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Lord Poplar—Poppy—had been a step from her side, but he turned away with a rueful smile.

“What are you doing?” Viola asked Wynter in a whisper. “You should only dance twice with the lady whom you are planning to court!”

“I enjoy dancing with friends,” he answered. A gleam of humor shone in his eyes. “I dislike dancing with strangers, and it’s not as if I can dance with Otis.”

“Surely one young lady took your fancy?” Viola asked.

“It is possible.” There was a look in his eyes—

“Not me!” she said, frowning at him. He had an eyebrow raised, but when she looked at it, he stopped.

The duke had a brooding, rawboned face, but it transformed when he smiled.

Viola could feel her cheeks glowing, and she instinctively looked away, feeling flustered and uncomfortable.

And slightly mad, as if she were on the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump off. Of course she wouldn’t jump. She was someone who was attuned to danger above all. Who avoided powerful men. Who was—perhaps not in love with a vicar, but—

Could it be that she had chosen Mr. Marlowe because he was unthreatening?

She looked back at the duke, and discovered that he’d stopped smiling, but he was still looking at her. Waiting.

She got the feeling he wasn’t used to waiting for anything.

Of course, dukes never waited. That would imply that they put someone else before themselves: someone else’s wishes or needs above their own.

Years of feeling that she was insignificant rushed into her mind and stiffened her backbone. She must be misreading the situation.

The music drew to a close, and she dropped into a deep curtsy. The duke bowed and bent to her ear. “May I pay you a call tomorrow?”

She gulped. Words fluttered around in her head and refused to line up in proper order. His eyes searched hers in the silence, and that devastating smile appeared again, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making him . . .

Irresistible.

“Or take you for a carriage ride?”

“I think it would be better if you spent time with a young lady whom you might woo,” Viola said.

“Viola,” Joan called.

She dropped into another curtsy, forgetting she’d already done so.

When Viola raised her head, the look in the duke’s eyes made her feel as if her skin was too tight for her body.

There was a wordless moment in which they just looked at each other until Viola pivoted on her heel and hurried toward the door.

Chapter Eleven

By the end of the week, the Duke of Wynter had sent several bouquets of violets and paid two morning calls, both of which Viola had avoided by running up the stairs the moment his card was presented by the butler.

“You cannot avoid him at dinner tonight,” Joan pointed out gleefully. She was absolutely delighted by the fact that the most eligible bachelor of the Season seemed to be making a determined effort to woo Viola. No matter how Viola protested that she would make a terrible duchess, Joan had begun dropping into deep curtsies at the slightest pretext, addressing Viola as “Your Grace.”

In fact, to Viola’s horror, the younger Wildes had taken up the practice, and she couldn’t even pop her head into the nursery without Erik bowing until his head almost touched his knees while chortling himself sick.

Tonight they were bid to dinner at Sir Reginald’s townhouse, an invitation that explicitly included Mr. Marlowe, and apparently Miss Pettigrew and her mother as well. Viola wanted to attend, of course, since Mr. Marlowe would be there. Viola’s mother had promptly sent her regrets, and Aunt Knowe was again enlisted as chaperone, although she told them flatly that she meant to stay on the other side of the room from Mrs. Pettigrew.

“Once you’re a duchess, you’ll be able to refuse invitations with impunity,” Joan said mischievously.

Viola turned away from the mirror and shook her head. “I’ve told you a million times that the duke isn’t truly interested in me.”