“See that you do. I shall never forgive you if you don’t. You really look terrible, though,” Birdie observed. “I think you should have a bath and a shave before you speak with her.”

West laughed. “I have my orders then.” He kissed the top of her head and they walked back to the house together.

Viola had given him orders, too. She’d said to propose in a more romantic manner.

But first he had some letters to read.

This was going to take some time. And he wanted to do everything right . . . from this moment until he died.

Chapter Thirty-One

One week later

The house Isobel had provided for Viola and her father was a charming cottage on the grounds of Isobel’s aunt’s house in the city of Watford. One day after they’d arrived, the handsome Erard pianoforte from the dower house had been delivered. But there’d been no note accompanying the extravagant gift, and Viola had heard nothing more from West.

She tried not to think of him, or search the papers for news of his engagement. The cottage was a brisk hour’s walk from Westbury Abbey. There was quite a lot of activity on the estate, she’d noticed on her afternoon rambles. It looked as though the roof was being repaired and the tenant cottages rebuilt. Which she took as a sign that West had decided to marry Lady Winifred. Just as she’d told him to.

She’d made a dreadful mistake, her heart informed her daily. But there was no going back now.

She missed West every minute of every day. As she missed his sisters. They would get along without her. The plan had always been to leave her employ after the musicale. Her task was completed.

Their debt to Lord Sprague had been settled with the delivery of her father’s symphony. Her father had agreed not to accept further patronage from Sprague after Viola informed him of what the baron had attempted. Not that her father required the baron’s support anymore. His Symphony no. 10 was already the talk of the town. There were plans for a grand debut with royal patronage, and offers of more support rolling in.

They weren’t wealthy by any means, but they could live a very comfortable life, and Viola would supplement their income with earnings of her own.

She was very nearly finished with the Christmas carol. She’d written the lyrics but the music was giving her some difficulty. It was supposed to be celebratory and joyful, but the ending kept veering into a minor key. And there were teardrops on the ivory keys.

This morning she was determined to pull herself together enough to finish the carol. She shaped the chords with her fingers but her heart wasn’t in it. Her heart was back in London, with West.