“Ah, but you see I am a duke reformed, ladies. I drink chamomile tea and I read Gothic romances.”

How he could keep a straight face while spewing such tripe was a great mystery.

“My. That’s . . . well, it’s unprecedented, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.” He made a little bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies. My sisters require my attention.” He turned away from them and caught Viola’s eye.

She ducked behind a silk bale.

He knew she’d been listening, of course. Why else would he confess to doing the very things she’d told him that she liked to do?

“Spying on me, Miss Beaton?” he asked, appearing around the side of the stack of silks.

“That’s laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think, Your Grace?”

He chuckled. “Now the whole of society will know I’ve switched from gin to chamomile and from keeping mistresses to reading romances.”

“You should stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop playacting. No one will believe you’ve reformed if you say unbelievable things like that.”

“On the contrary, it’s those vivid details that will lend my reformation an air of authenticity.”

“It’s all a game you’re playing, though, isn’t it? You’re still Wicked Westbury underneath.”

He moved closer. “Very much so. Don’t go thinking you’ve tamed me. I’m playing your reform game, just as you asked me to. You could probably convince me to take a long walk off a short pier if you showed me those dimples while you did it.”

The heat of his gaze pressed her back against the silk. He reached out his hand and she held her breath, thinking he was going to touch her, but he touched the scarlet silk velvet instead.

“This fabric would suit you, Viola. You should have a gown made from it.”

“I’m a spinster. I don’t wear scarlet gowns.”

“You’re no more a spinster than I’m truly reformed. I picture you wearing red. Tight around here.” His gaze dropped to her bosom. “With a low neckline.”

“You picture me?”

“Often. Sometimes in red silk. Sometimes in . . . considerably less.”

“Oh.” She pictured him whenever they weren’t together. Wearing his bedsheets and nothing more. Pulling her down into his rumpled bed.

Having his way with her.

Her body hummed with longing.

“It’s a shame you can’t have the gown made up before the musicale. It would be the perfect performance garb.”

“I’m not performing. That was only a silly wager. You won’t hold me to it.”

“A wager is a wager. I’ll have my payment. Or you’ll pay a forfeit.”

The way he gazed hungrily at her lips told her exactly what he meant by that.

“West?” Blanche stuck her head around the silks. “There you are. We’re ready to leave now.”