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Chapter Ten
An Afternoon Tea with Dancing
The town residence of Sir Reginald Murgatroyd, in honor of his daughter Hazel
Hanover Square
Viola was feeling glum as the Lindow carriage arrived at Sir Reginald’s house. Mr. Marlowe wasn’t invited, of course. When she saw him in the hallway as she and Joan were walking toward the front door, he merely nodded and walked briskly on.
She was fairly certain that Mr. Marlowe hadn’t shared with Miss Pettigrew the fact they had been exchanging innocuous notes, but she had to admit that his fiancée would be unlikely to approve of such correspondence.
In short, she felt distinctly shaken by guilt, which was absurd, because hadn’t she decided that Mr. Marlowe needed rescuing from his fiancée? But on the other hand, she had a strong feeling that she had been disrespectful of Miss Pettigrew, no matter how objectionable she might find her.
As if Aunt Knowe had been following her train of thought, she said out of the blue, “I’d be surprised if Mr. Marlowe isn’t a bishop within the decade. Miss Pettigrew will ensure it.”
Viola wasn’t lost to the fact that her aunt had taken to mentioning Miss Pettigrew at every possible turn.
“I’m sorry,” Joan whispered, as Aunt Knowe surged up the steps toward the Murgatroyds’ butler, waiting at the front door. “Are you horribly cross that I told her about your correspondence with Mr. Marlowe?”
Viola felt a surge of affection meeting her stepsister’s anxious eyes. “No, you were right. It wasn’t proper to exchange those notes, no matter how innocent. I was just thinking that it wasn’t fair to Miss Pettigrew.”
“I’m sorry that I don’t appreciate Mr. Marlowe the way you do,” Joan said. “If you . . . if you are together in the future, I promise that I will make myself like him.”
“On deeper acquaintance, you would certainly enjoy his company,” Viola said. But inside, she wasn’t sure. Joan, like most of the Wildes, had little tolerance for self-anointed sainthood, as Aunt Knowe put it.
The Murgatroyd drawing room was generously proportioned, with elegant plaster flourishes covering the ceiling. The walls were painted a pale green stripe down to the knee, with cream wainscoting to the floor. There were three seating areas, including one in front of a pianoforte, and tall windows at the far end opened onto a formal garden.
The first person Viola saw was the Duke of Wynter, seated to the left in a cluster of four young ladies. He looked like a bricklayer who’d been summoned to the parlor and found himself bored to death by elegant conversation.
No, that wasn’t fair.
He wasn’t a bricklayer, for all his features weren’t refined nor delicate. The duke’s nose had to be twice the size of Mr. Marlowe’s, for example.
Mr. Marlowe had a trim nose, the kind that everyone admired. Viola had always wanted a stronger nose, like that of her sisters.
One couldn’t overlook the Duke of Wynter’s nose. Not that it was outsized. It fit the rest of his face: a bold nose. A patrician nose, like the rest of him, and like the noses of the Wildes too.
He was wearing a coat of a dark peach color without ornamentation, except where the collar turned over, showing a bit of cream satin. To the side of his leg, she could see his coat was lined in the same warm cream.
The costume was plain, but all the more elegant in its simplicity. Lavinia would approve.
He looked up, and she felt color surging into her face, so she quickly looked away.
As the butler announced their arrival, all the guests rose and moved toward them en masse. Viola already felt unnerved. She found herself falling back into her custom of curtsying with her eyes on the floor, though she registered the Duke of Wynter, not merely because he was tall but because he smelled marvelously like a pine forest.
And because he murmured, “Steady.”
She almost glanced up, as it was a kind thing to say, but Sir Reginald had already moved on to the next introduction.
Joan was instantly surrounded by young gentlemen, and Aunt Knowe was chatting with Sir Reginald, so Hazel pulled Viola to the side.
“Why are you late?” Hazel hissed. “This tea party is a disaster. I have been desperately watching the door for your arrival.”
“My little sister has a cold, and my mother decided to stay home,” Viola explained. “My aunt had to change her dress to accompany us. The party seems very well attended.”
“Naturally, because my father told most of London that Devin would join us.” She nodded over to her left, where the Duke of Wynter was once again surrounded by eligible ladies. “He’s looking for a wife, obviously. I do love Devin—he’s my cousin—but he’s frightfully superior and will scarcely attend any social occasion.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Viola observed.
