“Miss Beaton has agreed to have a gown made from this red silk velvet,” West said, lifting the roll of cloth.

Viola struggled to calm her wildly beating heart and wipe the guilty look from her face. Blanche didn’t seem to notice.

“How lovely! It will suit you, Miss Beaton.”

After the silk warehouse they visited the haberdashers, and then made their way to a modiste’s shop.

“I’ll leave you ladies to your fittings,” West said, lifting his hat. “I see one of my friends across the street.”

He walked away and Viola was finally able to breathe again.

“I’m going to help choose a pattern for your gown, Miss Beaton,” Belinda said.

“A simple pattern, please. I’m not a grand or a fanciful person.”

“It must have a square neckline,” said Belinda. “It will make your neck look longer. And short-capped sleeves will have the same effect for your arms.”

Viola barely paid attention as Belinda discussed the details of her gown with the modiste, and Viola was measured and a pattern was cut and pinned.

Did West truly picture her, think about her, the way she thought about him?

She was still mulling his revelation over in her mind as she moved back to the changing rooms to don her old gown.

A shop assistant pulled the curtain closed.

“Who is that woman with the Delamar sisters?” she heard a female voice ask from the next changing room over.

“Miss Viola Beaton, I believe.”

“Is she a relation? A governess?”

“Their music teacher.”

“Then why is she accompanying them shopping? And did you see? The duke bought her a length of red silk velvet. And she’s to have a new gown made up at his expense.”

“I know! She must be his mistress. There’s no other explanation.”

Viola stiffened. She didn’t recognize the voices.

“How shocking! Keeping his mistress next door to his sisters. Do you think she’s angling for a scandalously inappropriate match?”

“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.