“You’re wrong, Your Grace. Love transforms, it heals, and it transports. I’ve seen my friends blossom and thrive under its influence. Love takes your breath away and at the same time it gives you all the room in the world to grow.”

“You’ve lost me, I’m afraid,” the duke drawled.

I never had you. “Your sisters deserve a chance to find love.”

“My sisters will be better off making sensible matches with honorable, unobjectionable men.”

“And what of Miss Chandler? Is she to gain an honorable groom?”

“Have a care, Miss Beaton. My personal choices are none of your affair. I’m trying to do something right for once in my life.”

“But you’re going about it all wrong!”

“I’ll make the decisions I feel are in the best interests of this family. I’ve made too many mistakes, and my bad reputation has harmed my sisters and I plan to turn it all around. The Season is no longer required. I will marry. Blanche and Bernadette will marry, and there’s an end to it.”

“Your sisters must have their balls and their musicale, Your Grace.” She must take a stand. She couldn’t allow him to disappoint those bright, trusting, hopeful young ladies.

“Must they? Because the last time I heard them play the pianoforte or attempt to sing an artful air, they weren’t exactly soloist material. I’m sparing them, and the audience, an evening of misery.”

“Of all the horrible things . . .” Viola sputtered. “If you ever took the time to come and listen to your sisters practicing then you would know they’ve worked very hard and have improved considerably and will be a credit to you.”

“There will be no musicale. Which means your services are no longer required.”

Viola’s jaw clenched so tight she was in danger of cracking a tooth. The duke couldn’t possibly dismiss her after she’d devoted so much time and attention to his sisters and hadn’t even been paid for her time.

Anger and frustration boiled over in her mind. He was lucky she wasn’t holding anything heavy or sharp.

“You can’t sack me, Your Grace,” she ground out. “Because I quit!”

Chapter Five

Viola trudged through a drizzling gray spring rain on the walk from Westbury’s stately mansion to the modest lodgings she and her father occupied. As she walked, a tempest raged in her breast. A great seething maelstrom of emotions.

Outrage. Hurt. Regret.

She never stormed out of rooms unless provoked beyond reason.

She wasn’t given to erratic weather patterns of any kind. Her general outlook was blue skies and tranquil seas. She’d had to be calm and on an even keel with a mercurial genius for a father.