Viola had a compulsion that wasn’t as visible and didn’t have such bad consequences but was, in its own way, equally as destructive. She couldn’t stop thinking about Westbury.

But she was most certainly not secretly in love with him.

Even though every time she saw him, she stammered and blushed and generally made a complete ninny of herself. And even though once, when she’d stayed over at the house because Birdie had a toothache, she’d been rushing down a hallway and she and the duke had accidentally collided and his strong arms had wrapped around her, holding her close against his body.

The blue of his eyes had swallowed her whole. The heat of his body, his intimate embrace, had set her body and mind aglow. Those few seconds in his arms had inspired her to write a sonata. She’d wanted to capture the thudding beat of her heart, the music that had swelled in her mind, the way she’d swayed into him, prolonging the moment, holding the note until at last she had to breathe and—

“Miss Beaton?”

Viola crashed back into the room with a start, her heart beating wildly, her mind scrambling. “Yes, Lady Blanche?”

“Will it do?”

“You’ve achieved a remarkable accuracy.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you could infuse more emotion into the music, what you’re feeling as you play has a way of coloring the music, of breathing life into it. The final movement must be played with feeling.”

Blanche tilted her head. “I’m not really feeling anything. I’m concentrating on playing each note at precisely the right time.”

“Try to lose yourself a little more. Let the music have its way.”

Blanche gave her a blank look. “I’ll try.”

“Play the final movement again.”

As Blanche began the final Alla Turca movement, Viola’s heart skipped and danced in time with the famous percussive march. Try as she might to exert control over her heart, she was in an uproar thinking about the duke being here, in this very room, to watch his sisters perform.

The unmarried ladies in attendance would be watching the duke like birds of prey.

His sanctioned public appearances were so infrequent that this chance to corner him for conversation and flirtation had generated much anticipation and speculation.

Was the duke finally thinking of reforming, settling down, and taking a bride?

Viola had to confess that she’d speculated on the subject more than was prudent for the impoverished daughter of a struggling musician who had resigned herself to a spinster’s life.

Perhaps he’d arrive early and catch Viola setting out the sheet music. She intended to wear her one and only presentable gown, though it was sadly out of fashion. She’d allowed herself the indulgence of purchasing a new ribbon for a sash, and one for her hair, in a deep shade of gold to set off her green eyes.