by Eloisa James
If she were married to Mr. Marlowe, she would help him in his work. Not fawn on him.
Had Joan been betrothed to Mr. Marlowe, she would have swept Caitlin a look of Wildean disdain. But Viola? Short, inconspicuous Viola? She wouldn’t be able to ward off Mr. Marlowe’s admirers. For her entire life, she would have to get used to her husband smiling kindly at besotted women and assuring them that “Providence would provide.”
After all, that was what a vicar did.
That was his job.
A hand took her elbow, and Wynter said, “Otis is sitting with Lady Joan. Shall we join them? I said that I have few friends, but I am proud to count Otis among them.”
“Certainly,” she said.
“I’ll summon Marlowe to join us,” he added, “because I do have a proposition for him, and it involves Otis as well.”
She walked with the duke toward her sister, ignoring all the knowing eyes that followed them. Soon enough, the duke would begin courting a future duchess, and society would realize that the two of them were merely friends.
It was very friendly of him to create an opportunity for her to talk to Mr. Marlowe.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, to be honest.
Was Wynter convinced she ought to marry the vicar? Obviously he hadn’t been planning to kiss her. It was all in her imagination. Thank goodness, she hadn’t humiliated herself by closing her eyes or leaning toward him.
“Were you introduced to a young lady with whom you’d like better acquaintance?” she asked him. “I know everyone here. Petunia is an earl’s daughter. I can easily bring her to join us.”
“No, thank you,” Wynter said.
“Because she’s an earl’s daughter, instead of a duke’s? You may have to lower your standards,” she observed. “Or rather, your father’s standards.”
“Hmm,” the duke said, steering her toward an empty settee next to Joan.
She’d noticed that he had a habit of avoiding questions that he didn’t care to answer.
“You are somewhat irritating,” Viola observed.
“My relatives tell me as much on a regular basis,” His Grace said, smiling down at her. “Dukes are raised to be stubborn, perhaps because we have our own way most of the time.”
“Aunt Knowe would say that one’s upbringing was no excuse,” she told him.
“Lady Knowe strikes me as a most formidable woman. I disagree with her. Parentage is irrelevant but upbringing is not.”
His comment reminded Viola of the way he had described her as a stray child thrown into the Lindow nursery and tolerated for practicality’s sake, but she kept her mouth shut. They were friends, but that didn’t mean she could point out every idiotic notion the man voiced.
Or at least, not in the first forty-eight hours of friendship.
Tonight Otis was wearing a bright purple waistcoat with scalloped edging. Joan was seated opposite him, and somewhat to Viola’s surprise, she had the jaunty look that she wore with family, instead of the seductive smile she wielded around eligible gentlemen.
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Astley,” Otis said. “We are refugees from the lively battle going on between my father and Miss Pettigrew.”
“About rhododendrons?” Viola asked.
“Actually, my father is currently engaged in a losing battle, trying to persuade Miss Pettigrew that private dramatics are great fun. Which they are, but she will never agree.”
“She hadn’t yet declared that they are the work of the devil,” Joan said, “but it’s a matter of time. I think the only reason she has restrained herself is due to our host’s passion for them. Just look how pink her cheeks are.”
“My father loves nothing more than putting on a play,” Otis said. Then he brightened. “Now that I’m no longer a cleric, I shall tread the boards! Though our plays are performed only for close friends, needless to say.”
“Last summer we went to a house party where we performed The Man of Mode,” Joan said. “You would have made an excellent Dorimant.”
“The rake? Not I,” Otis said. “I’d have been Sir Fopling Flutter, the Man of Mode himself.” He twitched the hem of his brightly colored waistcoat. “I have a weakness for fine clothing.”
“Why are you biting your lip?” Wynter asked Viola quietly.
“I feel guilty,” she said. “I suspect that Miss Pettigrew’s high emotion stems from my suggestion that Mr. Marlowe stage a cycle of biblical plays.”
She heard a choking sound, and frowned at the duke. “What is funny about that, pray?”
“You do realize that most vicars turn white at the very mention of a stage?” he asked.
“Mr. Marlowe considered it an interesting idea worth consideration,” she said stoutly. “Your own cousin, Mr. Murgatroyd, was a vicar, and he just said that he takes great pleasure in private dramatics, which are certainly more improper than plays drawn from the Bible.”
Otis grinned at her. “I was only a vicar for a few weeks, and my delight in dramatics was yet another sign that I wasn’t suited to a cassock. Do you suppose that you could call me Otis? Mr. Murgatroyd is such a mouthful and it reminds me of my father.”
“We should all be on a first-name basis, since we are friends,” the duke said unexpectedly. He looked at Viola. “Don’t you agree?”
“That would be scandalous,” Joan said with obvious delight. “Otis, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Your Grace?”
“Devin,” he said to her.
Viola knew that her mother and stepfather were unusual in addressing each other by first names. And they were married! She didn’t know what to say. Joan was always the first to leap into something improper, but Viola was wary of ending up in the scandal sheets.
“We are friends,” the duke repeated.
“Just look at that,” Otis put in. “Devin hasn’t had to plead with anyone to get his way since he shaped his first word.”
“All right,” Viola said reluctantly.
“I can’t wait to call you Devin in front of all those duke-hunting young ladies,” Joan told the duke. “Oh, and in case you’re worried, I am not interested in becoming your duchess. I won’t use our apparent intimacy to force you to the altar.”
“I’m grateful to hear it,” he replied, looking supremely unconcerned.
“To go back to our original conversation,” Otis said, “I’ve had some painful conversations with Bishop Pettigrew in the last few months, and can say with fair certainty that he won’t approve of theatrics in the church, whether the plays depict biblical events or no.”
“Miss Pettigrew doesn’t even approve of Christmas pantomimes,” Joan put in.
“For hundreds of years, people in local parishes performed plays depicting biblical events,” Viola protested. “The plays depict the Bible in such a way that young and old can understand. What better way for children to learn?”
“Hundreds of years?” Devin asked, a distinctly skeptical note in his voice.
“They are called mystery plays. All the larger towns such as York had their own cycle of plays. We read some of them at school. The bakers would act the story of Jesus creating loaves of bread, for example.”
“I remember a funny one about Noah’s ark,” Otis put in.
“I would love to play a queen,” Joan cried. “The costumes would be marvelous.”
“Alas, there are few queens in the Bible,” Otis pointed out.
“There’s always Bathsheba,” Joan said mischievously.
Viola winced. She recognized the look in her stepsister’s eyes. From time to time, Joan was prone to a fit of recklessness. At school, it would invariably lead to a scolding for nonladylike behavior, which would only drive Joan to be more provocative.
“Bathsheba, whom King David saw bathing, and fell in love with?” Devin asked.
“I think it would be great fun to put a lady in a bath on stage,” Joan said, her eyes twinkling. “If Viola instructed him to do it, Mr. Marlowe would be out looking for a tin tub right now.”<
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“I don’t remember a cycle play about Bathsheba,” Otis said, showing no signs of shock at Joan’s suggestion. “Who would have staged it? The watermen?”
“Obviously, the ladies of the evening,” Joan exclaimed, bursting into laughter.
Joan was being provocative for the sake of it, likely because she had been irritated by Miss Pettigrew. She adored private dramatics, and the family all knew that she dreamed of running away and joining a theater troupe.
Not that she would, because it was one thing to address a duke by his first name, and quite another to perform on a public stage. Joan would be ruined.
“There’s a sweet play about the two shepherds who first saw the star,” Viola put in, grateful that Aunt Knowe was out of earshot and didn’t hear Joan talking about ladies of the evening. “A Christmas play would be a marvelous way to draw people into the church.”
Otis grinned. “You’re a revolutionary, Viola. Who could have imagined? You look so demure.”
“What I am suggesting is traditional, and certainly not revolutionary,” Viola said stoutly. “Many children never learn biblical history. Take the play of Noah’s ark, for example. Who could possibly object to that?”
The duke’s dark eyes were smiling, even if his face was as imperturbable as ever. “You might be surprised.”
“A play could be performed for charity,” she argued. “My family would come, and they would bring others. Tickets could be sold at a steep price too, perhaps making enough money to support orphans or do other good works.”
“How will the poor children in need of education afford a ticket?” the duke asked.
“A second performance, the next night,” Viola said, caught up in her vision. “Real animals could join Noah on the stage.”
“One of your pet cows?”
“You have a pet cow?” Otis exclaimed.
“And a crow,” Viola said, nodding. “I brought my crow, Barty, to London, but obviously London is no place for livestock.”
“Not unless they’re on their way to being made into beefsteak,” Otis agreed. “Were I still the vicar, I could have a temporary stage built in St. Wilfrid’s cloister large enough for the dramatic debut of one cow, though perhaps not two.”
“Daisy and Cleopatra are not great travelers,” Viola said, smiling. “Would you settle for a crow instead?”
“Absolutely!” Otis cried. “We just need a few more animals to put on Noah’s ark at St. Wilfrid’s. The parishioners would be thrilled.”
Aunt Knowe swept in the circle and sat beside Viola, the feathers on her wig waving in the air like the plumes atop an outlandish chicken. “What are you all discussing?”
“My idea for a biblical play cycle,” Viola said, moving closer to the duke, so that Aunt Knowe’s voluminous panniers wouldn’t crush her gown. “My stepfather was somewhat disapproving when I suggested it,” she told the others. “Aunt Knowe wasn’t entirely in favor either.”
“I didn’t know it was your idea at that point,” her aunt reminded her.
“Noah’s ark would have been a clue,” Devin said dryly.
Lady Knowe shook her head. “Don’t encourage her, Your Grace. People think that Viola is sweet-tempered, but sometimes I think she is the most obstinate of the children who grew up in the ducal nursery.”
“A performance of Noah’s ark, with the proceeds given to charity,” Otis put in.
“I agree,” Devin stated.
Viola could tell that the duke was enjoying himself, and she liked it when he looked happy. Because they were friends, she told herself hastily. Good friends. Just look how supportive Devin was being regarding her play cycle.
Mr. Marlowe had been far less confident that her idea had merit. Just now, the vicar was across the room, talking animatedly with Lady Caitlin while Miss Pettigrew sat silently, watching the pair of them. Viola felt another stab of sympathy for the lady. This couldn’t be a pleasant occasion for her.
The duke followed her gaze. “No going over there,” he said in a low voice. “You are the one who instructed me not to appear desperate, don’t you remember? He must come to you.”
Joan and Otis had launched into a lively exchange with Aunt Knowe about the best plays currently being performed in London.
Viola wrinkled her nose at Devin. “You are the opposite of desperate since you appear to be completely uninterested in finding a bride! I count at least five eligible young ladies with whom you could be speaking, not including my sister.”
“Joan is too excitable for me,” Devin said, without a trace of apology in his voice. “She is very talkative. Have you noticed?”
“Her conversation is enthralling,” Viola said firmly. “She’s my best friend, and you mustn’t be critical.”
The duke waggled his eyebrows. “See how I’m moving both of them at the same time?”
She nodded.
“It’s less lazy than moving just one,” he informed her. “But you can take the emotion for granted.”
“Irony? Sarcasm? Wit? Men of your sort use The Eyebrow for everything,” Viola said. “I’ve been cataloguing the effect for years.”
“Men ‘of my sort’?” His voice shaded cool.
“Oh, dear, did you think that you were entirely original among men of wealth and consequence?”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “On the whole, yes.”
“It’s a masculine failing,” Viola told him. “You all think that you’re unique, when in fact you are remarkably similar.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I assure you that I have virtually nothing in common with Otis, and we share a grandfather.”
They both looked at Otis, who was arguing with Joan, hands waving, eyes bright with laughter.
“Your cousin is charming,” Viola said.
“I am not.” The duke stood, and for a moment Viola thought that she’d hurt his feelings, but he was looking down at her with his usual calm demeanor. “I shall separate Mr. Marlowe from his flock and bring him here, if you’ll excuse me.”
She nodded, and he strode across the room.
It was very kind of Devin to aid Viola in her courtship—if that was the appropriate word—of Mr. Marlowe.
Pursuit?
Pursuit was a most unattractive word.
Chapter Thirteen
A few minutes later, the Duke of Wynter returned with Mr. Marlowe, but without Miss Pettigrew, somewhat to Viola’s relief. Mr. Marlowe greeted everyone and sat down beside Joan, giving Devin a questioning glance.
“My cousin wished to speak to you, Mr. Marlowe,” Otis said, “because I’ve left the parish of St. Wilfrid’s, where you were once a curate. In fact, I’ve left the priesthood altogether.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Mr. Marlowe said. Somehow his sympathetic eyes didn’t make Viola’s heart beat quite as rapidly as before.
“One can only truly be oneself,” Otis said cheerfully. “And if oneself is better suited to a purple waistcoat, it is best to discover such a fact quickly.”
“Otis and I agree that one area of life in which one must look for sincerity over performance is in the church,” Devin said. “And you, Mr. Marlowe, are truly devout and an excellent vicar. I should like to offer you the parish of St. Wilfrid’s.”
Viola blinked. Devin was stealing her vicar! Taking him away to another vicarage.
Mr. Marlowe looked as surprised as she felt. “That is a remarkable honor, Your Grace. I’m not sure what to say.”
“It’s a pretty compliment,” Aunt Knowe said, beaming. “You’re very young to be in charge of such a large parish.”
Viola threw her a jaundiced glance. She wouldn’t be surprised if Aunt Knowe hadn’t put Devin up to the offer, simply to get Mr. Marlowe out of the Lindow townhouse.
“I have made a commitment to the Duke of Lindow,” Mr. Marlowe said, “an obligation to him for one year.”
“I can speak for my brother,” Aunt Knowe said promptly. “He would never stand in the way of a promotion of this magni
tude. St. Wilfrid’s is one of the wealthiest parishes in London and well situated too.”
Viola was entirely unsurprised by her aunt’s evident wish to toss Mr. Marlowe out the door.
“I do have some conditions,” Devin said. “Otis has begun improvements to parish life that I support. The parish of St. Wilfrid’s must be a true community. Attendance certainly increased in the last few months.”
“My cousin refers to the reforms that I instituted to bring people to the church,” Otis explained. “I offer sherry after services, for example, which creates a sense of camaraderie.”
“A Sunday school run by Lady Caitlin Paget already exists, but Otis laid the ground for a parish school,” the duke said. “I wish to encourage education of all kinds, including dramatic performances of biblical events. It is important that knowledge of the Bible is available to all.”
Lady Knowe gave Viola a quick glance. One side of her mouth curled up.
For the first time, Mr. Marlowe looked less than enthusiastic. “I enjoyed the liveliness of Miss Astley’s proposal,” he said, “but I fear that the plays may prove divisive. My concern doesn’t spring from the script, which I understand comes from Scripture. My fiancée, for example—”
“Miss Pettigrew’s opinion is irrelevant to me,” the duke said. His tone was very much “take it or leave it.”
“Miss Pettigrew will be happy to learn that the two of you will live in London instead of the wilds of Cheshire,” Aunt Knowe said. “Just imagine: Her mother will be only a short carriage ride away. They can join each other for a meal every day.”
Mr. Marlowe didn’t flinch, which Viola, for one, thought showed great strength of character.
“Miss Pettigrew was a few years ahead of us in school, so she likely read the cycle plays in literature class,” Viola suggested.
“No, because she studied rhetoric instead of literature,” Joan said, shaking her head.
“How on earth do you know?” Viola asked.
“She was famous for having argued the headmistress to a standstill.”
“What other improvements do you have in mind?” Mr. Marlowe asked hastily.
