Speaking of which, she had to get rid of Wynter before anyone saw them together. He would draw far too much attention. She didn’t want to be Graceless Viola, but she didn’t want anyone to think that she had caught the eye of a duke either.
“You are waiting for Joan,” she reminded him. “You must know what she looks like since you asked for a dance. Perhaps you can find her. There might be a seat free at her table. Or you could wait for her in the supper room and lunge when she makes an appearance.”
“I would prefer to meet Lady Joan at the arranged time,” the duke said.
“I understand,” Viola said. “You don’t want to look desperate.”
“No,” the duke agreed. “Never that.”
“Well, I will bid you good night, Your Grace.”
“We might go to supper together,” the duke repeated.
“No, thank you.”
“You would be making my uncle happy, not to mention your father and mine,” he said, looking down at her. He was absurdly tall. “That has to count for something.”
“I didn’t know my father,” she said, nipping this ridiculousness in the bud. “He died before I was born. It sounds as if yours was not entirely affable, but all the same, he left you a direct command as regards marriage that should be respected. I am not a real Wilde, and certainly not a duke’s daughter. You needn’t waste your time with me.”
“Sharing the meal will make my uncle happy. I scarcely knew my father and I am very fond of Sir Reginald.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he somehow had managed to put on an expression that suggested filial duty. “You might well be barraged by women with stuffed birds on their wigs. I saw at least two or three.” She herself was wearing a reasonably sized snowy white wig, ornamented only with pins topped with pearls.
“I would have you at my side.”
“Yes, but I don’t want you at my side,” she said, resorting to truthfulness. “You will attract far too much attention and I don’t care to be employed as a shield between you and your admirers. I have better things to do.”
He looked faintly offended. “Better than hiding behind the curtains waiting for a milksop?”
“Mr. Marlowe is not a milksop,” she retorted, staying calm because . . . Wynter was an ass and that was that. No point in crossing swords with him. “Mr. Marlowe isn’t vain, like the sort of aristocrat who boasts about his knowledge of the queen’s antechamber. He is a vicar, and as such, he is . . . he is full of the milk of human kindness!” she finished in a rush, the phrase coming to her suddenly.
“Milky indeed,” the duke said, a gleam of humor in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I imagine not, since the vicar has clearly been showering his milky kindness on the Lindow household, making himself available for pastoral counsel day or night.”
Viola frowned at him. “Your Grace, I suggest you return to the ballroom and find another candidate to marry other than my sister.”
“Why not Joan?”
“I won’t have it,” Viola said. “She won’t have it either. You’re not the sort of person whom . . . whom one would want to face over the breakfast table for years on end, to use your own criterion. Although,” she added, “you must know that married ladies are allowed to eat from trays in their bedchambers.”
Despite herself, envy leaked into her voice.
“Do you not care for the breakfast table, or are you simply a champion of breakfast trays?” the duke inquired.
“I can’t imagine why you’re interested, but the truth is that my nerves have often gone to my stomach, making a public breakfast an uninviting proposition,” Viola admitted.
“More at breakfast than at supper?” he asked, looking as if he was actually interested.
“My aunt used to force me into the breakfast room to test my nerves,” Viola said with a little shudder. “You can’t imagine how many times I have come close to vomiting on a gentleman’s shoes when he had no more temerity than to ask me if I was enjoying the sausage.”
“Should I be worrying about my shoes?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the fact you’re laughing silently, because I have.”
“Not at your distress,” he said immediately. “Perhaps at your phrasing. You are very funny, in a quiet way. What changed, Miss Astley? How were you cured? Because here you are, talking to an eligible duke, and you show no signs of gastric distress.”
“You aired my opinion of me—that I’m not a real Wilde—before I had the chance to worry about whether you thought I wasn’t a real Wilde. It was refreshing.”
They were nearing the great doors to the ballroom.
“Goodbye,” she said. “I should find my partner for the supper dance, even if I have missed it.” She bobbed a curtsy.
He didn’t bow. “You could take me with you. I am a fellow sufferer,” he said instead. “Think of my nerves. You could support me, just as milky Marlowe supported you.”
“No, thank you,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll get over it. Jangled nerves are not a life-long affliction. I can assure you that if you had met me last fall, I would have been miserably contemplating your shoes at this moment.”
“What changed?” he asked. And: “Oh, bloody hell.”
She looked around him to see Caitlin barreling toward them. “Hello!” Viola cried, waving.
Caitlin stopped before them, only slightly out of breath.
“Lady Caitlin, His Grace was just telling me of your graceful dancing,” Viola said. “He has offered to accompany me to supper, but I’m afraid that I have torn my hem and I’ll need to retire for repairs.”
Wynter was staring down at her as if she were abandoning him to a conquering army.
“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, giving him a smile, “I’ll find my mother and ask for her assistance.”
“Her Grace is just inside the ballroom,” Caitlin said, showing her eagerness all too evidently. Ophelia had emphasized that there was nothing a gentleman disliked more than being stalked.
But Cat was like her namesake in that.
“I’d like an answer to my question,” the duke said. “What changed, Miss Astley? How did you conquer your nerves?”
Rather than answer, Viola dropped another curtsy. “Your Grace, it has been such a pleasure.”
“You could join us,” the duke said, showing remarkable persistence. “I would consider myself most fortunate to escort two lovely young ladies to supper.”
Caitlin had attached herself to the duke’s side like a limpet, and she gave Viola a direct look that begged her not to accept the duke’s invitation.
The Wildes thought of Joan as the actress of the family, but Viola hadn’t watched her perform all these years for nothing. She fluttered her eyelashes like a butterfly in a storm and said, “Would that I could, Your Grace! But . . . my gown.”
“Your hem,” Caitlin chimed in.
“Good evening, Your Grace, Lady Caitlin,” Viola said, beaming at both of them before she walked off.
It wasn’t until she was inside the ballroom that she realized she had given the duke a real smile.