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“Excellent,” Mr. Marlowe exclaimed.

“The duke has a more serious affliction than mine,” Viola continued, noting with pleasure the way Wynter’s jaw had tightened. “He apparently envisioned an army of cats rampaging about the ballroom on the verge of attacking him.”

Mr. Marlowe’s brows drew together. “Your Grace, if you’ll excuse the presumption, did you visualize these cats or merely imagine them?”

“Oh, he saw them,” Viola said. “He specifically mentioned the terror he felt on seeing beady eyes fixed on his face.”

“I will pray for you, Your Grace,” Mr. Marlowe said with the ready sympathy he showed everyone, even a duke.

“Thank you,” Wynter said, his tone dangerously soft. But at least he was growling at her, not at Mr. Marlowe.

Viola was enjoying herself. “His Grace is somewhat . . . shall we say . . . mature to be attempting to find a wife,” she continued, giving him an innocent smile. “I’m certain he could use your prayers in that regard as well, Mr. Marlowe.”

The unfriendly glint in the duke’s eyes seemed to worry Mr. Marlowe. He slipped his arm from her grasp. “I shall allow both of you to return to the festivities.” He hesitated. “I am a stranger to the ways of polite society, but I can fetch the duchess, Miss Astley.”

“We are of one mind,” the duke said. “How did a fair young lady—the belle of the ball—find herself in the library unchaperoned at this hour? One might almost say hidden in the library?”

“There was nothing untoward about our meeting!” Mr. Marlowe said hastily. “I offer support to all members of the duke’s household, though I did expect Her Grace to accompany Miss Astley to the library.”

Viola felt slightly humiliated, because it sounded as if her darling Mr. Marlowe didn’t care to meet her alone. He didn’t mean that; he was merely responding to the duke’s critical tone. She’d watched men make fools of themselves in front of her stepfather for the entirety of her life.

The word “duke” had a magic sound in England. People couldn’t stop themselves from groveling.

Not that Mr. Marlowe was groveling. But he was flustered. Anyone would be flustered.

“There’s no need to bother my mother,” she said briskly.

“I am happy to escort Miss Astley back to the ballroom,” the duke said.

“I promise not to jangle your nerves by meowing.”

“The reassurance should be mine,” the duke said. “My understanding is that mice are terrified of cats.”

“It’s too late to claim to be a feline,” Viola told him. “All appearances to the contrary, we do have one thing in common. My nerves go to my stomach, and yours drive you to hide in the library. You too are a mouse.”

Mr. Marlowe looked from Viola to the duke, and she was pleased to see that he appeared a trifle disgruntled. He’d probably looked forward to talking to her as much as she had to him.

“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow at breakfast, Mr. Marlowe,” Viola said to him.

“Surely you will be resting after such a late night and much excitement?” To her delight, Mr. Marlowe seemed endearingly worried about her health.

“I am always up at dawn,” Viola said. It wasn’t precisely true, but ever since the vicar had told her that he rose every morning at five to say morning prayers, she had been asking her maid to wake her earlier than normal. She added, more truthfully, “Aunt Knowe is a great believer in breakfast and insists that the family attend no matter how late we went to bed.”

“Marlowe,” the duke said, inclining his chin the quarter of an inch that he apparently accorded those he considered beneath him.

Mr. Marlowe bowed again and walked quickly to the door, stopping to hold it open.

Viola sighed inwardly. She had to train him out of opening doors for . . . well, she hated the word . . . “betters.” She may not be a real Wilde—not in her own eyes nor in those of the Duke of Wynter—but her father had been a lord.

Yet she didn’t consider herself “better” than Mr. Marlowe.

Quite the opposite. She couldn’t wait until she could help him with his life’s work.

“You are no mouse,” the duke commented, as they walked away from the library, heading down the long corridor that led to the ballroom, while Mr. Marlowe returned to the upper regions of the house.

Viola was trying to decide whether Aunt Knowe would allow her to retire before the repast offered to their guests. Now that she had no appointment with Mr. Marlowe to look forward to, she hadn’t the faintest interest in a lavish meal that would last until two in the morning.

She shrugged. “I thought your uncle’s assessment was fair as regards my character, though obviously he was mistaken about our suitability for matrimony.”