Page 8 of The Christmas Ball
One of Lady Viola’s eyebrows went up, as if to say thattheywere the intruders here, but the duchess nodded.
“How pleasant, to have such conscientious neighbors,” she said. “We’re gathering greenery to decorate the house. Would you care to join us? We’re happy to share in the bounty.”
Grayson was about to decline, but Charlotte nodded vigorously.
“Thank you!” she said. “That would be lovely. I’ve been thinking Westbrook could use a bit of holiday cheer.”
Swallowing his refusal, he inclined his head in assent. He could hardly disappoint his sister if she found the prospect enjoyable, even though it meant being thrown together with Lady Viola.
“Excellent.” Lady Beckford gestured behind her. “We’ve found plenty of holly and pine boughs, and I’ll have the servants add more to the cart, but call out if you glimpse any ivy or mistletoe.”
Charlotte nodded. “Perhaps we ought to split up?”
“An excellent plan,” Grayson said, intending to remain with his sister. “I’ll go with—”
“Lady Viola,” the duchess said firmly. “And Lady Charlotte will come with me, as I’m desirous of furthering our acquaintance. We won’t stray too far from one another, of course, and the footmen are just behind, to aid in the gathering of the greens. If that suits?”
She turned an arch look upon her companion, who had her lips pressed together in displeasure.
“Mena,” Lady Viola said softly, “I’m going to let Drew eat all your parkin cake for this.”
“Then I’ll bake more.” With a bright smile, the duchess beckoned to Charlotte, and the two of them rode away under the trees. Though, true to her words, they did not go completely out of sight.
“Well.” Lady Viola turned to him with a resolute expression. “I suppose we must go in search of ivy.”
She looked like she was bracing for a spoonful of cod liver oil, and Grayson couldn’t quash his impulse to tease her, even against his better judgement.
“Not mistletoe?” he asked, with a sly look.
She blew out a breath and didn’t deign to answer, though color bloomed in her cheeks. She clucked to her horse and turned in the direction their companions had gone, and, for some reason, his mood lightened as he followed her through the winter woods.
***
Lord Winslow was a thorn in her side, a stone in her shoe, a prickle in her throat. Viola could scarcely believe his audacity, setting foot uninvited once more upon the Dovington grounds. And then for Mena to thrust them together…it was untenable.
She’d simply have to make the best of it by pretending the marquess didn’t exist. There was no one else there: just her and her horse, going for a peaceful ride in the woods.
Of course, he had to spoil the illusion by speaking.
“There’s bit of greenery over there.” He leaned forward, into her vision, and gestured to the right. “Should we investigate?”
The alternative was to simply trail Mena and Lady Charlotte without contributing to the effort, and Viola couldn’t, in good conscience, do that. They needed a great many more evergreens to bring her festively decorated vision of Dovington Hall to life. So, with a sigh, she agreed and followed Lord Winslow through the trees.
He’d a good eye, she had to admit, as they came upon a stump twined about with ivy. The glossy, deep green leaves were just what she needed to complete the decorations. She pulled her horse to a halt, noting the nearby landmarks so that she could direct the footmen to the spot with their shears and carrying bags.
“Excellent,” she said, pleased enough with their find to be a bit more cordial toward her unwanted partner.
“Shall we continue on in this direction?” he asked.
Viola spotted their companions moving in parallel, and nodded. She and the marquess hadn’t gone far, however, when her skirts snagged on a nearby gorse bush. The fact that it was her own fault, for watching Lord Winslow’s broad back and not minding her way, only contributed to her annoyance.
“Drat it,” she said, reining in and attempting to tug her hem free.
The thorns were stubborn, however, and she heard the sound of tearing cloth even as the wool remained caught in the prickles. Blast. This was her favorite riding habit, too.
“Allow me.” Lord Winslow was off his horse and by her side in a matter of moments.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, looking down at the brim of his top hat as he set to work.
