by Eloisa James
“One might take it so,” Mrs. Pettigrew agreed, smoothing the black gloves that lay across her lap. “One mustn’t congratulate oneself for such things. To be a cleric’s wife, one needs a gift for rhetoric, such as my daughter possesses. But the only measure of any woman is whether she is a true lady.”
A fleeting but grim stare left Viola in no doubt about Mrs. Pettigrew’s opinion of lip salve.
Before she could formulate a response, Devin materialized at Viola’s back, curled a strong, warm hand over her shoulder, and said, “If the ladies are agreeable, perhaps we could make our way to the vicarage?”
“Tick, tock, everyone!” Aunt Knowe cried, leaping to her feet in a way that suggested that the next time Mrs. Pettigrew visited, she too would have an attack of the vapors. “The weather is perfect for a short walk.”
When they reached the entry, Devin took Viola’s pelisse from the footman and helped her put it on. When his hands touched her shoulders, she felt a flash of heat that made her breath stop. Her heart sped up, which was absurd.
In short order, the group put on outer wear and traipsed down the front steps of the Lindow townhouse. Somehow, Viola didn’t know quite how, it seemed there was no question but that Devin would be at her side.
He strode beside her silently, which she appreciated. Joan talked constantly, which gave her time to think. But Devin’s companionable silence did as well.
The problem was that the only thing she could think about was him.
She’d grown up around handsome men, but she found it easy to dismiss the Wildes’ sculpted features from her mind. And Mr. Marlowe with his finely knit cheekbones.
A sultry, angular face with a rough voice couldn’t compare. Especially when you added the solitary pride that was almost visible around his shoulders.
Still.
Chapter Fifteen
Devin walked slowly, until Lady Knowe, who was leading the group, disappeared around the corner ahead of him.
He came to a halt.
Viola glanced up at him inquiringly. She looked so enticing that he was having a hard time not kissing her in public.
He had glanced at her while talking to the vicar and instantly lost his train of thought. That old harridan must have said something unkind to her, and the expression on her face had lit an errant, fiercely protective fire in his chest.
“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said.
She looked startled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I found myself wondering whether the conversation between myself and my uncle at your debut ball might have convinced you that you are not well-suited to being a duchess.”
“I already knew that,” Viola said, her mouth turning up in a wry smile. “I detailed for you the list of my shortcomings, though the one you pointed to—an inability to keep my attention during a conversation—may be the most persuasive of all.”
“That’s your greatest failing?” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Bloody hell, he never smiled.
“No,” Viola said, cocking her head to look at him, and apparently taking his question seriously. “I have others, but they aren’t related to being a duchess. If that is what is being discussed.”
She ducked her head, and Devin had to take a breath because she was so damned sweet that he wanted nothing more than to snatch her into his arms and kiss her. Later, he told his instincts. Later.
“Perhaps not the normal sort of duchess,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “Yet I am not a normal duke.”
“Are you still trying to prove that you aren’t like the rest of mankind? Or at least the species known as noble males?”
“I don’t have to prove anything,” Devin said flatly. “I’m a duke. I can do exactly as I wish. I spend days in my library working on mathematical problems. If I wished, I could do that in a cowshed.”
A delightful smile trembled on her mouth. “A preposterous idea.”
“I thought I needed a duchess able to attend social gatherings on her own. Now I realize that I may well accompany my wife if she asked me. In fact,” he added thoughtfully, “it may be that I will be constitutionally prone to agreeing with virtually every request she might make.”
“‘Constitutionally prone’?” Viola smiled at him. “I think your wife will be happy to find that you are prepared to listen to her requests. Too many men think that their word and their ideas are the end of the matter.”
Devin had thought that for years—not necessarily when it came to relations between men and women, but between dukes and the rest of humanity.
He hired good men to present all possibilities in any given situation, after which he made up his mind—and took responsibility for what followed, for good or ill.
“My father and mother could barely tolerate each other,” he said abruptly.
Viola’s eyes were warmly compassionate, and Devin realized that he didn’t care if she married him out of pity. He would use every tool at his disposal. “My mother died when I was young.”
Somewhat to his surprise, Viola didn’t instantly melt into a puddle of sympathy. Instead her eyes searched his and she gave him a rueful smile. “Sometimes what one most misses is the idea of the person rather than the one who is lost.”
Devin felt a jolt down his backbone. It was true that he had occasionally missed his mother, but never the mother whom he had known. Instead, he missed the mother whom he had imagined, the one who would have protected him from his father’s blustery rages.
“My point is that a duchess can do and be whatever she wishes,” he said, pushing the thought away. “My mother and father’s marriage was arranged while they were in their cradles. It was eminently appropriate in every respect.”
“I see,” Viola said, nodding. “I’m sorry.”
“No one would have arranged a marriage between us as babies, which I think is to our benefit. And I think you would be a marvelous duchess.” Her eyes were shocked, so Devin added firmly, “I am going to woo you.”
“I only agreed to be friends,” Viola said.
But he could see in her eyes that she was protesting not his decision—which she had surely guessed—but her suitability.
Someone had convinced her that there was something wrong with her, probably the non-Wilde part of her. And yet Devin was absolutely sure that he would treasure every bit of her, the Wilde and non-Wilde parts.
“Otis tells me that I must woo you in order to win your hand, and I’m merely informing you of my intentions. I shall ask for a meeting with your father.”
“My stepfather,” Viola corrected him.
He took in her sweet face, earnest eyes, soft curls, and could imagine a small version of her with ease. “His Grace feels he is your father,” he said with utter conviction. “He raised you.”
A smile curled Viola’s lips. “He does.”
“I shall ask your father for permission to court you.”
“Because your uncle told you to?” Viola asked. “I appreciate your fondness for Sir Reginald, but you shouldn’t take his advice too seriously.”
Devin took a moment to enjoy the fact that not only was Miss Viola Astley indifferent to his title, he was having to persuade her even to give him a chance.
“You are beautiful, kindhearted, and funny,” he said evenly. “I would like you to be my wife.”
“You—really?”
“As I said, my parents did not have a happy marriage,” he said, threading his fingers through hers. “Yet since my uncle was merely a second son—a spare for the heir, as the saying goes—he was allowed to marry whom he wished. My uncle and aunt were very happy together. I know what such a marriage looks like. I had never imagined the possibility for myself, but now I can.”
“You can?”
Viola looked down at their linked hands.
“Nay, don’t be afraid,” he said, his voice deep and sure. “Don’t ever be afraid to look at me, Viola.”
“It wasn’t that,” she said faintly, tightening her fin
gers on his.
He was watching her closely, determined to catch her reaction. Confidence was intrinsic to his very being, but for the first time in his life, he realized that if he saw fear or disgust in Viola’s eyes, he would not pursue her. There was the vicar. Perhaps she still wanted to marry Mr. Marlowe.
The smile disappeared from his face, and he forced his features to be expressionless even as his heart thumped heavily in his chest.
He knew Viola now.
She didn’t want to be a duchess, unlike every other young lady at the party. Even Lady Caitlin, if he bowed before her, would turn away from the vicar and accept his courtship.
But would Viola?
For the first time in a very long time, he felt uncertain. And yet . . .
He had seen shock in her eyes but not horror. Surprise, but not revulsion.
“You’re going to woo me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Even though I’m unsuited to be a duchess.”
“I don’t care. I want you, not a duchess.”
“But you scarcely know me!”
“Not true. I do know you, and you are exactly the sort of woman with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. My uncle was right.”
Her face fell. “Because I’m a mouse?”
“No!” His gut clenched at the expression in her eyes. “Because of this.” The party had turned the corner ahead of them, and only Miss Pettigrew and Mr. Marlowe were still within view. He cupped her face and brushed her lips with his, and again.
“Oh,” she breathed.
Her lips slowly slid open, and her eyes drifted shut.
Devin’s breath hitched, and he took her invitation. She tasted like mint and honey as his tongue slid over hers. He who never stopped thinking found himself in the grip of temporary madness.
At least, he dimly hoped it was temporary. He definitely shouldn’t be kissing Viola on a public street, where anyone might see them.
But he couldn’t stop. Her tongue danced around his. Their kiss was deep and searching, as if they were speaking without words. He felt unsteady, aware of the street around them, but even more aware of her hand against his chest, fingers spread as if to feel his heart beating through his greatcoat.
She pulled back, and he let her go, of course. Her eyelashes swept open and in her eyes he saw the same startled recognition he felt in his heart.
“We shouldn’t,” she breathed, but as if she felt the madness the way he did, she tilted her head and her lips parted—
And they were kissing again, deep, searching kisses that weren’t a language but music, he decided dimly, with the part of his mind that couldn’t stop thinking. The part of his mind that was expressing shock and noting that he hadn’t the faintest inclination to surrender to an emotion like this.
He had watched his uncle and aunt turn to each other, once even kissing under the mistletoe, and decided that their vulnerability to each other equated with lack of self-respect.
But what was the use of being a duke if one didn’t do exactly as one pleased?
Viola was on her tiptoes, one arm around his neck, kissing him back. Her other hand was pressed against his chest in a caress that he wished wasn’t impeded by clothing.
What had begun as a simple press of lips was something else entirely now. He could taste jasmine tea, lemon tart, and under that something far better and sweeter: Viola.
Finally, even the still logical part of his brain fell silent and lost the ability to think, one hand holding her tightly to him, the other palm still cupping her cheek. Desire was like a torch burning in his gut, spiraling through his limbs.
It wasn’t until Viola made an aching little sound in the back of her throat that he remembered that he was kissing her in broad daylight.
He pulled back and looked down at her. Her flawless skin was flushed pink and her breath was shaky.
“I didn’t mean to woo you like this,” Devin said, realizing with a queer jolt that his voice had deepened. He sounded like an old goat, rough and growly.
If goats were possessive, that is.
“Oh, my goodness,” Viola whispered.
She shook her head. “Your kiss—your kiss was somewhat persuasive, Your Grace.” Then she giggled.
Giggled!
He’d never liked giggles. They were childish, he’d thought. Naïve.
But now he realized that giggles were fragments of laughter. The way “joy” is shorter and sharper than the word “happiness.” Giggles came when a woman was out of breath, and he loved the reason Viola was out of breath.
“We should catch up with everyone before we are missed,” she said. “Is my hat straight?”
Such a simple question.
And yet his body flooded with emotion. This beautiful woman looking up at him, asking about her headgear . . . He might have her next to him, asking that question every morning.
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. He took another look. “Actually, no.” She was wearing a delightful little blue hat with a high crown, tied all around with striped ribbons and adorned with a bow and a sprig of flowers. “Should it be worn directly on top of your head?”
“Yes,” she said. “Would you mind straightening it for me? It’s hard to do without a mirror. I shouldn’t want anyone to know that we were . . . canoodling in the street!”
He pulled her little hat to the top of her head. A few wisps of hair had fallen free, but he had no idea how to tuck them back into her coiffure. He held out his elbow. “My lady?”
“That kiss does not mean that I accept your—your courtship,” Viola said. “My plan is to be an old maid.”
He thought her plan had been to marry the vicar, but he didn’t want to remind her.
“It would be more amusing to be a duchess,” he said.
“Amusing?” She looked up at him with an impish smile, and he realized with a jolt that he adored her bonnet. It was precisely the blue that brought out the green in her eyes.
He couldn’t kiss her in the street again. He planned to woo her, not make a scandal.
“Yes, amusing,” he said firmly, banishing thoughts of just how much amusement a shared bedchamber would afford. “I have several estates. We can travel around the world, if you wish. Climb mountains. Explore the Nile.” What else did Wildes do? “Explore that bog outside the castle. Bring home an elephant to put in the cowshed.”
It was only because he was looking closely that he saw her face fall. “Is that what you wish to do?”
His mind boggled. He’d never had to consider what someone else wanted to do—and for the first time in his life, he actually wanted to consider her wishes. He wanted his wife to come first.
“I want to do whatever you want to do,” he stated.
“I don’t think you know me well enough to be kissing me in the street,” Viola said, walking a little faster. “That is, we don’t know each other well enough.”
They rounded the corner and discovered Lady Knowe striding back in their direction. She gave Viola a shrewd look that took in her kissed lips, deftly separated the two of them, and linked her arms in both of theirs.
“Duke,” she said, “you do realize that Viola and Joan are Wildes, don’t you?”
“I am aware of that fact,” Devin said.
“Kissing in public will result in prints being sent the length and breadth of the country,” Lady Knowe stated.
Devin heard a soft intake of breath on the other side of Lady Knowe; Viola had apparently forgotten about the rapacious printmakers.
They were both silent as Lady Knowe walked them briskly down the block to the vicarage, talking of the weather.
Chapter Sixteen
Viola was in shock.
She felt as if she were walking in a mass of cotton wool, even less able to pay attention than normally. When she was standing in Devin’s arms, she had felt safe.
It was absurd. Ridiculous. And yet . . .
Some small part of her would always be a terrified two-year-old
, walking into the noisy nursery filled with Wilde children. And some other part of her was still a fifteen-year-old, reeling from her first experience of male rage.
The whole of her had smelled Devin, felt his arms around her, kissed him, breathed with him, and relaxed, saying: Yes. This.
She felt as if her stomach would never clench with fear again, at least not while he was within earshot. She took a deep breath as they walked through the door of the vicarage and handed over their outer garments to a maid.
In the sitting room they found Otis trying to convince Mrs. Pettigrew that velvet was a durable upholstery fabric; she preferred a good, sturdy twill. Viola sat down beside Joan.
“Where were you?” her stepsister whispered.
“Walking slowly,” Viola said, ignoring Joan’s smirk.
“Your lip salve is noticeably absent,” Joan said.
The vicarage sitting room was a pleasant room, with a bow window made from small triangles that sparkled with reflected light, casting violet shadows on the floor. Plump sofas and armchairs were strewn about the room, all of them upholstered in bright blue.
“I imagined dark blue,” Viola said.
“I call this cherubic blue,” Otis said from the other side of Joan. “Entirely appropriate for the building, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“You could call it celestial,” Joan suggested with a laugh. She squeezed his arm. “Have I mentioned how pleased I am to have met you?”
“Leaving the inadvisable upholstery to the side, the room is cluttered,” Mrs. Pettigrew announced shrilly. “There’s a weapon where any ruffian might use it to assault the vicar.” She pointed.
The walls were lined with shelves crowded with volumes of books, but all sorts of other things were stuck in among the volumes: a ceramic tub of mustard, for example, a dirty teacup, a crab made from clay, and a dagger thrust between two books of sonnets.
“The dagger is not mine,” Otis said, “and nor is the crab. I always felt as if I were an actor playing a part, and this room made a decent stage set, in my opinion.”
