He should have just stayed at The Devil’s Staircase. He didn’t belong in ballrooms. Trouble found him because he was wicked. Even with good intentions he’d found a way to ruin everything. He could almost hear his father’s voice in his head, gloating over this latest transgression.

“Go after them, Westbury! This isn’t to be borne!” Lord Pickering, their host, was at his elbow. “I’ll be your second.”

West held up his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be no duel this evening. I don’t fancy risking my neck over an American. That lumberman is welcome to her. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an urgent assignation with a bottle of gin.”

He stalked from the room, turning his back on good intentions, and sympathetic green eyes. Wanting only to be gone.

Chapter Thirteen

Everyone stood in stunned silence. Had something like that really happened in Lady Pickering’s ballroom? With three hundred candles glowing in shimmering crystal chandeliers, an entire army of liveried footmen in attendance, and a lavish arrangement of pink confectionary sweets arranged in the shape of a heart?

Yes. It had happened. And it had happened to Westbury.

Strange bells began pealing in Viola’s mind.

He’s no longer engaged! her heart sang along with the bells.

Silence, foolish heart. This was no cause for celebration. Think of Blanche and her sisters.

She must collect them and leave at once. People were beginning to stir from their shocked trances, and the whispers were growing to a roar.

How could Westbury be engaged to such a common American creature? Shameful!

Wicked Westbury will always cause a scandal.

He should have demanded satisfaction, if not for himself, for King and Country!

The first grand occasion of the Season is ruined. Utterly ruined!

“We must collect the ladies,” she whispered urgently to Aunt Miriam, who still stood with her mouth hanging open.

“Oh yes, of course we must. Oh good gracious. I can’t believe this is happening. What a to-do, what a to-do.”

“Collect yourself, Miss Miriam.” She used her schoolmarm voice; the calm, efficient tones she employed when her father was being difficult. “Follow me.”

She made a beeline for Blanche, looking neither to the right, nor to the left, attempting to ignore the whispers. This could only harm the ladies’ prospects. She gathered the still-stunned Blanche and Belinda, and beckoned to Bernadette, who came running, followed closely by Betsy, who galloped more than ran.

“Now that gave them something to gawk at,” Betsy whispered. “Wish I’d hit that Miss Vanessa Chandler with my cricket ball when I had the chance. How dare she jilt our brother?”

“Hush, Betsy. Now’s not the time.” Viola took Blanche’s arm. “Ladies, we leave at once.”