Viola nearly burst out laughing at the pained look on West’s face.

“You know I wouldn’t have been caught dead anywhere near these places a few weeks ago, right?” he whispered to her through gritted teeth.

“I’m well aware of that fact, Your Grace. It’s only what you deserve.”

“And then Vauxhall Gardens,” Belinda said. “I’m so excited!”

“Hush, Belinda,” said Blanche as they entered the silk warehouse. “People are staring.”

“They’re staring at West.” Belinda linked her arm through his. “The question on everyone’s lips is which heiress you’ll propose to. You must select a bride without delay, dear brother. I should like to continue in such finery.”

“Your wickedness has been forgiven and forgotten, brother,” Blanche said. “And the jilting has now become a mark in your favor. The papers are painting you as a duke wronged. It’s practically a matter of patriotism. Your jilting has elicited sympathy and warm sentiments in the breasts of beautiful ladies across the kingdom.”

“Miss Beaton, can you account for the vagaries of haute society? They think I’m wicked no longer.”

“I’m sure they couldn’t be more wrong,” she replied.

“Oh no, West has turned over a new leaf. He’s a new man.” Belinda led him toward the rows of silk and velvet fabrics. “Tell me, which heiress do you favor? Lady Winifred? Lady Gorham?”

“I shan’t know until I see what gifts they bring me today,” he said jokingly. “They’re courting me. One of the Miss Comstocks told me that my eyes were the color of delphiniums yesterday evening.”

Viola rolled her eyes. “As if you’re not conceited enough already,” she mumbled under her breath.

“What was that, Miss Beaton?” he asked, his voice rumbling with laughter.

“Ladies don’t court gentlemen, Your Grace.”

“Oh, but they do.”

“My goodness,” said Blanche. “Half the ton is here.”

“They must have seen Mr. Sutter’s advertisement in La Belle Assemblée the same as we did—they’re here to purchase his fine silk velvets before the price goes up. Hurry, we must see if he has the pale peach hue I require.” Belinda dragged West toward the shimmering rows of fabrics.

Viola lingered on the edge of the room. She wasn’t shopping. Her serviceable gray gowns were all she required.

She watched as several lovely young ladies clustered around West, asking his opinion about the fabrics. They were openly courting him, just as he’d said. Of course, they were going about it all wrong. Viola knew how to court a scandalous duke.

It started with secret midnight kisses . . . and ended in . . . it didn’t end in anything. She wasn’t courting him. He wasn’t gazing tenderly at her.