Viola’s neck was short, just like the rest of her, and circled by a simple strand of pearls, the only jewelry she possessed. Her stature was too small, and her curves too full, for the current fashion.

Miss Chandler laughed at something Westbury said and swatted his arm playfully with a carved ivory and silver fan.

Viola heard the murmurs of the crowd.

She’s a beauty but so excessively American.

Westbury should have chosen a more suitable duchess . . . although I suppose his wickedness frightened most respectable ladies away and Miss Chandler’s fortune was the deciding factor.

They were something out of a fairy tale, the most arrestingly attractive couple London had ever beheld, both shocking and scandalous in their own ways.

She forced herself to stare at them even though it was like rubbing salt into a wound.

Stare at them, burn the image into your mind, like looking at the sun. They are beautiful. Made for each other. He fair, she dark. He titled, she wealthy beyond belief. They are two halves of a whole.

Her jealousy was irrational and pitiful and must be stamped out ruthlessly like a fire in a dry forest on a hot summer’s day. She wasn’t here to moon over Westbury, she was here for his sisters.

Their official chaperone tonight was one of their elderly spinster aunts, Miss Miriam Delamar, a soft-edged woman who fluttered her bejeweled fingers nervously when she spoke—which was constantly. She’d kept up a steady stream of commentary since they’d arrived, barely pausing to breathe. At least she’d accepted Viola’s presence as companion to the Delamar sisters with approval.

“I’m happy to have the help, Miss Beaton,” she confided as she and Viola stood against the wall, watching the young ladies dance. “Miss Belinda has such high spirits. I fear she’s less than proper at times. Just look at her playing the coquette. Has she slipped the bodice of her gown lower when I wasn’t looking? Good gracious! She’s in danger of showing more than she ought. And isn’t her partner enjoying the sight. If his neck cranes any lower, he’ll topple over and take them both to the floor! At last, the dance is ending. I must go and take Belinda to the retiring room and adjust her costume.”

Aunt Miriam bustled off and Bernadette joined Viola at the wall.

“Have you enjoyed the dancing?” Viola asked her.

“Not particularly. Mr. Lawson, whom West thinks I ought to marry, is a dullard. He doesn’t even know the difference between the species in the order of Hymenoptera.”

“Er, I’m not sure that’s common knowledge.”