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“I, er,” said Viola. “I’m not certain that I have as much influence as you think I—”
“It’s all settled, Miss Beaton,” said Blanche, her face calm and resigned. “You must convince our brother to come home and cause no further scandal tonight. I simply couldn’t bear it.”
“Yes, please do find my nephew and make him come home,” urged Aunt Miriam. “My nerves can’t stand any more bad news this evening.”
Blanche took Lord Flanders’s proffered arm and the ladies set off, leaving Viola to face the daunting prospect of finding a jilted duke and convincing him to steer clear of further scandal.
She’d try the garden first.
It was a warm midspring evening with a soft yellow moon hanging gently in the sky. The air was scented with roses. Candles hung in globes from the trees, illuminating the white stone footpath that took her deeper into the garden.
The ball had resumed and she could see couples dancing and laughing through the windows.
If this were a setting in a novel it would be quite romantic, she reflected. The wallflower walking down the garden path for a moonlit assignationwith a handsome duke, her heart beating a staccato rhythm.
This had nothing to do with romance. She had a duty to perform. That was all.
“Your Grace,” she called softly. “Westbury.”
A gruff, groaning sound turned her head. She would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. He was seated on a white marble bench, golden head bent, and shoulders shaking.
Perhaps Belinda had been right. He might feel the shame of the jilting, or the loss of the marriage settlement and the reinstatement of financial ruin, so keenly that he was weeping.
He wouldn’t want her to see him crying. She hovered nearby, trying to decide the best course of action. She must comfort him. It really wasn’t his fault, after all.
“Your Grace.” She touched his shoulder. “It’s me, Miss Beaton.”
His shoulders heaved and he emitted a strangled noise somewhere in between a snort and a grunt.
Poor duke. He was overcome by emotion. Should she... hug him? If he were one of her friends she would gather him into her embrace and offer her bosom for comfort.
Absolutely not.
No offering of bosoms. If promenading with him during a quadrille had filled her head with impossible longings, she most certainly couldn’t throw her arms around him.
“Your Grace.” She patted his shoulder. “I’m here to fetch you home.”
He raised his head, but instead of tears shining in the moonlight, he broke into a mischievous grin. “D-did you see that?” he asked, chortling loudly. He slapped his knee. “‘Oh, you’re all dainty and graceful are you?’” He laughed even harder, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.
“Are youlaughing, Your Grace?”
“I’m experiencing euphoric relief. I’m so very happy that I don’t have to marry that woman or spend any more time with her ambitious mama.”
“Well! This is no laughing matter,” Viola said in her clipped schoolmarm tones. “Let’s get you home. Your sisters have already left with Aunt Miriam and Lord Flanders as escort.”
“You simply can’t invent a moment like that. It was something out of a French farce.”
“You’re clearly hysterical.”
“I’m free again.” He jumped up from the bench, blue eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Didn’t I engage you for a dance, Miss Beaton?” He held out his hand. “Please do me the honor.”
“What, now? Your mind’s addled. I’m not going to dance with you out here in the garden while the assembled arbiters of propriety are dissecting the scandal of the Season. A Season which had only just begun, let me remind you.”
“If you won’t dance with me, come with me to The Devil’s Staircase. I don’t feel like going home. Let’s live a little. We’re young, beautiful, and free as birds.”
Those seriously inappropriate bells began ringing in her mind again.He thinks I’m beautiful, they rang out.
“You’ve gone mad,” she said testily. “I most certainly will not accompany you to that den of iniquity. I’ve been there briefly, with a friend, and it was decadent and depraved, stuffed with red velvet chaises, men with insolent eyes, and buxom barmaids.”
