by Eloisa James
“I’m so glad I’m moving here, the better to enjoy every moment,” Otis chortled. “A vicarage embellished with blue velvet is no competition.”
“Are you comparing my future wife to upholstery?”
Otis’s grin covered his whole face. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!”
“I foresee no entertainment,” Devin said in a quelling tone.
“I would be very surprised were that true,” Otis said gleefully. “You did just say that Greywick wasn’t allowed to ‘have Viola,’ otherwise known as Miss Astley?”
Devin frowned. “I didn’t phrase that very well. I know Greywick. Look how he’s decided Lady Joan won’t do, merely because of the possibility that her mother was unfaithful. He’s a decent fellow, but a prude at heart. He would trample Viola.”
“A shrinking violet in the shade, is she?”
“No.” Devin stopped, unable to express himself. Viola wasn’t meek, though she was clearly retiring. She was funny and sweet. Brave.
In love with the vicar.
“Duke or no, young ladies are not yours for the having or taking,” Otis said, his voice unexpectedly firm. “Any woman who marries you simply because of your title is not a woman with whom you should spend fifty years.”
Devin thought about pointing out that matrimony was a matter of convenience and exchange of property—at least, that was clearly the kind of arrangement his parents had made—and decided against it. His uncle Reggie and aunt Margaret had had a very different union. The Murgatroyd family did not fit the mold.
“You’re going to have to woo her,” his cousin said, displaying a romantic streak that probably stemmed from his parents’ unusual marriage.
“Dukes don’t woo,” Devin informed him. “We . . . don’t.”
“You haven’t a chance of winning one of the Duke of Lindow’s daughters without wooing her,” Otis retorted. “Don’t you know anything about the family, Dev?”
Devin gave it a moment’s thought. “The duke has had three duchesses and an untold number of children. I met Horatius, the duke’s eldest, before he drowned. I didn’t like him. There was that ridiculous play, Wilde in Love. I heard about it, but never attended. I remember my father ranting that Lindow ought to horsewhip the second duchess for adultery, but Father died before the lady fled the country and Lindow was granted a divorce.”
In short, just the sort of disorganized family structure that he most disliked. Lindow couldn’t have anticipated his first wife’s death, of course, but his second wife was an object lesson in choosing a duchess who understood the obligations that came with the title: to wit, marital fidelity.
Binsey nipped into the room with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Otis accepted a glass and knocked it back as if he were dying of thirst. Devin took his and put it to the side. He didn’t find that mathematics and wine were good companions, and hopefully at some point he’d get back to the equation he had been working on.
“The Duke of Lindow adores every single one of his daughters, including his stepdaughter,” Otis said, getting up and pouring himself another glass. “He married for the third time specifically in order to give his children a mother. Of course, he had three more with the current duchess, but the fact remains that he puts family above anything else. He’s famous for it.”
“I am an excellent marital prospect,” Devin pointed out, starting to feel somewhat testy.
“Next you’re going to offer to show me your excellent teeth,” Otis said, leaning back in his chair and balancing his champagne glass on his stomach. “What about when you have daughters, Dev?”
“What about it?”
“What if you managed to convince Miss Astley to take you, and the two of you had a daughter?”
“That’s an absurd thought. I scarcely know the woman, and expressing concern about the fact that she wouldn’t be an appropriate match for Greywick does not mean that I necessarily want her myself.”
“You can delude yourself all you want,” his cousin said. “Just do me the favor of imagining a daughter as shy as Miss Astley—not that I’ve met her, but that’s her reputation.”
Viola’s child would have masses of hair, and beautiful hazel eyes. He could picture her anxiety at the idea of a debut ball. Perhaps a feeling that would curdle her stomach and lead her to hide behind curtains.
Viola seemed to be very familiar with the library curtains.
Without warning, a protective surge came over him, so strong that he clenched his jaw.
“See?” Otis said. “The duke isn’t going to give his daughter away to any suitor who comes along, you ass. You’re going to have to win Miss Astley’s hand, and the only way you’re going to be able to do that is if you listen to me.”
“Listen to you?” Devin was reeling inwardly. He didn’t listen to his younger cousin, or his uncle, for that matter.
But more importantly . . .
What the hell?
He’d only known the woman for five minutes. Perhaps a half hour.
“I don’t want to marry Miss Astley,” he said curtly. “It’s merely that the ball was extremely crowded, and she was the only lady with whom I spent significant time.”
Otis snorted. “Clearly you found time to chat with Lady Caitlin Paget, because at the club last night they were taking bets on the two of you. I leapt at the odds against, at one hundred to one, because I met her last year at one of my mother’s afternoon parties. I wouldn’t let that happen to you.”
Devin raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t let that happen?”
“Not even if I was still in the vicarage,” Otis reassured him. “I’ve met Lady Caitlin at St. Wilfrid’s any number of times, since she runs the Sunday school. The girl’s potty about animals. Always talking about how adorable kittens are. I wouldn’t let you make a mistake like that.”
Devin had always thought—on the rare occasion that he considered the matter—that he was lucky to have been an only child. There was no one to say with a scowl, as Viola had said of Joan, I won’t allow you to marry her.
It seemed he was wrong.
Otis threw back his second glass and got himself to his feet again. “I’d better take off. I have to go back to the vicarage and bathe before my man packs up my trunks.”
“More than one trunk? How much clothing do you have?”
“My friends used to jest about me being a ‘man of the cloth,’” Otis said. He was on his way to the door when he paused. “You’ll need to put out a call for another vicar right away.”
“I have someone in mind, but I’d prefer that you followed up with the man,” Devin said. “Offer him an excellent salary.”
Otis blinked at him. “Did I miss the moment when you turned into a churchgoing parishioner?”
“I’m not opposed to churchgoing.”
“But you rarely do.”
“I went to your ordination.”
“Where in heaven’s name did you meet a vicar?” Otis asked, abandoning the question of Devin’s ecclesiastical attendance.
“His name’s Marlowe, and he was a curate at St. Wilfrid’s for two years,” Devin said. “He left shortly before you moved in. I want him back. He’s a good man.”
He was.
Marlowe wasn’t the right man for Viola, and he needed to leave the Lindow townhouse, where he was on tap to offer consolation for everything from a stubbed toe to an upset stomach.
Otis shook his head. “Here I thought you left the business of duking to your underlings, and all this time, you’ve been worrying about your parishioners. I underestimated you, cuz. I’ll say as much to Father.”
Devin thought for a moment about accepting the praise, but it didn’t sit well with him. “Marlowe is currently living in the household of the Duke of Lindow,” he said instead. “He’s attached to the Mobberley living, but they brought him with them from the country.”
Otis blinked. “I see?”
“He’s . . . pretty.”
“Your competition is a vic
ar?”
This was no bark of laughter; Otis was practically convulsing. “How the mighty are fallen!” he managed to say between paroxysms. That and a stream of disconnected words. “Pretty.” And repeatedly: “A vicar!”
Devin waited. “Marlowe can succeed you at St. Wilfrid’s,” he said, when his cousin finally stopped hanging on to the door and straightened up. “That temporary fellow who succeeded you last November is as tedious in the pulpit as he is in real life.”
“I suspect we need Marlowe today,” Otis said, chortling. “Emergency, isn’t it? After waiting two years while I was studying for the priesthood, now St. Wilfrid’s can’t survive a month without a vicar.”
“I see you understand,” Devin said, ignoring his cousin’s glee.
“If you’d worried about your parishioners’ suffering, you wouldn’t have held the living for me.”
“You’re family.”
“I’m a rotten vicar, and I always was headed that direction,” Otis said. “You’ll have to dispatch with your competition yourself, Devin. Marlowe is a good choice for St. Wilfrid’s. One look at him and anyone would know that the fellow is not only picturesque but virtuous. A do-gooder to the bone. Ready to punt people into the next life with a prayer or twenty.”
“I agree,” Devin said.
“If I had any doubts about leaving the clergy—and I don’t—this conversation would have turned the balance. This is going to be a marvelous Season. Just wait until my father—”
“Otis.” Devin’s voice cracked like a whip.
“Really?”
“No.”
“I suppose,” Otis conceded. “Father’s going to see, though. People think he is too blunt to be perceptive, but they’re wrong.”
“There may be nothing to see,” Devin said. “I merely had a brief conversation with the lady. I should make . . . I should thoroughly assess the field.”
“You know, there are two ways of picking a horse, not that it’s an appropriate comparison,” Otis said. “You can check the teeth, the withers, and the gait of every steed for sale at Tattersall’s or . . .”
“Or?”
“Or you can just look one in the eyes and start negotiating a price.”
“Aren’t you the one who just told me that I can’t buy one of the Wildes? That my title and money aren’t enough?”
“True,” Otis said, pulling the door open. “I’m not saying that the negotiations would be easy or end favorably. I’m just saying that sometimes a man knows instinctively what he wants. And on that subject, not even a morning call to Miss Astley until I decide your next step.”
Devin stared at the closed door for a long minute after his cousin left.
The door opened and Otis’s head appeared. “Send violets, masses of them,” he ordered. “No note, just your card.” He disappeared again.
Devin had never done anything rash in his life. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single impulsive decision.
As a child, his father’s fits of uncontrolled rage had kept him from imprudent behavior. He had been educated at home instead of being sent to Eton, so that—in his opinion—his father could have the pleasure of exploding with rage and throwing his tutors out the door. Just when Devin turned sixteen and might have begun to rebel, his father died.
That huge, blustering life was snuffed out, and Devin stepped into the silence.
After that, there wasn’t any time to rebel. He had to find people to advise him, as there was much he didn’t know.
His father hadn’t paid attention to estate management, and Devin had had no time to learn it. He needed to pay his father’s debts, when he didn’t even know how many there were. It was the beginning of a lifetime’s practice of hiring the best and setting them to work.
In fact . . .
He froze.
Had he just enlisted his cousin to do his wooing for him?
Chapter Eight
The Duke of Lindow’s townhouse
Mayfair, London
Later that morning
Lady Louisa Knowe, twin sister of the Duke of Lindow, followed the sound of women’s voices to a small sitting room on the second floor. She hadn’t expected to find her niece by marriage, Lavinia, along with Viola and Joan, but she recognized her laughter.
“Darling!” Lady Knowe cried, entering the room.
Lavinia Sterling, who was married to Parth, the duke’s adopted son, looked up with a smile. “Forgive me for not rising, Aunt Knowe, but as you can see, I am buried in fabric.” Her lap was piled high with an extensive selection of blue silks. In fact, the whole room had the look of a bazaar, with fabric samples separated by color.
“Just look at this beautiful lace,” Joan cried. She had slung a length of violet lace edged with silver around her neck. “Don’t you think I would look like a princess if I wore it to a ball?”
“The silver is giving your hair a metallic look,” Lady Knowe advised, pushing aside a mound of fabrics to sit beside Lavinia on the settee. “You’d have to use very thick powder.”
“That’s just what I told her,” Lavinia said.
Lavinia was a true original. Her husband was one of the richest men in England. One might expect that she would produce an heir and a spare, and spend her free time gadding about London going to balls and musicales.
Instead, she had turned into one of the most powerful people in English fashion—and that included the modistes who thronged London. Lavinia’s pet project was Sterling Lace. Her husband had founded it, but she had pioneered the art of making colored lace. Moreover, she had informally partnered in a haberdashery known as Felton’s, and built it into the most fashionable place to purchase fabric in all London.
“It looks as if you brought half of Sterling Lace as well as Felton’s to the house,” Lady Knowe commented, looking around the room.
“The presentation gowns are nearly ready, but Joan and Viola still need at least two morning dresses and a walking dress each,” Lavinia explained. “The ball last night went very well, but we mustn’t rest on our laurels. Have you read the columns raving about your gown, by the way, Aunt Knowe?”
“Absolutely not. You know I don’t read that sort of flummery.”
“You only stopped reading them once you began dominating the columns,” Joan pointed out. She had discarded the violet lace and was experimenting with a swath of rosy silk instead.
Barty hopped along the back of the settee, paused at Lady Knowe’s shoulder, and gave her a cheerful tap on the ear.
“Hello, Barty,” she said, scratching Viola’s crow on the back of his shining black head.
Barty cocked his head to the side and looked at her.
“No,” she said firmly, “these are my favorite emeralds and you may not have them.”
Viola was seated at a small desk to the side, writing a letter. She looked up. “Barty is in a naughty mood, Aunt Knowe. This morning Prism let him ride down to the kitchens on his shoulder and I’m afraid he is now in disgrace and banned from that entire area of the house under threat of being added to a soup pot.”
Barty edged back along the settee until he could hop onto Lavinia’s shoulder and lean against her cheek.
“That is quite adorable,” Lady Knowe said.
“Lavinia brought Barty a particularly shiny sequin,” Viola said, looking up again from her letter.
“Are you writing to Willa?” Lady Knowe inquired. “I promised I would send a note around describing the ball this morning, but I haven’t found time.”
“No, she is not,” Joan said, lifting the rosy silk from her neck and dropping it onto a pile of fabrics. “Viola is writing the vicar, and never mind that the fellow could be found down the hallway. She and Mr. Marlowe are forever exchanging notes.”
“Writing the vicar?” Lady Knowe heard her voice rising. “That would be quite inappropriate, Viola, and I trust that Joan is mistaken.”
Viola looked up. “There’s nothing inappropriate about the notes we exchange, Aunt Knowe,” she said
earnestly. “I spent considerable time with Father Duddleston in the past few years and I am able to help Mr. Marlowe with questions about the refurbishment of the vicarage. Since he’s in London with us, he doesn’t always know how to answer the dispatches sent by the builders.”
Lady Knowe narrowed her eyes. “How long has this been going on?”
“Weeks!” Joan said, ignoring the scowl that Viola shot in her direction.
Since Joan and Viola were the dearest of friends and had been since infancy, Lady Knowe had no trouble interpreting this comment. Joan was not one to worry, but apparently she thought the correspondence had reached a dangerous state.
She was booting the problem to a higher authority.
“We are forever out of the house,” Viola said. “I never see Mr. Marlowe, so how can I answer his questions except through an occasional note?”
Lavinia had been sifting through fabrics and held up a swatch of dark blue twill. “This would be perfect for a riding costume for you, Aunt Knowe.”
For once, she was suggesting a subdued color. Louisa had enjoyed being in the forefront of fashion twenty years ago, but at her age she would prefer to be unremarkable. “An excellent idea,” she said. “That is a very respectable blue.”
Ever since Lavinia had taken to designing her wardrobe, “respectable”—not to mention “unnoticed”—was a fond fantasy. Lavinia’s clothing sense ran more along the lines of “unexpected.”
“We have not been corresponding for weeks,” Viola protested. She paused. “Well, perhaps two weeks. I didn’t notice. Anyway, it’s not correspondence, because Mr. Marlowe is here in the house. We merely exchange notes because it’s easier to share information this way.”
“My brother would be very displeased to discover that you have been carrying on a clandestine correspondence with a young man,” Lady Knowe stated. “You, Viola! Of all the hooligans who’ve gone through the Lindow nursery, I wouldn’t have expected you to behave outrageously.”
Lavinia held up a swatch of bright green lace. “I will pair the blue with this lace, Aunt Knowe.”
