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“She’s one of my heroes,” said Bernadette. “She and the Duchess of Ravenwood, the intrepid archaeologist.”
Viola smiled at her. “They’re both wonderful women and you would do well to emulate them.”
“I’m beginning to despair of you.” Blanche narrowed her eyes, fixing each of her sisters with a glare in turn. “You must be on your best behavior, and behave like perfect ladies, not dreadful hoydens, isn’t that right, Miss Beaton?”
“Lady Blanche is right,” Viola said.
Betsy groaned.
“She’s right,” Viola continued, “though one may maintain an outward appearance of decorum and propriety while maintaining an inner freedom of thought.”
“Is that what you do, Miss Beaton?” asked Bernadette. “I can’t imagine you being a hoyden in any way. You’re so sweet and accommodating at all times.”
Accommodating. She was that. Like a portmanteau stuffed so full of items that the seams were stretching and beginning to fray and the whole thing was in danger of ripping apart. She was responsible for so many things. She was her father’s caretaker. He was gradually going deaf for undiagnosed reasons and the worse his hearing got, the worse his tempers became.
“You two must promise to behave,” Viola said sternly, speaking to the twins.
“We promise,” Belinda and Betsy said in unison, too glibly for Viola’s liking.
Blanche smoothed her hair and straightened her skirts. “All must be perfect for the musicale. I’ll play the Bach concerto which I happen to know is a particular favorite of Lord Laxton’s and will inspire him to offer for me on the spot.”
“Oh, Blanche.” Viola knew all about pinninghopes and dreams on an unattainable outcome. “Isn’t there anyone else you might consider? It doesn’t appear that Lord Laxton . . .” How could she put this tactfully? “It doesn’t appear that he’s of a mind to marry at the moment.”
“You can forget about Laxton,” a bass voice pronounced forcefully.
Viola nearly started out of her chair. The duke was here. In the room with them. Days too early! She looked a fright, her hair mussed from playing croquet in the gardens with Betsy earlier, her gray gown stained from Bernadette’s disastrous attempt at making cherry cordial to bring to a meeting of her book club.
Maybe he wasn’t really here. Maybe she’d imagined him. She turned her head slightly, only to snap it back to face the pianoforte.
He was here. Every broad-shouldered, blond-haired, blue-eyed, square-jawed inch of him.
Every time she saw him, something went ping inside her heart, as though she were a pianoforte played so forcefully that one of the strings snapped.
Every time she saw him, she was lost. Over and over again.
“West! You’re here!” Birdie jumped up from her chair and ran across the room to embrace him.
He laughed. “How’s my little Birdie today?”
“Bored. But now you’re here and you’reneverboring.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“West,” said Blanche in measured tones. “Why do you have bruises on your face?”
“You should see the other fellow,” the duke joked.
“Were you bare-knuckle boxing?” Betsy asked eagerly, leaving her seat to join her brother by the door.
“Something like that.”
Viola had to acknowledge his presence. She couldn’t sit here frozen forever, staring at the piano keys as if she could disappear between the cracks.
“Your Grace,” she said, and turned toward him, only to knock the music off the pianoforte in a cascade of fluttering white pages. She bent to retrieve the pages and hit her head on the edge of the pianoforte as she came back up.
“Mother of...” she muttered, seeing red stars dancing before her eyes. The pain was intense, but nothing compared to the humiliation she would experience as she recalled this excruciating moment later.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Beetle?” the duke asked.
