But their hands were clasped, their fingers laced. Perhaps because this time she had not told him to go away. Should she? Undoubtedly. But would she? Where was the harm in strolling alone with him thus? In holding his hand? In kissing him? In allowing him to kiss her? Whom was she harming? Her children? Hardly.

Herself?

She had been depressed for so long that she scarcely knew any other state. So she would be depressed again tomorrow looking back upon today. So what? At least she would have a few memories of pleasure, of desire. Even happiness. There had been so little happiness . . .

“When you told me to go away,” he said, almost as if he were reading her thoughts, “did you expect me to obey?”

“Why would you stay where you were not wanted?” she asked. “You had plenty of other choices.”

“Cruel,” he said softly.

“Oh, nonsense,” she said.

“Did you want me to obey?” he asked.

“Why else would I have asked you to leave me alone?” she said.

“Have you noticed,” he asked, “how some people will almost invariably answer a question with another? Did you want me to obey, Viola?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “I was a married lady, Marcel. Or thought I was.”

“Was that the only reason?” he asked.

She hesitated again. “I had young children,” she said, “and a reputation to protect.”

“And was it worth protecting,” he asked, “at the expense of personal inclination?”

“We cannot always do what we want,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“And have you noticed,” she asked him, “that some people ask interminable questions and are never satisfied with the answers they are given?”

“Touché,” he said.

Two people—a man and woman—were approaching from the village. A couple of children darted and danced about them. They came across the bridge.

“Good night, ma’am, sir,” the man said respectfully, pulling on his forelock. “Me and my missus here hope you have enjoyed your day. We are honored to have had you with us.”

The woman bobbed an awkward curtsy and the children gathered closer to her skirts and fell silent.

“Well, thank you,” Viola said. “We have indeed enjoyed ourselves. And it has been our pleasure to have been included in your festivities.”

The man cleared his throat. “And Vicar told us about your very generous donation to the roof repairs, sir,” he said. “May I make so bold as to express my personal thanks?”

Mr. Lamarr nodded curtly, Viola saw when she turned her head rather sharply to look at him. When had he done that? He bade the couple a good evening, and they went on their way.

“Some people,” he murmured, “would be unable to hold their tongues if their life depended upon it.”

Presumably he was talking about the vicar.

“It was very kind of you to be generous,” she said.

“Viola.” He released her hand and offered his arm, turning back in the direction of the village as he did so. “One thing no one will ever be able to accuse me of with any conviction is kindness. The cool of evening is rapidly turning to the chill of night. Do you wish to dance something vigorous and warming on the green? Or would you prefer to return to the inn?”

“The inn, please.” But she said it with regret. Was her day of escape finally over, then? And what would tomorrow bring? Would the carriage be ready to take her home? She dreaded the possibility that she might be stranded here for another day. But she dreaded going home too. She would think about it all tomorrow.

They walked back to the inn without talking, though they did have to pass numerous people as they skirted the village green, and exchanged good night greetings with some of them—at least Viola did. At some time since they had left to go to the dance, the innkeeper had returned and the taproom had been opened up. It was half filled with men imbibing ale and hiding away from would-be dancing partners, Viola suspected. Everyone seemed to be in just as jovial spirits as they had been this morning, however.

He escorted her upstairs to her room, took the key from her hand, unlocked the door, and stood in the doorway with her.

“Thank you—” she began, but he set one forefinger across her lips.

“No absurdities, Viola,” he said. “Has it been worthwhile to you, a blameless life of virtue and dignity and self-denial? Has it brought you happiness?”

“Happiness is not everything,” she said.

“Ah. I have my answer,” he told her.

“And has it been worthwhile to you, a life of debauchery and self-indulgence?” she asked. “Has it brought you happiness?”

His face turned blank and cold, and for a moment she thought he would simply turn and walk away. He did not do so, however.

“Happiness,” he said softly, “is not everything.”

“Touché,” she whispered softly. And then more loudly, “Good night, Mr. Lamarr.”

“Shall we make it an even better night?” he asked, his voice velvet soft.

And she felt that sharp stabbing of longing again. Somewhere too there was a feeling of shock and outrage, but it was far back in her consciousness, more a token showing of how she ought to react than a reflection of her true feelings. She would—she must—of course say no. But oh, the temptation. Just once in her life to do what she wanted to do, no matter how outrageous, rather than what she ought to do. Or twice in her life, perhaps she meant. She had done what she wanted to do this afternoon and this evening. But this was different. It would mean nothing at all to him, while to her it might mean everything in the world. She dared not risk it. But did it matter that it would mean nothing to him? She would not expect it to, after all. And would it matter if it meant far more to her? At least she would have the memory. At least she would know.

The silence between them had stretched.

“You do have a hard time answering questions,” he said. “Has the path of your life been such a predictable one, Viola, that you have never had to make any serious decisions?”

“The revelation after my husband’s death that he was married to someone else when he wed me was unpredictable,” she said. “So was the fact that he had fathered a daughter with that first wife and that she inherited everything from him. And what is a serious decision? Is this one of them? The suggestion that we make it a better night than it has already been? Or is it more trivial than anything else I have ever had to decide?”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a mockery of a smile. “I will not trouble you further,” he said. “When you told me to go away, you meant it. Today was but a temporary reprieve. I cannot argue with virtue, Viola. I wish you a good night and a good rest of your life.” He lowered his head and kissed her softly on the lips.

“Yes,” she said when he lifted his head, and she listened to the echo of the word, almost as though someone else had spoken it. “Yes, let us make it an even better night, Marcel.”

There was an arrested look on his face. And her mind was catching up to her words. This was Mr. Lamarr standing before her, the ruthless, dangerous Mr. Lamarr, one of England’s most notorious libertines, among other vices. Suddenly he looked like a forbidding stranger, all dark and brooding and attractive beyond bearing.

“I shall go down to the taproom for a while and make myself seen,” he said. “If when I come back up I find your door locked, I will know you have regretted the words you just spoke. If I find the door unlocked, I shall indeed give you a very good night. And you will give me the same in return. It is give and take with me, Viola, in equal measures. It will be a night you will not regret—if your door remains unlocked.”