Page 21 of Say Yes to the Duke

“Because you were hiding in the library, waiting for the vicar?” His voice was velvety smooth and amused.

She cast him a look of real dislike. He was probably the sort of fellow who would go back to his club and make fun of her.

His opinion of her didn’t matter, Viola told herself. What he said to his friends about her was unimportant as well.

Mr. Marlowe had been kind enough to meet her and to offer his support, although he had to rise with the dawn. Surely that was a sign that his affection for her was growing, if not turning to love.

“Perhaps you should return to the library and wait for Sir Reginald,” she said, ignoring Wynter’s question. It was self-evident that they would have been a wretched match, even if he hadn’t already declared her unsuitable. “I shall be perfectly fine returning to the ballroom myself.”

“My uncle won’t be surprised that I didn’t wait for him,” the duke said indifferently.

“In that case, why did you promise to do so?”

“As you undoubtedly overheard while lurking behind the curtains, my plan was to wait in the library until it was time to dance with Lady Joan.”

That was the final straw. It wasn’t as if she had wanted to eavesdrop on his insults.

She came to a halt and drew her hand out of his arm. “Even for a duke, you are exceptionally rude,” she informed him. “Your uncle sought you out in the library in an effort to help you find a wife, and you clearly need his assistance. Despite his kindness, you didn’t wait for him.”

“No, I didn’t,” the duke stated, looking down at her with a wry smile. “Will it give you an even worse opinion of me to learn that it didn’t occur to me?”

“My opinion of you is irrelevant,” Viola observed.

“Perhaps, but you are sharing it with such enthusiasm.”

That was fair.

“If I left without dancing with your stepsister, I’d have to put on this ludicrous coat and go to another ball,” the duke added.

She glanced at his coat. It was fashioned from lilac silk and embroidered up the front and waistcoat with cabbage roses. “Gaudy but not entirely tasteless. You are a duke. You need to dress to your station, enabling the army of ladies lying in wait to know instantly who you are when you enter a room.”

“‘Gaudy’?”

“Would you prefer ‘extravagant’?”

“Apparently, I am a casualty of my lack of interest and my valet’s questionable taste.” His voice was deep—and amused. “Would you consider your gown its opposite?”

Viola and Joan were both dressed in white, their gowns explicitly designed to strike a balance between demure and ducal.

“The pearls could be said to be extravagant,” Viola allowed.

“You could snip them off and buy yourself a country estate,” the duke agreed.

Had his eyes lingered on her bosom? Viola’s finest feature had been shaped by a corset that hugged her curves and presented her breasts to the world in a manner that had almost distracted the young earl out of his obsession with gargoyles earlier in the evening.

Almost.

But no, the duke’s eyes were fixed on her face.

“You will have to attend at least one more ball,” Viola told him. “Joan is as unsuited to be your wife as I am.”

“I hadn’t met either of you before tonight,” he said, sounding not in the least ashamed.

Was that supposed to be an excuse?

An explanation?

Music could be heard from the ballroom, but Viola could see guests drifting out of the door toward the dining room, where a supper was to be served before they all returned to their own houses. She began walking again, a little faster.