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Sir Reginald’s analysis wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

But who cared? Even if Viola hadn’t been in love, she would never marry anyone like Wynter.

An angel on one side and Beelzebub on the other: No one in the world would be surprised by her choice.

Except perhaps Beelzebub himself.

She had the distinct impression that His Grace planned to dance once with a lady and meet her next at the altar.

In fact, he thought he was the cat’s meow.

Ha! She made a note of that: perfect for her dramatic rendition of the ducal terror caused by Lady Caitlin’s beady-eyed wig ornament.

“I prefer the other one,” Wynter said dispassionately.

Viola had no interest in him, obviously, but he still made her blood burn with annoyance. She’d like to stick him with one of her wig pins. She might not be a Wilde by blood, but knowing the truth herself, and being dismissed on those grounds, were not quite the same.

Not unrelated, but different.

It was very satisfying to realize that while His Grace could woo Joan all he wanted, Viola—the not-Wilde unworthy of his lofty attentions—would thwart his marital ambitions with a quiet word to her sister.

Or better yet, a lively performance of his arrogant disclaimers.

“You could try to push Otis onto the other one,” the duke said now.

The other one? He meant her! And who was Otis?

“I’ll come talk to you tomorrow morning about that boy,” Sir Reginald said. “He was laicized yesterday. I am displeased that he has been released from Holy Orders, most displeased. For now, I’ll nip into the retiring room and fetch you on the way back. I plan to introduce you to Miss Astley, whether you will or no.”

Or no, Viola thought frantically.

Go back to the ballroom and find your own wife!

“Certainly,” the duke said, suddenly amiable. “Take all the time you wish, Uncle. I’ll be happy to await you here.”

They moved out of Viola’s eyesight but apparently stopped at the door.

“Your father was a difficult man,” Sir Reginald said, a hint of regret in his voice.

The duke didn’t respond.

“I believe Astley was the only friend he had whom he didn’t challenge to a duel.”

“A singular honor,” the duke said. “One devoutly to be wished, given that the late duke killed at least one of those friends in a duel.”

“The man died due to an infection,” Sir Reginald said, clearly pained. “Your father didn’t prick him in the lung.”

“I doubt that was a consolation to his widow.”

“Didn’t have one,” Sir Reginald said. “Good thing too. Otherwise there might have been a real fuss about the matter. Just think about the Astley girl, won’t you?”

“Of course, Uncle,” the duke said.

Viola didn’t need her years of experience with Wilde males to translate his agreement into outright insubordination.

His uncle didn’t reply. Maybe he kicked him a last time in parting.

One could hope.