“I will not deny she appears to be a hard worker.”
“She is.” He was not going to talk to his father about Viola’s fears or vulnerabilities. His grandmother, Lady Eloise, would understand and be someone in whom he might confide. But his father? A good man, but utterly at a loss when it came to true struggles.
They walked down to the village green together, his father in all his glory as people approached him and cheered to see the Earl of Trent among them. They thought he cared enough about them to attend their local fair.
Well, in all fairness, his father was a good man and did care about those in his charge.
The day was glorious, the sky a vivid blue and the weather not too hot. Tufts of white clouds were pushed across the sky by a gentle wind and provided shady relief whenever the sun hid behind them.
The air held the aroma of cinnamon, fruit, and freshly baked pies.
Viola appeared shortly after eleven o’clock, driven by Wilson in one of the Ardley Hall wagons. Alexander breathed a sigh of relief, for her eyes looked bright and she appeared much more refreshed than she had been this morning.
Most of the other food tables and stalls with games had been set up. Space in the center of the fairgrounds had been left for her, and many of the villagers were already lining up to taste her wares.
Several hurried over to assist Wilson set up her table, including the squire’s son, George Haworth.
Viola sat in the wagon while they did so, looking every bit the ethereal wood sprite. She had on a simple gown the pine green color of a forest. As usual, she had not a trace of ribbon or lace adornment to embellish it. But she could wear an old grain sack and still look elegant. Her hair was drawn back in a soft chignon that would soon be hidden when she donned the straw bonnet held in her hand.
He frowned.
Why was she still sitting there looking like a lost, elfin princess?
Was her foot hurting her?
He made his way through the crowd, his father at his heels because the old man was going to stick to him like a barnacle to a ship and not permit him a moment alone with Viola. He did not care, for he had already resolved after this morning’s finger incident to keep some distance between them.
That resolve fell to the wayside now, but not for any reason other than he was worried about her. This was not like Viola. She should be hopping down from the wagon. When did she ever sit quietly and not take charge?
She did not appear to be in pain, but perhaps she was hiding it very well.
His heart was already thrumming and he could not take his eyes off her now that he had reached her side. “Miss Ruskin, is there a reason you have not yet climbed down off your perch?”
“You made me promise to sit quietly and allow others to help me.” She cast him a wry smile. “It is completely against my nature, as you well know. I have been gnashing my teeth and silently cursing you all the while.”
He laughed. “I see. Is this why your eyes are shining so brightly? Gleaming as you wickedly think up a thousand tortures for me?”
She grinned back at him. “Quite so. Will you please help me down now?”
He nodded. “How is your foot? Can you stand on it? Or is it too painful?”
“I am perfectly fine. It wasn’t a deep cut and the bandage provides sufficient padding to cushion the injury.”
“Good.” He reached up and took her by the waist to lift her down.
He felt his father’s frown at his back.
Not that he cared.
But he released Viola once she stood firmly on the ground. “You are swamped with admirers. The line for your table has been forming for an hour now.”
“Oh, dear. I shall sell out within ten minutes,” she muttered. “I should have made more tarts. Perhaps I will return to–”
“Perhaps you will simply stay here and enjoy the day. You need to give the other ladies a chance. No one will pay any attention to their tables while there remains so much as a crumb on yours.”
She gave a good natured laugh. “Very well. I fear you are right.”
“I am a viscount. I am always right.”
