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Viola’s smile turned into a grin.
“What helped?” Aunt Knowe asked. The whole table gazed at her, and Viola froze. She couldn’t admit in front of the duke that she hadn’t considered herself a true Wilde. He thought of himself as her father. He would be deeply hurt, and her mother would be terribly sad.
“It’s Mr. Marlowe,” Joan said, coming to the rescue. “He’s very, very calming. He’s made all the difference, hasn’t he, Viola?”
The sharp elbow in her side jolted Viola and she nodded. “Yes, he is. That is, he has. Made all the difference, that is.”
“Perhaps we should bring him to London with us,” Aunt Knowe said thoughtfully. “I think it would do him good to consult with older clergymen. He shared a plan to put on a cycle of plays depicting biblical events. I’m not sure that’s a good idea, but better to hear it from a more experienced cleric than from me.”
Viola twitched. Putting on plays drawn from the Bible had been her idea, but this clearly wasn’t the moment to confess, not when the second part of her plan was miraculously coming true.
Lady Knowe nodded, having made up her mind. “Mr. Marlowe must come with us. His fiancée is in London, after all.”
“I can’t bear the woman,” the duke said dispassionately. “I might let him go at the end of the year simply because of his future wife.”
“My pity stems from his future mother-in-law,” Ophelia said with a shiver. “I suppose it might be a good idea to bring him to London. Perhaps Mr. Marlowe will reconsider his marital plans.”
Viola could scarcely stop herself from throwing up her hands in celebration.
Providence was indeed watching the fall of every sparrow. Mr. Marlowe was right! Now he would be coming to London, so all she had to do was make him fall in love with her.
How hard could it be?
She’d watched her older stepbrothers fall in love over the last few years. As she saw it, men denied their own emotions until they snapped and then pursued their future bride with a single-minded tenacity.
She could already picture Mr. Marlowe’s blue eyes looking at her adoringly.
Chapter Five
The Duke of Lindow’s townhouse
A ball in honor of Lady Joan Wilde & Miss Viola Astley
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?
