Viola felt that touch through all the layers of cloth between them. Do not make anything of it, she told herself. “Thank you,” she told the earl as he bolted the door behind them. “For showing me the sky.”
“It may be snowing again by morning.”
“I know.” Viola smiled. “But it was beautiful for that moment.”
His blue gaze felt like a caress on her face. “Yes. Very beautiful.” She flushed with pleasure, as if he’d paid her a great compliment. He reached up and gently brushed a few flakes of melting snow from her hair. “Like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright . . .”
Kiss me, she thought, feeling herself falling into his mesmerizing eyes. Viola stopped breathing as the force of the thought hit her. “Marlowe?” she asked breathlessly, trying to jolt herself out of it.
“Byron, I believe.” He fingered a loose curl of her hair, studying it for a moment before smoothing it behind her ear. “We could check, in the library.”
The library would be dark and deserted and private now. Anything might happen there, just between the two of them. She should go back to the charades, remember her duty, and not let poetry and starlight go to her head. Slowly she nodded. “Yes. Yes, we could.”
Something shifted in his focus. He knew what she meant. He offered his arm.
Do not be stupid, Viola told herself. But she put her hand on his arm and went with him.
Chapter 7
Wes’s pulse seemed to be pounding against every inch of his skin. Her hand was on his arm, and her eyes were glowing like emeralds, and he’d never seen anyone more beautiful than Viola Cavendish, standing in the frigid night, head thrown back to gaze at the stars. Her lips had parted in wonder, and Wes had nearly kissed her right then and there.
It was all he could think about now. That, and her hand on his arm as she went with him on the most specious errand ever invented. He knew very well it was Byron’s poetry he quoted, but for a half hour alone with her, he’d happily check every book of poetry from Marlowe, Jonson, and Shakespeare. If they weren’t distracted before locating the poetry books, that is . . .
They reached the tall double doors of the library. She picked up a lamp from a nearby table as Wes reached for the doorknob.
But a lamp already burned inside, on the desk by the near hearth. The two people in the room looked up, startled, and in a flurry of movement flew apart.
Not, though, before Wes saw who they were and what they were doing. Lady Alexandra was frantically smoothing her dress back into place. Justin ran one hand through his disheveled hair, but seemed to realize it was hopeless. His jacket was off, his cravat was askew, and he gave Wes a glance that was half sheepish, half defiant.
Wes shut the door with a bang.
“Uncle, let me explain,” began Justin.
“Close your mouth,” said Wes in a deadly soft tone. “I will speak to you later. Lady Alexandra, are you hurt?”
Her flush was visible even in the low light. “Not at all, sir.”
“What is going on?” Mrs. Cavendish finally found her voice.
Lady Alexandra looked frozen. Justin cleared his throat. “It was not nearly as bad as it looked.”
“No?” Mrs. Cavendish turned a frigid gaze on him. “What was it, then?”
Justin opened his mouth, seemed to realize the problem, and closed his mouth.
“It was only a kiss,” said Lady Alexandra in a quavering voice. “Just a little one.”
Mrs. Cavendish looked pointedly at Justin’s white shirtsleeves. They must have been alone here for some time. Wes could have smacked himself for not paying more attention to Justin’s interest in the girl. How long ago had they snuck away from the party in the drawing room? Alexandra had been sitting on the desk, Justin’s hand on her knee—thankfully on top of her skirts—and her arms around his neck. It probably had only been a bit of kissing, but Lady Alexandra was the daughter of a duke, a young lady who was expected to make a very good marriage and have a spotless reputation.
And if that reputation became tarnished and stained by Wes’s feckless nephew, there would be hell to pay.
“I hope your mother Her Grace agrees,” Mrs. Cavendish told Lady Alexandra.
Alexandra shot her an agonized look, but nodded. Viola reached for her arm and drew her firmly toward the door.
“Mrs.