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“Of course. Why else has she wormed her way inside the family? She’s not a proper lady, anyone can tell. Her father is that disgraced composer. And who knows who her mother may be?”
Tears stung Viola’s eyes. She hastily donned her gown and replaced her gloves and bonnet.
If she were bold and impetuous like some of her friends, she’d march over and challenge the gossiping ladies, confront them.
But what good would that do? It would only call further derogatory attention to herself and then Blanche and Belinda would know the lies they’d been saying.
They thought she was West’s mistress and was scheming to trap him into marriage.
She may have indulged in some very foolish and naive daydreams but going so far as to imagine herself as a duchess, and mistress of Westbury Abbey? She’d never strayed so far into such laughably implausible territory. At least not with serious intent.
She hurried out of the changing room before the gossips revealed themselves.
“Lady Blanche, I feel a little faint. I’m going home,” she said.
“Let our coachman drive you.”
“I’ll walk. It will clear my head.”
Viola hastened outside, keeping her head low, and set off toward her temporary home. She’d been living in a fantasy world. She’d had no legitimate cause to accompany the ladies on this shopping excursion. She’d only wanted to be close to West.
When she should have been at home, helping her father finish the symphony and composing the Christmas carol. The due date for both was nearly at hand. She should be focusing on her own work, preparing for a future independent of the duke.
Instead, here she was gallivanting about London, ordering fancy gowns which she’d never have an occasion to wear.
Dreaming impossible dreams.
Chapter Eighteen
“Why did you run away without saying goodbye yesterday?” West asked Viola in a low voice as they waited for his sisters to arrive for the musicale. “And you didn’t come to Vauxhall. We missed you.”
He wanted to say thathe’dmissed her. The night at the pleasure gardens had seemed empty and cold without a smile that glowed brighter than lanterns strung in trees. And when the famous fireworks had splashed the night sky they’d been colorless without green eyes to reflect them.
Viola avoided his eyes. “I wasn’t feeling very well. I’m better now.”
He searched her face. “Did something happen at the modiste’s shop? You went to bed early. I came by after Vauxhall but you were already asleep.”
“I was nervous about today’s performance. I want your sisters to shine.”
They stood behind the blue velvet curtains that had been hung in the music conservatory at Westbury House. His sisters would arrive soon wearing fine silks and jewels in their hair.
Viola wore the same simple off-white gownshe’d worn to the ball, this time with a green sash about her waist and a single white rose tucked into her hair. She was as lovely as ever, but something was wrong. Her smile was nowhere in evidence and there were faint mauve shadows under her eyes.
“And shine they will,” West replied, “if only with vigor and pluck. I don’t expect you to have achieved a miracle with Bernadette, Bets, or Belinda, but I know this performance means much to Blanche and Birdie. The last time Blanche performed for a crowd of this size she forgot her place in the music and was mortified. That’s why I hired you.”
“Really? She never told me that.”
“I don’t think it’s something she wants to remember. Today is her way of reclaiming her confidence. She puts on a very convincing show of unflappable composure and serene elegance, but she’s very sensitive and feels things deeply.”
His sisters filed into the backstage area wearing expressions ranging from glum (Betsy) to gleeful (Birdie).
“That horrid Moresby is here.” Betsy kicked the carpet. “I didn’t invite him. Why’s he here? To laugh at me, no doubt. He’ll make fun the whole time I’m playing the blasted harp. I think I’ve come down with the dreaded lurgy. I can’t play. Don’t make me play, brother,” she pleaded.
“What’s this?” West placed the back of his hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever. It’s only an attack of nerves, Bets. You’ll be brilliant. And if not, it’ll all be over soon enough.”
“Easy for you to say,” Betsy muttered.
“Right then,” he said, surveying his beautiful, vibrant sisters. “I can’t wait to hear you play. And Miss Beaton, of course.”
