“Ladies,” Viola said. “Ladies! Allow your brother to explain. I’m sure he doesn’t mean that the way it sounded.” He’d better not. He couldn’t simply arrange marriages for his sisters without consulting them first. That would be the height of male arrogance and presumption.

“Thank you, Miss Beetle,” he said, without glancing in her direction.

“Beaton,” she muttered under her breath.

“There’s really no explanation required. I’m making an executive decision. You don’t have to prance about at balls, dropping your fans and other such transparent maneuvers. I’ve taken care of everything. It’s much simpler this way. And more economical.”

“Brother,” said Blanche, “am I to understand that you’ve made some marital arrangements on my behalf?”

“No contract as of yet, but two outstanding candidates.” He crossed to the sofa and settled in, a footman immediately bringing him a tumbler of brandy. “When I do something, I don’t do it by half, by God.” He slapped his gloves upon his thigh.

Viola stared at his massive buckskin-encased thigh for a giddy moment or two, her mind reeling, before she brought herself to heel.

“And how did you manage this?” Bernadette asked. “I do hope you haven’t bribed one of your friends to marry me. Or given me away in exchange for a debt.”

“Nothing of the sort, Bernadette. I simply sold my title to the highest bidder. And we are now wealthy beyond belief. Your dowries have been tripled.” He propped his boots up on a table and swigged his brandy. “I’m going to be wed.”

Chapter Three

“You’re to be married, Your Grace?” Viola blurted out. Her elbow hit several piano keys and produced a crash of bass notes. Her heart pinged in a different way, jangling and jarring her from the inside out.

“To an American heiress,” was the nonchalant reply, with a shrug of one large shoulder.

“Which one, Your Grace?”

“Does it matter, Miss Beetle? The one with the wealthiest father.”

“Do you mean Miss Vanessa Chandler?” Viola had memorized the list of potential heiresses Westbury might marry. She wasn’t proud of that fact.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Never conversed with the lady, though I’ve seen her and she’s a beauty. And her father is obscenely rich.”

Miss Chandler was a statuesque woman known for her lustrous auburn hair, fine dark eyes, and utter lack of tact. Last Season she’d caused quite the sensation, nearly sending several matrons into apoplectic fits with her outspoken and outrageous American ways.

“The shocking Miss Chandler?” Blanche said. “You can’t be serious. She’s not a suitable duchess. She’ll make a mockery of the Westbury name!”

The Westbury name was already tarnished to a dull, rusty disreputableness, thanks to the duke. Blanche had a very good point.