Page 2

There was a curtained alcove not far away, where the castle butler, Prism, stowed extra chairs when the ballroom wasn’t in use.

A matron paused before her, and she forced herself to smile. The woman frowned slightly, likely thinking she ought to recognize her, and moved on.

Another way that Viola was different from her half siblings? She was short and nondescript, and people often forgot who she was.

No one forgot a Wilde.

Viola’s heart had begun to pound so hard that she could hear it in her ears. Somehow she managed to get herself into the alcove, but that didn’t help.

It was swelteringly hot in the tiny enclosure. On the other side of the velvet curtain, the musicians began a rollicking country dance. The floor of the ballroom actually shuddered under Viola’s slippers from the pounding of feet.

The alcove had been a terrible idea. It was hot and smelled of varnish.

It would smell of vomit in a moment, Viola thought wildly. She had to leave, and quickly, before the worst happened.

She pulled back the curtain and hurried out, brushing shoulders with a gentleman and ignoring his startled exclamation. One violin was playing out of tune, and a woman’s high laughter echoed in her ears.

In her panic, she had turned away from the ballroom entrance, but thankfully a servants’ door not far away offered access to a corridor connecting the back of the castle with the public areas.

She hurtled through that door, never considering that someone might be on the other side.

Let alone two people.

Chapter Two

Viola rebounded off a gentleman who stood with his back to her. He rocked forward but withstood the blow.

She fell back a step, an apology withering on her lips.

He was huge, wide-shouldered, bewigged, with one arm braced against the wall and the other wound around someone she couldn’t see. Her eyes skittered over his back, registering yellow slippers that incongruously stuck out on either side of his waist. The slippers disappeared, followed by a whoosh of skirts falling to the ground before she realized what they implied.

The man glanced over his shoulder for a second, and then turned back to his . . . what was the word? Paramour?

“You arranged for a witness?” His voice was raw and hoarse—not with disbelief, but with a scalding anger that jolted Viola’s whole body. Her stomach twisted tighter.

“No, indeed,” the woman said, out of breath. “It’s merely a servant.”

“Contrary to all expectation, a lady has invaded the servants’ corridor. Your witness seems to have been afraid she might be late for the performance,” he retorted, his voice cutting like a blade. “She’s panting like a set of bellows. I gather you plan to use her testimony to force me to marry you?”

Viola was shaking all over. The servants’ corridor was narrow, and he was blocking the way.

She took a sobbing breath. “Excuse me.”

He didn’t turn. “What sort of marriage do you think we’ll have?”

The woman murmured something.

Viola edged to the side. Given that her panniers made her nearly the width of the corridor, she couldn’t push past him.

“Do you imagine yourself a duchess, parading about town in a high wig and my mother’s diamonds? I live in the country; I never attend Parliament; and I loathe polite society. My wife will, of course, be at my side. You might want to keep that in mind before you and your damned witness blurt out what happened.”

“Excuse me,” Viola said, her voice wavering. “I need to—”

She saw a flash of a strong jaw and bitter eyes before he slammed past her into the ballroom, revealing a woman in a mustard-colored dress who screamed, “You cow, you miserable bloody cow, why in the bloody hell did you come in?”

Viola stared aghast, unable to say a word.

“You’ve ruined everything!” the woman added, savage fury punctuating her sentence.