by Eloisa James
At this moment, Wynter stood up and reached a hand down to help his uncle to his feet, which finally placed him directly in Viola’s eyesight.
His face was more angular than most gentlemen’s; in fact, his features were as harsh as his voice. His heavy-lidded, arrogant look didn’t surprise her, though.
She’d seen that her whole life. Her older stepbrothers were experts at wielding superiority like a hammer. They didn’t mean it, but it was bred-in-the-bone.
He was as big as her brothers too. Rather than his coat hanging gracefully, it was snugly tailored to fit wide shoulders and powerful arms, as if he spent most of his time riding.
She preferred a willowy form.
And he was uncomfortably tall. Not like . . .
Not like the wonderful man with whom she would meet very soon, if they would please take themselves off! If only Sir Reginald would give up this useless argument and realize a ballroom full of ladies awaited his beastly nephew.
“I must be shockingly obtuse,” the duke remarked, “but I fail to see why you think that I would wish to take a mouse to wife.”
Viola made a note of that: “shockingly obtuse.” Generally, Joan did all the impressions at the dinner table but perhaps she would do this one herself.
If the duke had a pair of horns, he could stand in for Beelzebub. He was wearing a wig, but given his dark eyebrows, his hair must be black. He’d stripped off his gloves—another mark against him, because no gentleman took off his gloves at a ball unless he was eating—and his skin was tawny.
She preferred the opposite.
Porcelain skin and celestial blue eyes.
And a sweet nature, she added, smiling despite the situation.
“You always were a stubborn lad,” Sir Reginald grumbled. “The mouse is for you because she won’t want to go into society, don’t you see? Rumor has it she throws up if asked to dance, but that must be wrong, because I saw her circling the floor a while ago.”
“A point in favor of matrimony,” the duke said. “Able to dance without vomiting.”
“My point is that she won’t nag you to go to balls, and yet she’s extremely well connected. She has powerful relations and an excellent dowry.”
Sir Reginald’s analysis wasn’t entirely unreasonable.
But who cared? Even if Viola hadn’t been in love, she would never marry anyone like Wynter.
An angel on one side and Beelzebub on the other: No one in the world would be surprised by her choice.
Except perhaps Beelzebub himself.
She had the distinct impression that His Grace planned to dance once with a lady and meet her next at the altar.
In fact, he thought he was the cat’s meow.
Ha! She made a note of that: perfect for her dramatic rendition of the ducal terror caused by Lady Caitlin’s beady-eyed wig ornament.
“I prefer the other one,” Wynter said dispassionately.
Viola had no interest in him, obviously, but he still made her blood burn with annoyance. She’d like to stick him with one of her wig pins. She might not be a Wilde by blood, but knowing the truth herself, and being dismissed on those grounds, were not quite the same.
Not unrelated, but different.
It was very satisfying to realize that while His Grace could woo Joan all he wanted, Viola—the not-Wilde unworthy of his lofty attentions—would thwart his marital ambitions with a quiet word to her sister.
Or better yet, a lively performance of his arrogant disclaimers.
“You could try to push Otis onto the other one,” the duke said now.
The other one? He meant her! And who was Otis?
“I’ll come talk to you tomorrow morning about that boy,” Sir Reginald said. “He was laicized yesterday. I am displeased that he has been released from Holy Orders, most displeased. For now, I’ll nip into the retiring room and fetch you on the way back. I plan to introduce you to Miss Astley, whether you will or no.”
Or no, Viola thought frantically.
Go back to the ballroom and find your own wife!
“Certainly,” the duke said, suddenly amiable. “Take all the time you wish, Uncle. I’ll be happy to await you here.”
They moved out of Viola’s eyesight but apparently stopped at the door.
“Your father was a difficult man,” Sir Reginald said, a hint of regret in his voice.
The duke didn’t respond.
“I believe Astley was the only friend he had whom he didn’t challenge to a duel.”
“A singular honor,” the duke said. “One devoutly to be wished, given that the late duke killed at least one of those friends in a duel.”
“The man died due to an infection,” Sir Reginald said, clearly pained. “Your father didn’t prick him in the lung.”
“I doubt that was a consolation to his widow.”
“Didn’t have one,” Sir Reginald said. “Good thing too. Otherwise there might have been a real fuss about the matter. Just think about the Astley girl, won’t you?”
“Of course, Uncle,” the duke said.
Viola didn’t need her years of experience with Wilde males to translate his agreement into outright insubordination.
His uncle didn’t reply. Maybe he kicked him a last time in parting.
One could hope.
The duke returned to his seat and stretched out his long legs again.
For two long minutes, there was silence as Viola tried frantically to figure out what to do. Before she could decide, the worst happened.
The door opened again.
“Your Grace!”
Chapter Six
Viola couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
She had sent a note to Mr. Marlowe, imploring him to meet her this evening. Although he hadn’t replied, in a clear sign of his growing affection, he had obeyed her, even at this late hour.
As ever, Viola couldn’t stop herself from delighting in his pure beauty. His profile was Grecian, and his eyes the color of the Aegean Sea.
Not that Viola had seen the Aegean, but her brother Alaric had said it was the bluest sea in the world. Mr. Marlowe’s eyes were a tender, melting blue.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Mr. Marlowe said, dipping into a deep bow.
Wynter stood up and inclined his chin a fraction of an inch. “This is a surprise, Marlowe. One doesn’t expect to see one’s former curate at a ball.”
“I currently have the pleasure of serving as vicar in one of the Duke of Lindow’s livings,” Mr. Marlowe replied, bowing again.
“You travel in lofty circles,” Wynter said. “Forward-thinking ones too, if Lindow invites his vicar to circle the floor. I wasn’t aware that clergy attended this sort of hell-begotten occasion. Though I suppose you have other ideas about Hades.”
“I assure you that I am not attending the ball,” Mr. Marlowe said, a touch of indignation in his voice.
Viola couldn’t help smiling again. Mr. Marlowe’s wife would never have to endure an endless conversation about the newest country dance, nor circle the floor anxiously trying to remember which way to turn.
“Luckily for you,” the duke replied. “What are you doing here? Whether you are attending the ball or no, you are in the Duke of Lindow’s library in the middle of the night. I hardly think that you are searching out a rare volume of sermons for inspiration.”
An edge to his voice suggested there might be something nefarious about Mr. Marlowe’s appearance in the library at this hour.
Viola’s brows drew together. He was horridly distrusting. Just what sort of crimes did he think a man of God might commit?
“His Grace, the Duke of Lindow, brought me to London, or rather, his sister, Lady Knowe, asked me to accompany the family to London,” Mr. Marlowe said. “There is a small chapel attached to the townhouse.” He paused and added uncomfortably, “I am here to offer encouragement and support to the family.”
Viola had a clear view of Wynter’s face, and she knew that he was about to point out that the responsib
ilities of a vicar did not include midnight rendezvous.
Yet if Wynter made a fuss—or even a joke—about encountering clergy at the ball, her father might send Mr. Marlowe back to Cheshire.
As it was, she had counted it the greatest good fortune of her life that Lady Knowe had brought their new vicar to London. If Mr. Marlowe was sent back to Cheshire, he would be far away. An awful thought followed that realization.
What if the duke dismissed him?
Viola’s eyes narrowed. She couldn’t allow that to happen, not when the meeting was her idea.
This was her fault. After she had again told Mr. Marlowe how terrified she was by the ball—and the vicar had again promised her that Providence would provide—she had slipped a note under his door imploring him to meet her. She’d known perfectly well that he was too kind to refuse.
Quickly she slid along the curtain, ducked behind a tall-backed settee, and emerged as if she’d been seated against the wall, unobserved.
“Good evening,” she called.
Mr. Marlowe jumped; their eyes met and she thought she saw a flash of happiness in his. Certainly, she was happy to see him; she couldn’t repress a wide smile.
The duke, on the other hand, turned his head, and impatience crossed his face. “I came here for solitude, but this room is as crowded as the queen’s antechamber,” he said to Mr. Marlowe.
What a pompous fool. As if Mr. Marlowe knew or cared about the queen’s antechamber! He had far more important concerns than the trivialities of polite society.
“Good evening, Miss Astley,” Mr. Marlowe said, bowing as Viola reached his side. She dropped into a curtsy and beamed at him. She couldn’t wait until they could greet each other the way her mother greeted her stepfather: with a kiss.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the duke hadn’t responded to her name.
Mr. Marlowe looked from her to Wynter and visibly registered that they hadn’t greeted each other. “Please allow me to introduce you,” he said with a little gasp.
She’d have to teach him to be less nervous around the peerage. They were just people like anyone else, after all.
“Your Grace, may I present Miss Astley, the Duke of Lindow’s stepdaughter? Miss Astley, this is the most noble Duke of Wynter.”
A case in point: Mr. Marlowe should have presented the gentleman to the lady, not the reverse, because although Wynter was a duke, he wasn’t an aged or particularly important duke. She nodded and dropped into a curtsy, giving the duke a wry smile that didn’t hide either her amusement or her dislike.
“Your Grace,” she said. “What a pleasure to meet a man who has such original ideas about courtship, not to mention the animal kingdom.”
His face appeared completely indifferent, so much so that for a moment she thought perhaps he hadn’t put her name together with the “mouse” his uncle had told him to marry.
“The pleasure is mine,” he said, bowing. “A young lady of enterprise with such unexpected habits. My uncle would be astonished.”
No, he had definitely caught her name.
Mr. Marlowe looked puzzled.
Viola patted his arm, and on better thought, tucked her hand into his elbow. Of course, he was not wearing a cassock—he only did that when he was actually in the chapel—but a lovely hint of incense hung about his coat.
The black fabric brought out his eyes, whereas the duke’s ostentatious garb merely increased his satanic air.
In her opinion.
The duke’s eyes rested for a moment on Viola’s hand. In response she curled her fingers a little tighter and widened her smile. “Mr. Marlowe, did I understand that you used to be attached to one of the Duke of Wynter’s livings as a curate?”
“St. Wilfrid’s was my first posting after my ordination,” Mr. Marlowe said, nodding. “A most pleasant parish.”
“Yes, I agree,” the duke said, his voice still unfriendly. “What I still don’t understand is what you are doing here in the middle of the night.”
“I came to offer support to Miss Astley,” Mr. Marlowe said. “A debut is a taxing event for a young lady with delicate nerves.”
“I requested that he meet me,” Viola clarified, making it clear with a stare borrowed from Aunt Knowe that further commentary would be unwelcome.
Wynter treated her to a raised eyebrow—single, of course!—and proceeded to ignore her silent command.
“I suppose any young lady might be unnerved by a ball thrown in her honor. Though I’m not certain how that translates to a need for ecclesiastical counsel,” the duke said, with the distinct air of someone who was about to insist that vicars ought not to offer said consolation, at least not in the middle of the night.
Viola felt dislike prickling all over her skin. She rushed into speech before he could elaborate on his opinion.
“It is more difficult to enjoy a debut ball when some guests seem to believe that it is not thrown in one’s honor,” she said. “In fact, some people act as if my presence here is not only unnecessary but somehow fraudulent.”
The duke nodded, apparently feeling no need to apologize. As if he were simply agreeing with her.
Fine.
Viola might not have learned to wield an eyebrow in the nursery, but as Joan often pointed out, she had her own ways of defending herself.
“Like myself, His Grace is discomfited by ballrooms,” she said to Mr. Marlowe, putting on a sympathetic expression. “He retreated to the library because his nerves couldn’t take the excitement. You might want to offer prayers that he grows more courageous, Mr. Marlowe. His Grace will never be able to find a wife while hiding in the library.”
Wynter’s eyebrow arched again, but she had stopped being intimidated by that particular weapon years ago. “I have learned to overcome my nerves,” she said, pitching her voice to treacly comfort. “I’m certain if you put your mind to it, Your Grace, you’ll be able to dance more than one measure without running to hide.”
Mr. Marlowe patted Viola’s hand encouragingly. “I assured Miss Astley that if she trusted in Providence, all would be well.” He paused. “And it has been, has it not?”
“One gentleman uttered absurdities as could turn my stomach, but I managed to contain myself.” She couldn’t resist glancing at the duke to make certain he understood that he was the author of those absurdities.
“Excellent,” Mr. Marlowe exclaimed.
“The duke has a more serious affliction than mine,” Viola continued, noting with pleasure the way Wynter’s jaw had tightened. “He apparently envisioned an army of cats rampaging about the ballroom on the verge of attacking him.”
Mr. Marlowe’s brows drew together. “Your Grace, if you’ll excuse the presumption, did you visualize these cats or merely imagine them?”
“Oh, he saw them,” Viola said. “He specifically mentioned the terror he felt on seeing beady eyes fixed on his face.”
“I will pray for you, Your Grace,” Mr. Marlowe said with the ready sympathy he showed everyone, even a duke.
“Thank you,” Wynter said, his tone dangerously soft. But at least he was growling at her, not at Mr. Marlowe.
Viola was enjoying herself. “His Grace is somewhat . . . shall we say . . . mature to be attempting to find a wife,” she continued, giving him an innocent smile. “I’m certain he could use your prayers in that regard as well, Mr. Marlowe.”
The unfriendly glint in the duke’s eyes seemed to worry Mr. Marlowe. He slipped his arm from her grasp. “I shall allow both of you to return to the festivities.” He hesitated. “I am a stranger to the ways of polite society, but I can fetch the duchess, Miss Astley.”
“We are of one mind,” the duke said. “How did a fair young lady—the belle of the ball—find herself in the library unchaperoned at this hour? One might almost say hidden in the library?”
“There was nothing untoward about our meeting!” Mr. Marlowe said hastily. “I offer support to all members of the duke’s household, though I did expect Her Grace to acco
mpany Miss Astley to the library.”
Viola felt slightly humiliated, because it sounded as if her darling Mr. Marlowe didn’t care to meet her alone. He didn’t mean that; he was merely responding to the duke’s critical tone. She’d watched men make fools of themselves in front of her stepfather for the entirety of her life.
The word “duke” had a magic sound in England. People couldn’t stop themselves from groveling.
Not that Mr. Marlowe was groveling. But he was flustered. Anyone would be flustered.
“There’s no need to bother my mother,” she said briskly.
“I am happy to escort Miss Astley back to the ballroom,” the duke said.
“I promise not to jangle your nerves by meowing.”
“The reassurance should be mine,” the duke said. “My understanding is that mice are terrified of cats.”
“It’s too late to claim to be a feline,” Viola told him. “All appearances to the contrary, we do have one thing in common. My nerves go to my stomach, and yours drive you to hide in the library. You too are a mouse.”
Mr. Marlowe looked from Viola to the duke, and she was pleased to see that he appeared a trifle disgruntled. He’d probably looked forward to talking to her as much as she had to him.
“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow at breakfast, Mr. Marlowe,” Viola said to him.
“Surely you will be resting after such a late night and much excitement?” To her delight, Mr. Marlowe seemed endearingly worried about her health.
“I am always up at dawn,” Viola said. It wasn’t precisely true, but ever since the vicar had told her that he rose every morning at five to say morning prayers, she had been asking her maid to wake her earlier than normal. She added, more truthfully, “Aunt Knowe is a great believer in breakfast and insists that the family attend no matter how late we went to bed.”
“Marlowe,” the duke said, inclining his chin the quarter of an inch that he apparently accorded those he considered beneath him.
Mr. Marlowe bowed again and walked quickly to the door, stopping to hold it open.
