Bernadette sighed heavily. “I know. I’m promised to Lord Darby for this dance. I was rather hoping he’d developed a sudden case of dysentery.”

“Bernadette,” Viola said sternly. “You didn’t slip anything into Lord Darby’s punch, did you?”

“While I certainly could list multiple ways of incapacitating potential dance partners, I promised you that I’d be on my best behavior and therefore,” she sighed tragically, “I will dance.”

“Here’s Lord Darby now, I presume.”

Viola smiled at the look of misery on Bernadette’s face as she was led away by the eager Lord Darby. Bernadette wasn’t ready for romance. Perhaps she never would be. Several members of Viola’s club for ladies had chosen solitary lives of scholarship.

Miss Chandler had a cluster of gentlemen about her who didn’t seem in the least bit deterred by her engagement to Westbury. They swarmed like bees around her honeyed smiles, perhaps wanting her all the more now that she was off the market.

She wasn’t off the market yet. Not until the wedding happened. And weddings were sometimes canceled. Although this one must go on, because Westbury had already been spending the marriage settlement and the young ladies must have their dowries.

Miss Chandler thrived on being the center of attention. She pouted if any of the gentlemen ceased their attentions for even one moment. She didn’t seem to mind that Westbury was nowhere in sight.

Where was he?

“You’re not dancing, Miss Beaton?” a low voice asked at her elbow.

Viola whirled around to find the duke had snuck up on her while her attention was trained on Miss Chandler. She hoped he hadn’t noticed how intently she was observing his fiancée. “Of course I’m not dancing, Your Grace. You didn’t hire me to dance. You hired me to watch over your sisters.”

“You want to dance, though,” he observed, ducking his head a little to meet her gaze.

“I don’t.”

“You lie. Your foot is tapping in time to the music.”

She glanced down. “Involuntarily. I’m a musician. I keep time with music.”

“I think you want to be on the dance floor joining in the fun. Wallflower doesn’t suit you. You’re far too merry and bright.”

“You make me sound like the description of a yuletide celebration.”

“Precisely. You’re a flickering, dancing flame. A hot mug of spiced cider with brandy.” His gaze intensified. “A kiss under the mistletoe.”

A heated flush crept up her neck. Did he think about kissing when he looked at her? Because that’s really all she ever thought about when she stood this close to him.

Close enough to see the faint shadowing of whiskers along his strong jawline. Smell the scent of his musky cologne. Feel the charged atmosphere that crackled around him, pulling her in, making her long to touch him.

Did he feel it, too?