cold.
He was a superb skater, and she was indifferent at best, wobbling comically at first and clinging to him, but he held her and did not let her fall.
Once she became a little more confident and steadier on her feet, they glided together in exhilarating motion – like dancing in a ballroom, but so much better, fast and breathless and always with an edge of danger.
When they began to feel the cold and the sun was setting in an orange ball behind the bare tree branches of the park, and the white mist rising, they went inside and took tea by the fire.
It was all very sedate, but occasionally, her hand would brush his, or his hers, and always their glances locked and held, their eyes bright with promise and with their ever-present desire for each other.
After tea, she bathed, lying in the cooling water and soaping herself slowly and languorously, anticipating his touch, refusing to think any further than the night ahead.
She wanted to array herself in her best for their first dinner tête-à-tête, but resisted the temptation because her maid would undoubtedly think it odd to see her dressed as if for some special occasion.
She chose instead a blue silk gown that he had admired when she had worn it a few days earlier.
It was embroidered with tiny brilliants around the neckline and the sleeves, and she wore no jewellery with it.
Everything she had, apart from a simple locket from her mama, belonged really to Edward – had been worn by his other wives first, and would be worn by other unknown women after her.
She would not go to Richard decked in another man’s diamonds.
They were waited on by the footmen over dinner, and so could discuss nothing but commonplaces, but there was a pleasure in that too – every word, every look, had an underlying meaning, and though his hands could not caress her, his eyes did.
For the sake of appearances, she left him to sit in solitary splendour over the port she knew he did not care for, and it was worth the brief time alone – it was very brief – to see the glad expression on his face when he came to join her.
They played silly card games together for ridiculously high and entirely imaginary stakes, laughing over their hands and teasing each other over mistakes as they had never been able to do when Edward was present.
It was a piercing reminder that there was happiness in the world, that even this place where she’d almost lost her mind need not be quiet and miserable unless it was made so, and she found herself consciously storing away the memories against the lonely years ahead.
She tried not to wonder if he was doing the same; his life was so much fuller than hers, she must think it unlikely.
Eventually, the clock struck ten, which seemed to her to be a reasonable time for a respectable lady whose husband was absent to go to her chaste bed.
She said goodnight to Richard and climbed the stairs, a small figure amid such grandeur, alone as always but for once not lonely, ignoring, as ordinarily she could not, the intimidating marble magnificence all around her – the statues brought from Rome, the vast battle scenes, the writhing gods and goddesses in the frescoes on the ceilings high above her, the displays of ancient weapons.
Tonight, they were not real and she was.
Her maid came to help her undress, and she tried very hard to behave as though it was just a normal evening like any other.
Jennings was a woman in her thirties, small in stature and quick in her movements, always quiet and respectful, highly skilled at her profession, and a complete mystery to Viola.
She’d tried in her loneliness to prise anything more than commonplaces from her attendant, and thus she was aware that Mary had grown up on the estate and had several siblings and her parents still living, but she knew nothing more.
She did not doubt that the woman had opinions of her own about everything, including her new mistress, but it was impossible to divine what they might be.
The new Duchess suspected, with no basis for these suspicions, that Mary Jennings had been Elizabeth’s abigail for years, and a particular favourite of hers, but if she was glad to find herself serving her successor, or if she found each day a trial and an affront, Viola had not the least idea.
It was impossible to dislike her, since she displayed no personality traits apart from diligence, competence and courtesy, and equally impossible to like or trust her.
She, after all, was not really the woman’s employer, but a mere newcomer.
She’d never had a maid before, not even a shared one, and her new personal servant had been selected for her without any consultation, presumably by Edward or the equally enigmatic housekeeper, the intimidating Mrs Bradford.
If either of these women ever had a choice to make over where their loyalty lay, it would be foolish in the extreme to assume that they would choose her .
At best, their allegiance was to Winterflood as some kind of abstract idea, but more likely, it was to Edward, and to his regrettably dead second wife.
So she must never relax her vigilance in their company.
Once the maid had left her, she tried to sit calmly as she waited for the house to fall quiet and for the servants to retreat to their own quarters for the night.
It was clearly inadvisable for Richard to come to her, for reasons to do with the state of the linens when the housemaid came in in the morning that were too sordid to put into words, even in her own mind.
She would go to him, as soon as she felt it safe to do so.
And she was glad to do it, because it was so very different from lying in her bed and waiting to see if Edward would appear or not.
She would be active, not passive, for the first time ever.
The fact that it might also be the last was something she pushed resolutely from her mind.
Eventually, she thought that she would be safe from detection as she could be, and wrapped herself in her robe, taking up her candle and very carefully closing her chamber door behind her.
There was no point locking it – a locked door would give her away as completely as an empty bed, or a bed occupied by what the world would call the wrong man.
She crept along the passageway, her heart in her mouth, until she reached her destination.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and went inside.