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She’d asked him for another kiss, confirming his inflated opinion of himself. How very embarrassing. He wasn’t anything like the duke she’d invented in her mind. That gallant and attentive gentleman would never have kissed her and then turned it into a victory for rogues.
Hold on to this indignation and anger. Nurse it. Feed the flames. It was easier to be angry at him than to face the other forbidden emotions crowding her mind and heart.
He was arrogant and heartless and she could have nothing more to do with him than the dictates of their professional relationship prescribed. No more calling him West and going to his rooms at night.
And absolutely, positively never again would she kiss that man!
With her hair knotted tightly at the nape of her neck, and a collar that buttoned all the wayup her throat, she was restored to order. The final touch was a white lace cap pulled down over her ears. Now she was a never-to-be-kissed-again spinster.
She greeted her father at the breakfast table and buttered a roll to eat with her tea.
“How was the ball last night?” her father asked, placing the shell-shaped metal sound collectors of the auricle hearing device the duke had given him on either side of his head and fitting the ivory earpieces into his ears.
“Disastrous. The duke was publicly jilted by the American heiress.”
“Ha.” Her father took another helping of eggs. “Plenty of fish in the sea for a duke.”
True. But not all the fish had money and social connections enough to save Wicked Westbury.
Her father glanced at her slyly. “He’s a handsome fellow, the duke.”
“Undoubtably.” Viola spread more butter on her roll, determined to remain unperturbed and buttoned-up.
“And you’ve been spending quite a lot of time with him.”
“With his sisters, you mean.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Am not.”
“That’s more butter than roll now,” her father pointed out.
Viola glanced down. She’d spread a good inch of butter on the bread. “I like it that way.” She choked down a bite, the rich butter leaving a film inside her mouth like the aftertaste of her lies.
“Viola,” her father said warningly. “You’re hiding something from me.”
“Of course not.” Time to deflect this conversation away from her. “How is the symphony coming along?”
“The finale is giving me no end of misery.” He set down his fork and clutched at his shock of white hair, which was always standing on end. “It’s a cantata, a choral fantasy, and I want it to be on a much grander scale than anything I’ve done before. I can hear the choir singing, Viola. I can hear them but when I try to capture it... it’s a symphony within a symphony and it plays hide-and-seek with me, it runs away, just out of reach. I must get it right!”
He was becoming agitated, his hands grasping at the air as if he held a baton, his face clouding over, the muscles of his jaw working.
She went to him, clasping his hand. “You’ll get it right, Papa. I have faith in you.”
He calmed beneath her soft touch, his shoulders stopped trembling, and the wild look left his eyes.
“My Viola.” He squeezed her hand. “What would I do without you?”
“Come,” she said. “Let’s go into the music room and you can show me the beginning of the finale and we’ll see if we can chase it down.”
She wasn’t due to teach a music lesson until later that morning. She was worried about the young ladies. Blanche had been so quiet last evening, and Belinda so distraught.
She had time to help her father. Though when she’d find the time to work on the Christmas carol commission she didn’t know.
She was mostly happy to be the amanuensis who transcribed his music, who made him hot tea, and kept him fed and clothed when he worked on his music day and night, consumed by the creative process. Most days she was happy to be the one who helped facilitate the birth of his creative brilliance.
And then there were the days when her own music called to her, asking to be written, begging to be born. She’d try to find time this evening to work on the carol. She hadn’t found a poem to use and had decided to attempt to write lyrics of her own.
