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It was near midnight, and the last set before the supper break was forming. The moon had newly risen above the trees, bathing the courtyard in pale light. Graymont led her onto the dance floor. Her wounded knee throbbed. People glanced at them as they joined the dance, some smiling, some openly curious. The music started, a lilting waltz, not the lively gallop that would end the ball. Graymont faced her, waiting for her to step into his arms. It was like one of those moments in the sea when they’d faced each other, and she gave into it, letting him take her and whirl her into the dance. The pain in her knee went away. And she knew what troubled her most. Graymont must never marry Viola. He must marry Cordelia, who never meant to marry. Her gaze met his and held.

In the movement of the waltz, they entered a place apart, where they were joined, where hands met and rested, hers on his shoulder, his at her waist, the lightest of touches, but a revelation of what was meant to be. He smiled at her, a smile she had not seen from him before, not the teasing smile he usually gave her, but a knowing one.

Thoughts chased themselves in and out of her head. She needed to understand her heart, to understand what had happened between her and her … enemy, or so she’d thought him that first day. And yet he’d influenced her, she who meant never to be influenced by a man. He’d made her see things. He’d challenged her. He’d believed her up to that challenge. Something unexpected had begun between them with their wager. A happiness for which she’d never hoped had sprung up between them, and now could be gone before she could grasp it and make it her own.

Their dance ended in a bow, in holds released, hands left empty. Cordelia clenched her fists briefly as if to keep his touch with her and turned to see to her neighbors as they sought supper in the garden.

*

Gray watched Cordelia mingle with her guests over the midnight supper in the Italian garden, her usual composure in evidence. The color of her eyes, the name of which eluded him yet, was the first blue of the sea at dawn. That much he knew. No one would guess her worry over her sister.

Finch appeared at his side to tell him that Viola Staveley was safely at home. Lady Frome had settled the girl in the parlor with the maid, Alice, and the dog to wait for the return of the others.

“How is she?” Gray asked.

“Sobered,” said Finch. “But I can’t say that she’s gained sense or learned self-control.”

“Did you tell her as much?”

Finch laughed. “I did. I don’t think she likes the idea of a marriage between you.”

“I’m sure she does not,” Gray said. “I’m not keen on the idea myself.” If he had to marry a Staveley sister, he knew the one he would pick.

“Yet you want Bernie and Lionel to believe you will marry Viola.”

“I think that’s best until I figure out what to do.”

“And Cordelia Staveley?”

Sometimes, he thought, Finch read his mind. Rumor was as slippery as an eel, likely to change with repeated telling. Gray had a notion that if the story of the tryst in the dungeon got mixed up in the telling, if society could be led to believe that he’d ended up there with Cordelia, rather than Viola, things might come out right in the end.

After the supper, he would send Cordelia home in a carriage. She must want to be with her sister. In the morning, when everyone had clearer heads, they could talk and find a way out of the coil Viola’s scheme had created.

*

Cordelia lost all sense of time. The short carriage ride from the castle to the lodge could not have occupied a quarter of an hour, and yet it seemed to her endless. Her cheeks ached from hours of smiling on the outside. How Graymont regarded her, she knew not. He had trusted her. She hoped that when they could speak of Viola’s actions honestly, he would trust her again. They most likely would not marry. But neither should he marry Viola, even if Viola suffered at the hands of gossips. For Viola at fifteen to embark on a marriage without love, a marriage designed to inconvenience both partners and set them on a path of mutual resentment, was wrong. But how was Cordelia to protect her sister if the marriage did not take place?

If Viola’s scheme remained known only to those few witnesses at the dungeon door, Cordelia thought they could escape a scandal. She was not sure she could trust Lady Frome’s discretion, and she knew she could not trust Graymont’s family. Lady Sydling’s very strong resistance to the idea of Graymont marrying Viola would make her speak out. Cordelia had even less faith in Lionel’s silence. At the lodge door, she thanked the young footman who helped her down the carriage step and hurried inside.

Viola sat on the parlor floor, a coverlet wrapped around her, her hair braided for sleep. One hand rested on the sleeping dog next to her, in front of a low fire. To see her thus was to see how young and vulnerable she was. At Cordelia’s entrance, Viola jumped up and flung herself into Cordelia’s arms. The coverlet slipped to the floor. The dog started barking.

“At last. I thought you’d never come,” Viola cried, clinging to Cordelia. “Are you very angry with me?”

“Will it help the situation to be angry?” Cordelia asked, pulling back to look at her sister. Viola’s spirits had definitely suffered a blow. Cordelia stilled the dog.

“I shocked Lady Frome. I think the torn gown may have been a step too far.”

Cordelia nodded.

“I’ve been thinking and thinking,” Viola said. “There’s been nothing else to do. My plan seemed perfect.”

“And now it doesn’t?”

Viola sighed. “There are things … I hadn’t realized.”

“Come and sit and tell me,” Cordelia said. She gathered up the fallen coverlet and settled them together. And waited. Viola stared at the glowing embers in the grate. The dog moved to lie in front of the door.

“If I must marry him, I will. That was the plan. He doesn’t care for me, and of course, he’ll take a mistress, though he may have one already. And I shouldn’t mind, but I did want to marry someone who liked me, you know?”