Bernadette nodded approvingly. “As he should. He can afford it since he’s marrying Miss Chandler. Many of his debts have already been settled. And he’s been throwing money at us.”

“I have a whole new wardrobe!” Belinda cried. “I modeled my gowns after Miss Chandler’s. She’s very fashionable and beautiful, even if she’s dreadfully American.”

“I heard what you lot did to her when she visited. That was very badly done of you,” Viola scolded.

“I didn’t mean to hit the ball through the window,” Betsy protested.

“How was I to know she’d be insulted by the idea of her gown being the same color as a dung beetle?” Bernadette shrugged. “It was meant as a compliment.”

Viola tried not to smile and failed. “I’ve missed you.”

“We’ve missed you!” Birdie encircled Viola’s waist with her arms and placed her head on her shoulder. “Never leave us again.”

Viola’s smile faltered. She didn’t want to think about that day. She was only their hired staff, after all. They weren’t her family, as much as she’d love them to be.

And the duke was marrying an heiress, as she’d always known he would someday. The thought was like accidentally touching a boiling hot kettle, causing fresh pain every time she remembered the fact. The pain would dull with time. She had no business caring one way or the other. He was only doing what dukes must do. Marry. Miss Chandler wasn’t his social equal, but she’d make him wealthy.

“Now then, we haven’t a moment to lose,” she said briskly, pushing thoughts of the duke away. “The first ball of the Season is tomorrow which means the musicale is close at hand!”

West had never had a fiancée before. He was beginning to heartily regret the acquisition.

Fiancées of the very pampered and very American variety expected to be courted in grand and public fashion, something which West wasn’t prepared to do.

He and Miss Chandler had been placed at the most visible table in Gunter’s Tea Shop, Berkley Square. Every passerby stopped to gawk at them.

Small wonder. Miss Chandler was wearing a vibrant crimson-and-green-striped gown with voluminous puffed sleeves ornamented by an unfortunate combination of crimson bows dotted with emeralds.

Miss Chandler pursed her carmine lips. “You must present me with fifty red roses tomorrow before the ball.”

“Fifty?”

“Not enough? You’re right. Not nearly enough. I must have . . .” She raised her finger. “I must have one hundred red roses.”

“Don’t think I can carry that many,” he muttered.

“Bring footmen. Make a parade of it. I want to be showered in roses.”

“You’ll be smothered by roses. Buried by ’em. No one will be able to see it’s you under all those petals.”

“They will see, and they will know.”

“What will they know?”