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“Mixed metaphors,” the duke remarked. “If Hazel’s a beanstalk, you are a bean. A yellow bean, as it were. I didn’t realize that you liked such sunny clothing.”

“My cousin is used to seeing me in black, as I used to be a vicar in one of his livings,” Otis said to Viola. “Sartorial commentary to the contrary, my relatives are quivering with joy because I am returning to the embrace of the family.”

“Now that you’ve stopped being such an ecclesiastical humbug, I shall introduce you to all my short friends,” Hazel said, with a younger sister’s brutal candor.

“I am one of those short friends,” Viola admitted, smiling at Otis. “A white bean, given my attire this afternoon.”

Otis beamed back. “I am looking forward to dancing with you. I can’t tell you how awkward it is to find oneself eyeing a lady’s bosom, when it’s that or keep my eyes turned to the sky like one of those languishing saints about to be martyred.”

“I think everyone agrees that you aren’t a candidate for sainthood,” Wynter said dryly.

“It wasn’t very sporting of you, Hazel, to draw the biggest fish in the marital pond over here,” Otis said. “Devin, I suggest you return to all those damsels throwing longing glances in your direction.”

Hazel sat down and flapped her hands at the duke. “I agree. Shoo, Devin. My father promised that you’d be on display, not hiding amongst the family.”

Viola thought she saw something in the duke’s eyes—heavens, couldn’t the man just show expressions like everyone else?—that might have been hurt feelings. His own relatives were tossing him onto the battlefield.

She sat down on the settee opposite Hazel. “I have a different suggestion, Your Grace,” she said, patting the cushion beside her. “You may compose yourself among family, after which Hazel will introduce you to just the right lady.”

The duke settled down next to her, looking pleased to be rescued.

Hazel shook her head at him. “Viola isn’t that lady, by the way. I’ve already warned her that the two of you wouldn’t suit. My father has a silly notion stemming from the fact that your father actually restrained himself from dueling with Viola’s father.”

Viola blinked. That sounded more serious than merely a question of friendship.

One side of the duke’s mouth rose in a lopsided smile. “The late duke, my father, was prone to duels,” he told Viola, “which were more acceptable at the time than they are now. Since his friends were more likely to be within shouting distance when he had the impulse, he challenged almost all of them.”

“Killed one of them,” Hazel said with relish.

“That is not for general knowledge,” His Grace said.

“I apologize, cuz, but Uncle’s dueling is general knowledge,” Hazel said.

“We don’t want to put off Miss Astley, if you’re hoping that we two beans will become friendly,” Otis said.

He was a born peacemaker. Not unlike herself, Viola realized. But not someone she had any interest in marrying.

“The real question is which of those ladies is right for our duke?” Otis continued. “I don’t mind telling you, Miss Astley, that I’ve put in a bet against Lady Caitlin.”

“She has to be tall,” Hazel said. “A beanstalk, like me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the duke said, glancing at Viola. “I am partial to beans. Whereas Hazel is partial to eccentric earls, according to my uncle.”

“The earl plans to take a wedding trip to Paris,” Hazel said, giggling, “and whilst he is there, arrange to buy a few gargoyles from the Cathedral of Notre-Dame.”

“Less daring than doomed to failure,” Otis observed. “He’s a collector, I gather.”

“Absolutely,” Hazel confirmed. “If Notre-Dame refuses to sell him one, he means to make his way to the top and knock it off and take it away.”

“I did meet him, but he didn’t share his criminal tendencies with me when we were dancing,” Viola said, laughing.

She was pricklingly aware of the duke’s large body next to her. He was no beanstalk. He felt very muscled and solid sitting beside her. Like a stone gargoyle, she thought with amusement. She turned her head to see if she could imagine him glaring out over the city of Paris.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her, warmth deep in his eyes that wasn’t the slightest bit gargoyleish.

“I was imagining you on top of Notre-Dame,” she admitted, before she thought better.

“A noble gargoyle,” Otis said, hooting with laughter.