She could touch him if she wanted to. Feel him, warm and solid. His thigh nearly touching hers. She could kiss him.

His gaze smoldered, heating her skin. He wanted to kiss her, too. She knew it in the same way she’d known that he was lying about being satisfied with a loveless marriage of convenience.

He wanted to kiss her.

But he was promised to another.

She dropped her eyes to the piano keys. He shifted away from her.

“Oh, I nearly forgot to give you this.” He pulled a small package from an inner pocket. “This is for your father. A special shell-type auricle hearing device made of thin metal and ivory by F.C. Rein and Sons. I was told it could aid his hearing.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, that’s very kind.” And wholly unexpected.

“Good night, Viola.” He left swiftly, there one moment, and gone the next, leaving her cold. Confused.

No confusion. Nothing unclear about the situation.

He was promised to another.

And she had promised her friends that she was in control of her heart.

She would attend the ball tomorrow and ensure that the Delamar sisters had a wonderful, safe, and carefree evening.

She’d ignore Westbury as best she could.

Though if she caught a glimpse of him dancing with Miss Chandler, it would only serve to drive the final nail into the coffin of this doomed, delusional desire.

Chapter Twelve

Westbury was impossible to ignore.

Everywhere Viola looked in Lady Pickering’s elegant ballroom, there he was, the stern, understated black-and-white evening attire he wore serving to emphasize the impressive width of his shoulders and the long, lean lines of his body.

He was a fallen angel on the prowl, halo of golden hair and the devil glinting in his eyes.

He was wicked, he was trouble, and he was beautiful.

And betrothed.

Miss Vanessa Chandler was a bewitching creature. Always in graceful motion, set to bold music, her hair a deep auburn shade and her lips vermillion, brown eyes bright and gaze vivacious. Garbed in a gown of white satin with a silver net overlay that sparkled like starlight with every sinuous movement, she captured and held every gaze in the room.

Next to Miss Chandler’s shimmering, silvery flute of a presence, Viola felt like an inelegant French horn that had been left out in the rain and had rusted until the only sound it produced was a waterlogged croak.

She fingered the worn ecru muslin of her gown which had seen its best days five years ago. She’d been so pleased with the new gold satin sash she’d purchased to tie around her waist, and the matching gold ribbon she’d threaded through her upswept ringlets. Now they seemed drab and pointless compared with the real silver netting adorning Miss Chandler’s statuesque figure, and the astoundingly large diamonds glittering around her swan’s neck.