by Eloisa James
April 2, 1782
The Duke of Lindow’s ball in honor of Lady Joan Wilde and Miss Viola Astley opened the Season of 1782. Within the hour, it was an acknowledged triumph.
The two young ladies were besieged by suitors, among them several noblemen. Queen Charlotte herself made an appearance, and only a bilious attack kept His Majesty from attendance. Equally important, given society’s fascination with the Wildes, the family turned out in full force.
Attendees included the duke’s heir, North, who was rarely seen in London, along with his wife. Even more exciting was the presence of Alaric, the famous writer just returned from a prolonged visit to India.
Lavinia Sterling, the wife of His Grace’s adopted son, Parth, was exquisitely garbed, but no gown eclipsed the robe à la française worn by the duke’s sister, the wildly fashionable Lady Knowe. Her skirts were “pale thrush eggshell color,” scribbled a giddy fashion columnist for The Ladies Gazette, “trimmed with knots of roses and spangles fashioned from sunbeams.”
In short, the ball satisfied every guest as well as curious bystanders. Even those looking for scandal were able to amuse themselves by making up reasons why Alaric’s wife was not in attendance. The family kept to themselves the prosaic fact that (by her own description) Willa was as round as the full moon, and Lady Knowe had the idea that she might be carrying twins.
If truth be told, the Wilde family collectively breathed a sigh of relief as midnight rolled around without incident.
No one had fretted about Joan, but Viola?
Ever since Viola began throwing up from pure nerves, they had all worried that the pressure of a debut ball would be too much for her unruly stomach.
That very morning, His Grace had dispatched a constable accompanied by three burly grooms to confiscate hundreds of prints made by an enterprising stationer gambling that images of Vomiting Viola would sell like hotcakes.
Sometimes it felt as if all of England was collecting prints of the next Wilde escapade. Housemaids from Scotland to Cheshire waited with bated breath for the tinker’s cart to appear with a stack of new prints depicting Lady Knowe dressing down an impudent knife grinder (fictional) or North knocking unconscious a man who had abused a dog (true).
When Betsy debuted two years ago and promptly began amassing marriage proposals the way children collect seashells, the printmakers of Britain had rejoiced.
Now, with two Wilde daughters to consider?
The family couldn’t leave the townhouse without being besieged by reporters. Joan enjoyed blowing kisses to those she liked; Viola seriously considered refusing to leave her bedchamber until the Season was over.
Yet the debut ball was not proving as dreadful as she had feared. She had exchanged remarks with several young men and danced with two of them. Her wretched shyness had not disappeared, but it had receded.
Most importantly of all, her nerves hadn’t gone to her stomach.
“Anyone who has heard you are incurably timid knows it to be a falsehood,” Aunt Knowe had whispered in her ear after the first hour. “Brava, darling!”
What Aunt Knowe didn’t realize was the reason for Viola’s surprising change of heart. Her show of courage. Her cure.
It was love.
Love had changed everything.
Love kept her calm as she danced an allemande with a young squire, calm as an eligible earl lectured her on gargoyles, calm as she accepted gentlemen’s compliments that would have made her squirm a month before.
She no longer worried whether her so-called suitors thought she didn’t measure up to being a Wilde. If her dance partners were secretly as rough and unprincipled as the man she’d interrupted at that long-ago ball, it wasn’t her problem. She could scarcely believe that she’d cared so much.
Every beat of her heart brought her closer to the part of the evening that truly mattered: a meeting with Mr. Marlowe in the library. At precisely twenty minutes past midnight, Viola slipped out of the ballroom, pretending that her hem needed adjusting.
To her horror, she arrived at the ducal library just in time to see Sir Reginald Murgatroyd, an acquaintance of her Aunt Knowe’s, disappear inside. Surely a respectable widower in his fifties hadn’t planned an illicit tryst?
Viola cautiously pulled open the door a crack.
“Found you!” Sir Reginald bellowed. He was standing with his back to Viola before an armchair set at an angle to the door. As Viola watched, he gave the pair of long legs stretched out before him a kick.
“That charming greeting can only originate from a member of my family,” said a deep voice from the depths of the chair.
Not a tryst, thankfully. Viola would have fled a rendezvous, but family squabbling was old hat.
“Of course it’s me, Nephew,” Sir Reginald said, giving him another kick. “On your feet, you lazy laggard.”
Viola slipped through the door and let it close silently behind her. Thanks to her bouts of shyness, she was an expert at concealing herself, and nothing could be easier than hiding in her own house.
The library at Lindow Castle was a comfortable room where the family lounged about, reading books and sipping tea. In sharp contrast, the library at the ducal townhouse was formal, with walls covered with brocade apricot silk and glass-fronted bookshelves designed to house works of great brilliance. Narrow, tall-backed armchairs were clustered around the room like stern matrons wearing whalebone corsets.
The windows were hung with silk curtains, heavy enough to conceal one small, if curvy, person. Over the years, they had proved useful for hide-and-seek—and avoiding Aunt Knowe. No matter how beloved, she had always been the person most likely to push Viola into meeting strangers.
Viola slid quietly along the wall and nipped behind the nearest curtain, sending up silent thanks that fashion dictated modest side panniers this year. Then she sent up a fervent prayer that Sir Reginald would drag his nephew back to the ballroom, now that the fellow had been kicked awake.
“What are you doing in here?” His Lordship demanded. “I have picked out your wife, and I want to introduce her, since you were impolite enough to arrive after the receiving line had dissolved.”
“I am thinking about a Persian king named Cambyses II who laid siege to the Egyptians,” his nephew replied.
Viola felt a flash of envy. If a gentleman was tired of conversation and wanted to think of ancient battles, he could simply retire to the library. Whereas she’d be ruined if anyone found her doing the same. No one would believe her.
For good reason, she reminded herself fairly.
She hadn’t left the ballroom to contemplate antiquity, and her mother would definitely not approve of her true goal. She edged along the window until she could peek through the opening in the curtains, curious to see the historian.
Retreating to a library to contemplate a Persian king was not customary, especially for a gentleman searching for a bride.
Unfortunately, she could see only Sir Reginald. He was a portly gentleman with a fruity accent, violet-colored pantaloons, and a wig powdered to match. “What on earth are you talking about?” he demanded, scowling down at his nephew.
The man hadn’t risen from the chair, perhaps thinking that a kick does not warrant a gentleman’s greeting.
“The Egyptians revered cats. Cambyses II had all his men paint cat faces on their helmets, and he drove a herd of felines ahead of him. The Egyptians could not harm the cats, and therefore their soldiers retreated in disarray.”
“Ridiculous!” Sir Reginald said. “Balderdash!”
“It happened, I assure you. As a result, Egypt became a province of the Achaemenid Empire.”
“No one can herd one cat, let alone an army of them,” His Lordship retorted, with some justification. “Help me to a seat, won’t you? My lumbago is acting up and I made the mistake of attempting a minuet.”
Viola agreed with him as regards the army of cats. In her experience, a cat wouldn’t do anything unless a kipper was dangled before her nose, and only
then if she felt like it.
Unfortunately, Viola didn’t manage to get a clear look at the historian before Sir Reginald plumped down in an armchair. From her angle, she couldn’t see either of their faces—but on the other side, neither could they catch a glimpse of her through the gap in the curtains.
“What do felines have to do with anything?” Sir Reginald asked. “You, Nephew, are supposed to be in the ballroom, hunting for a bride.”
“I was contemplating the army of young women that rushed at me the moment I walked into the ballroom,” the gentleman replied. “One of them had pinned a woolen cat atop her wig. I was struck by her counterpoint in Persian history, but not enough to marry her. In fact, she sent me into retreat, and you found me here.”
“Lady Caitlin Paget!” his uncle said instantly. “I found it amusing that her wig ornament was a play on her name.”
Caitlin was an old friend, and she wouldn’t have rushed toward anyone below a viscount. But since Viola had never bothered to memorize the byzantine relationships that structured polite society, she had no idea who Sir Reginald’s nephew might be.
“I disagree,” the gentleman said. “I dislike cats at the best of times, and particularly when suspended in the air. It fixed its beady eyes on me while we were dancing.”
He disliked cats?
Viola found that, on the whole, animals were far more enjoyable companions than people. In a better world, cows would be allowed in a ballroom and she could have leaned against Daisy’s side while she conversed with suitors.
“That is ludicrous,” Sir Reginald said. “One doesn’t make decisions as regards matrimony on the basis of a woman’s wig.”
“Frankly, I didn’t meet a single woman whom I could bear to see at the breakfast table, bewigged or no,” the man said. “They all chattered as if conversation were a blood sport, although they had nothing to say. I retreated to this library, rather than to my carriage, because I have a dance with the Wilde daughter after supper. Until that appointment I see no reason to fight off the hordes.”
Viola drew in a silent breath. He deserved that kick. His uncle should have kicked him harder.
“I told you, I’ve found you a wife,” Sir Reginald said, ignoring his nephew’s blanket condemnation of every young lady in London. “I can’t think why it didn’t occur to me earlier. You probably don’t know this, but your father’s best friend was a fellow called Astley, who died well over a decade ago.”
Viola suppressed a gasp.
“Your father didn’t make friends easily, it hardly needs be said,” Sir Reginald continued. “Astley’s daughter, Viola, is debuting at this very ball. I’ve met her several times and she’s a lovely girl. What’s more, your father would be very pleased if you married her. I think you should go out there and make a play for her hand.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Uncle, but on his deathbed my father instructed me to marry the daughter of a duke. In fact, I believe those were his last words directed at me. He was primarily occupied by cursing at the doctor.”
There was something very quelling about the man’s tone. Of course, it didn’t sound as if his father had been an affectionate parent.
“Miss Astley is a duke’s daughter,” Sir Reginald said. “Her mother is the third duchess. This ball is in her honor! For goodness’ sake, Wynter, surely you knew that?”
Wynter?
Wynter.
He was a duke.
The Duke of Wynter.
Viola slapped a hand over her mouth to stop a nervous giggle. No wonder he had been besieged. Caitlin’s list of eligible men had Wynter’s name at the top.
For a moment she wondered if he was the duke from the ball all those years ago—but no. Wynter was a recluse, rarely seen in society. Caitlin had been hoping he’d bestir himself to find a wife this Season.
Apparently, Caitlin’s wishes had been granted, but it didn’t sound as if she had made the impression she would have wished.
“No, it isn’t,” the man said flatly.
Isn’t what? Viola had lost track of the conversation.
“Yes, it is,” Sir Reginald insisted.
“The ball isn’t for her, because she isn’t a real Wilde,” the duke said. “They stuck her in, of course, but the ball is in honor of the duke’s daughter.”
Viola lost all inclination to laugh as a wave of nausea went through her. She’d managed to put the question of being not Wilde out of her head, but there it was: evidence that the rest of the world agreed with her.
Hearing the words spoken aloud made her feel hollow inside, and for the first time that evening her stomach threatened to turn inside-out.
Joan would be furious if she had overheard Wynter. She would clench her fists and call the duke a fatheaded ass. But he was just voicing what they’d likely all been whispering behind her back.
Viola took a shaky breath and placed both hands on her stomach, trying to calm herself. It was absurd to feel hurt by a man whom she didn’t know or care about.
Mr. Marlowe would be arriving soon, coming to meet her. When she returned to the ballroom, she would ignore Wynter.
She hadn’t been introduced to the duke, which meant that the man was rude enough to come to her debut ball—because she and her family considered it hers as well as Joan’s—and not even ask her to dance.
Aunt Knowe had taught them that eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves, and Viola didn’t need the memory of her voice to realize it was true. She’d give anything to be able to leave the room.
In fact, she almost began to edge back toward the door . . . but her appointment. She couldn’t leave the library.
What if Mr. Marlowe didn’t wait for her?
“Your father would approve of Miss Astley,” Sir Reginald argued. “The Duke of Lindow considers her his daughter, and that’s all that really counts. What’s more, Miss Astley has been dowered by her father and by the duke.”
“I don’t need money, and I want the real Wilde,” the duke said flatly. “The other one, Joan.”
He sounded as if choosing a wife was akin to selecting ribbons. No, like choosing between pickled herring or turnips.
Viola loathed both foods—and him.
“Joan is ravishingly beautiful, but if you want to be pedantic about it, she isn’t a real Wilde either,” his uncle argued. “Hasn’t got a drop of Wilde blood in her veins. Hair is yellow as a buttercup, thanks to the Prussian who fathered her.”
Viola scowled. She hated the fact that people maligned Joan due to her mother’s infidelity.
“I don’t care about that,” the duke said, rather surprisingly. “She’s a Wilde because her father says she is. She was raised a Wilde, ergo she is a Wilde.”
“Miss Astley was raised a Wilde too, and her father was your—”
“It’s not the same,” his nephew interrupted, sounding impatient. “I need a woman who has been raised as ducal progeny, not just tossed into the nursery due to her mother’s marriage. I don’t have the faintest interest in training someone how to be a duchess.”
His uncle guffawed. “Not that you’d know how!”
The duke didn’t say anything, but Viola could imagine his well-bred upper lip curling. He really was awful.
“You’re the oddest duke ever seen in the British Isles,” Sir Reginald said, hooting. “All the rest of them went to Eton together, went to war together, went to brothels together, for Christ’s sake. But you? You never go anywhere.”
That explained why he’d never made his way to Lindow Castle. Viola had certainly never met him.
Imagining Joan leaping to her feet and declaiming, “I loathe cats,” made Viola’s heart ease. The Wildes enjoyed Joan’s performances, but her mother made certain that they were never truly unkind, and no one other than family was ever invited to join the audience. All the same, a duke this arrogant would definitely have had a lead role at family dinner.
Her stomach steadied.
He was inconsequential.
“Exactl
y,” the duke said now.
“Exactly what?” his uncle demanded.
“That’s what it means to be a duke.”
“Nonsense!”
“If the Duchess of Wynter wishes to waste her time at balls, she’s welcome to do so,” the duke stated. “I don’t give a damn.”
Viola believed him.
“I need someone who has a thorough, instinctive understanding of what a duchess does and doesn’t do, so she doesn’t bother me about it. I will certainly not accompany my wife into society. While I realize it is necessary to attend one to two public occasions in order to inform my choice of a bride, after marriage I shall not escort my wife to musicales, balls, or any other nonsense. She needs to be able to fend for herself.”
Hopefully no lady would accept him, including Caitlin. He didn’t deserve a wife.
“I didn’t choose Miss Astley merely due to your father’s friendship,” his uncle said, persisting. “She’s a little mouse. Perfect for you.”
Viola winced. She didn’t like the characterization, but she couldn’t say it was unfair.
“Why would you think a woman of that sort appropriate for me?” the duke growled.
“She’s pretty,” Sir Reginald added hastily. “Not mousy that way. It’s my impression that she doesn’t even know how pretty she is, which is important.”
Viola rolled her eyes.
“We can’t have a vain woman as Duchess of Wynter,” His Lordship went on. “Nor yet an overly proud one. But on the other hand, she can’t be a dowdy girl either, because she will be a duchess, and she needs to hold her own once we get her portrait up there on the third floor.”
“I’m sure I can find someone worthy of the gallery,” the duke said indifferently. “Golden hair paints well.”
Golden hair paints well indeed!
His chance of marrying Joan would be precisely zero after Viola recounted this conversation. Although she’d have to make up some excuse why she overheard his assessment. She couldn’t reveal that she’d been hiding in the library waiting for an illicit rendezvous.
The reminder made her heart bound. Who cared if the horrid Duke of Wynter thought that she didn’t belong at her own debut ball? If she had her way, she would have nothing to do with polite society in the future.
