She’d think of something witty and sophisticated to say to Westbury if they had a moment alone together, as though she were one of her clever, eloquent friends. And then he’d laugh. A real laugh, from his belly, a full-blown chortle. She’d amuse him, and not because of her bumbling or blushing. She’d amuse him with her quick wit. And he’d want to know more, he’d burn to know more about her.

He’d say, Miss Beaton, you’re a most enigmatic creature and I must know more about you. For example, what is your favorite food? Is it gooseberry tart with clotted cream? Do you compose piano sonatas and enter them into competitions under a male pseudonym? And are you fond of reading romantic Gothic novels? I want to know everything there is to know about Viola Beaton . . .

And that’s when the duke in her mind faltered, and sort of faded around the edges, and became transparent, disappearing in a shimmer of wishful mist. Because she couldn’t actually imagine him asking her any of those things.

The truth of the matter was that the Duke of Westbury barely knew she existed, even though he’d been the one to hire her on the recommendation of one of his friends.

When she’d arrived and been introduced, he’d stared at her. I thought you would be the great composer’s son, he’d said with a perplexed look in his eyes. She’d been so afraid he might dismiss her then and there. She’d desperately needed the work. She’d lost her last position when she resisted the lecherous advances of her employer and been dismissed with no reference.

She was most grateful to the duke for hiring her. And he certainly never made any amorous advances upon her. He didn’t even remember her name. On the rare occasions they spoke to one another, he invariably referred to her as Miss Bleating, or Miss Bedlam.

She meant nothing to him. He had no idea of her likes or dislikes, goals or dreams. He saw in her something of utility. A foot soldier in the army of servants and hirelings he employed to maintain this lavish London lifestyle that he couldn’t afford because he’d gambled away the bulk of his fortune.

The last notes rang out and Blanche turned to Viola with a satisfied smile. “I think I’m nearly ready, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Beaton?”

“Indeed. That was much better.”

“Shall I play the Bach concerto now?”

Betsy groaned. “Must you? We’ve only heard it ten billion times. When’s my turn? I’d like to get it jolly well over with.”

“You have to wait your turn, Bets,” said Belinda. “I’m three minutes older than you so I’m after Bernadette.”

Bernadette was surreptitiously reading the book she was hiding under a lace handkerchief on her lap and didn’t comment.