“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.