by Eloisa James
Lavinia’s love of costume meant that she was forever running over to measure one of the children playing the role of an elephant or a squirrel. They were allowed to pick the animal of their choice, not necessarily biblical, and she was doing her best to create trunks and fluffy tails.
Viola walked in the last day before the performance on Devin’s arm, hardly able to stop smiling. That morning . . .
Well.
Suffice it to say that when she looked up from breakfast and found her husband regarding her lazily, her flush began somewhere around her toes and kept climbing. When they reemerged from the bedchamber a couple of hours later, Devin said that he thought he’d accompany her to the vicarage.
“Are the battle lines still drawn?” he inquired as they walked down the street.
“They grow more firm by the hour,” Viola said worriedly. “Miss Pettigrew has an unnerving way of saying precisely what she thinks, no matter how rude it might seem to the people who hear it.”
“I would imagine that a vicar’s wife should be extraordinarily tactful,” Devin said.
“That would be helpful,” Viola said. She slipped her hand through Devin’s arm. “Sometimes I see a desperate look on Mr. Marlowe’s face.”
Devin glanced down but decided not to answer. His vicar’s desperation was unfortunate, but as long as Viola didn’t sound overly agonized, he didn’t care.
The moment he and Viola entered the vicarage, it was clear that things had gone from bad to worse.
“Alive!” Miss Pettigrew bellowed from the sitting room. “I suppose that is the argument that you used to convince the duke to provide support for this—for this monstrosity. The very idea of making Noah seem alive is grotesque.”
“Amazing,” Devin said. “I feel as if time has stood still, although I was here over a week ago. Shall I scoop you up and kiss you against the wall?”
“Oh, dear,” Viola said, paying no attention. “Perhaps Miss Pettigrew saw a dress rehearsal. Caitlin told me yesterday that she had refused to read the script.”
“Too late to change direction now,” Devin replied. “It’s astonishing how one can hear her voice all over the building.”
On entering the sitting room, they found Miss Pettigrew and Mr. Marlowe on one side of the room, and Caitlin on the other. They all got through a round of greetings, but anyone could see that Miss Pettigrew had more to say.
“She’s swelling up like a frog on the riverbank about to sing,” Devin murmured to his wife, as they seated themselves.
“I love being married,” she whispered back. “I was thinking the same thing but far less poetically.”
Devin didn’t answer for a moment, consumed by a wash of unusual emotion. Viola liked being married. That was good. Excellent, in fact. That was excellent. One wanted one’s wife to be agreeably inclined.
“Are you all right?” Viola asked.
He blinked and looked down at her. “Of course.”
“We have been discussing the heathenish play that will scar the souls of children watching the performance!” Miss Pettigrew said shrilly. She turned to Viola and Devin. “On hearing the details, my mother had to retire in order to calm herself. I assured her that I would inform Mr. Marlowe that the play cannot go on.”
“Mr. Marlowe will undoubtedly note that I, rather than you, am responsible for that decision,” Devin told her.
Viola elbowed him, which he took to indicate delight in the fact that Miss Pettigrew was once again swelling like a frog on the edge of song.
“Lady Caitlin’s idea of a performance that includes animals is ill judged and ill conceived.”
Caitlin was seated on the opposite side of the room, her eyes downcast.
Since the lady showed no inclination to defend herself, Devin took it on. “Lady Caitlin had nothing to do with the cycle plays,” he said. “My duchess proposed the idea, and I agreed. Everyone has known for weeks that the play was to be performed. I fail to see what could have led your mother to experience a bout of hysteria at this late date.”
“It includes animals, live animals, inside the cloister,” the lady spat. “I was told that children would be dressed as squirrels and other small animals.”
“The live animals were my idea,” Viola said. “You do remember my pet crow, don’t you, Miss Pettigrew?”
She pulled herself upright. “Not on the stage!”
“You’ll be happy to know that Barty will not be able to voyage on Noah’s ark,” Viola said. “He might be discombobulated by the crowd. My pet cows will not be there either.”
Caitlin finally raised her head and looked at Devin and Viola. “Mrs. Pettigrew was quite upset to learn that animals will join Noah on the stage.”
“Disgraceful!” Miss Pettigrew interjected. “Tell them it is unacceptable, Mr. Marlowe!”
All heads turned in unison to the vicar.
He looked deeply discomfited. Devin felt a flash of sympathy. Mr. Marlowe was in over his head.
“Rats,” Miss Pettigrew cried with a gasp. “Lady Caitlin didn’t tell the truth because she wouldn’t dare. She is bringing rats into the church!”
Caitlin gave Devin a rueful glance. “I asked the children to bring their pets. Johnny Pratchett has a pet rat named Sam. As I explained to Miss Pettigrew, I can’t inform Johnny that Sam is not welcome—”
Miss Pettigrew cut her off. “It’s not just the rat. That boy has been carrying the vermin in his pocket. Next to his skin. He will no longer attend the Sunday school, as I told his mother. While we are on the subject, I have a feeling that this play is not all it should be. Mr. Bristow told me that it was quite humorous. ‘Humorous’ is not an appropriate adjective for a biblical performance!”
She surged to her feet. “Mr. Marlowe, I believe that we should discuss the advisability of the play with my father, Bishop Pettigrew. It is my decided opinion that this play will be the ruin of your reputation.”
Caitlin, Viola, and Devin stood as well.
“Come,” Miss Pettigrew said to her fiancé. She turned on her heel and left the room. Caitlin was obviously on the verge of tears. She dropped a curtsy and left without a word.
“Oh, dear,” Viola murmured.
“Mr. Marlowe, if you’ll forgive us, I shall have a private conversation with my duchess, after which I shall make a ruling about pet rats in the cloister,” Devin said briskly. He slipped his hand into Viola’s elbow, drew her out of the door, and directly up the stairs and into the small chamber. “My favorite room!” He closed the door behind them.
The sound of Viola’s giggle was smothered by his kiss.
For a few moments there was nothing in Viola’s world other than her husband’s hard arms and the way his mouth ravished hers, gentling to something near tenderness.
His hand was just sliding down her back when Viola heard voices and pulled away. Miss Pettigrew and Mr. Marlowe were apparently coming up the stairs.
“We can’t be discovered again,” Viola whispered. “It would be too embarrassing.”
Devin’s voice was hoarse. “I want you, Viola.”
She smiled at him. “Shall we return home?”
His eyes focused behind her shoulder. “No.”
“What?”
Devin took a long step, pulled open a door, and revealed a small room lined with shelves from top to bottom, on which were haphazardly stacked plates, saucers, and soup bowls. There were at least three or four soup tureens and what looked to be twenty or more teapots, all crowded together.
“My goodness,” Viola said, stupefied by the sheer volume of china.
“My father went through a relatively brief stage during which he was collecting Staffordshire pottery,” Devin said. “After he died, Binsey suggested that we donate it to the church. There was no space in the vicarage kitchen, so we had shelves built here.”
“You want to kiss me inside a china closet?”
By way of answer, he bent his head to kiss her and simultaneously backed her into the closet.
&
nbsp; The wild beating of Viola’s heart was the only thing she could hear after the click of the door shutting. The darkness was velvety and complete; if Devin’s body hadn’t been in front of her, she wouldn’t have known he was there.
“Are you all right?” Devin asked. “Some people would be terrified.” He pushed open the door until a wide crack of light fell between them.
“That’s better. This is absurd!” Viola said, giggling. “What are we doing in here?”
“Kissing,” her husband said, a wicked, laughing lilt in his voice.
She shook her head. “Are you still the Duke of Wynter? When I first met you, I thought that you were dignified.”
“I believe so.” His hands slid around her waist. “All the crucial parts of me still seem to be here.” He brought his body smartly against hers and even through her skirts she knew what he was referring to.
Just as she leaned forward to kiss him, the door to the outer room opened.
Viola startled, and Devin’s mouth covered hers before she could gasp. Through a sensual haze, she heard Miss Pettigrew say, “I am certain that my mother would excuse the impropriety of a private meeting, Mr. Marlowe, though you should leave the door open.”
That was followed by the sound of a door shutting. “I think it would be best to be truly private,” Mr. Marlowe stated. “Miss Pettigrew, in the future, I would prefer not to discuss parish matters before the duke, duchess, or Lady Caitlin.”
“I have nothing to hide,” his fiancée snapped. “It’s quite chilly in this room. The chimneys are inadequate.”
“Please be seated, Miss Pettigrew. I shall build up the fire,” Mr. Marlowe said.
“The settee has its back to this closet,” Devin whispered.
Mr. Marlowe apparently added a log, because a crackling sound filled the tense silence between the betrothed couple.
“It would be frightfully embarrassing if we’re caught here,” Viola whispered.
The duke shrugged, and sank downward, his hands caressing her legs on the way down.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, bending over.
“Seating myself.” With a quick movement, Devin pulled her into his lap. “We might as well be comfortable.” The shaft of light now fell across their faces, illuminating an expression that Viola had never seen on her husband’s face. He looked . . . naughty.
In fact, she had the sudden impression that had his childhood been different, Devin might have been a very naughty boy, the kind who gives his parents no end of grief. Not unlike her younger brother, the architect of a practical joke that had him temporarily expelled from Eton.
“You want Marlowe to be happy,” Devin said softly, his eyes probing her face.
“Yes, but not because I have a lingering affection for him,” Viola said, brushing her mouth with his.
“Would your friend Caitlin marry him, were he free?” Devin asked, a ghost of a smile in his eyes.
Viola nodded. “I believe she would. She would be a marvelous vicar’s wife. She’s far more sensible than I am.”
“I like you just as you are,” Devin said.
Viola had to thank him, which led to a kiss that made her tremble all over.
Rather surprisingly, on the other side of the door, Mr. Marlowe had begun arguing with his fiancée about the play. “Biblical cycle plays have been an old and honored part of church ceremonies for over two hundred years. More to the point, The Play of Noah is a matter of two nights. I see no cause for alarm, Miss Pettigrew, even if the play is somewhat humorous.”
Miss Pettigrew snapped back, “Medieval or not, the play is being performed in your parish. Nay, the performance is in your own cloister. My father would never allow a play to be produced in his own church!”
“I explained to your father that the play was a direct request from the Duke of Wynter, who owns the living of St. Wilfrid’s. It was not in my purview to refuse him.”
“Deflecting, poor fellow,” Devin murmured.
“Naturally, I must agree with everything you say, Mr. Marlowe. However, please note that the play will damage your reputation, should there be anything the least indelicate about it,” Miss Pettigrew pronounced. “Many people of quality, including Bishop Pettigrew, shall attend.”
“The tickets are all sold,” Viola whispered happily. “We shall make enough money to support the orphans for the entire coming year.”
“I am pleased to know that excellent attendance is expected tomorrow,” Mr. Marlowe said.
“We may be trapped in this closet all morning,” Devin said. “They’re arguing like a married couple.” His face looked even more angular because of the slash of light cutting across it.
“Thank goodness, we don’t fight like that,” Viola said, her hands running through his thick hair. “I love it when you don’t wear a wig or powder.”
“We can only hope that the audience will not be so offended that they leave in high dudgeon,” Miss Pettigrew said.
Devin eased Viola back against his right arm.
“Did you hear something?” Miss Pettigrew asked, her voice rising. “I think I heard a rustling. If this vicarage is infested with vermin, I will not move here, Mr. Marlowe. Married or no, I will not expose myself to disease.”
Devin was amusing himself by running his hands under Viola’s skirts.
“My wife must live where I live,” the vicar said evenly. “Many church buildings are infested with mice. I may choose at some point to take a living in one of the poor areas by the docks, for example. A vicar cannot live apart from his parish.”
Devin nipped Viola’s earlobe. “The man is truly developing a backbone.”
“All the more reason to ensure that the play is not scandalous,” Miss Pettigrew said after a small pause. “Bishop Pettigrew is paying a visit tomorrow precisely to further his acquaintance with you.” Her voice had a desperate tone. “You may well be the person to succeed him, someday.”
“I do not wish to become a bishop,” Mr. Marlowe stated.
“Cat is among the pigeons now,” Devin murmured, but he tilted Viola farther back against his arm and took her mouth.
She missed Miss Pettigrew’s response. In fact, by the time she surfaced from a long, intoxicating kiss, the drawing room was silent.
“Thank goodness, they’re gone,” Viola whispered breathlessly.
“No.” Her husband’s hand circled her wrist. “He’s still in there. She stormed out. The poor sod is contemplating his fate. We may have to remain here all day, Viola. What in the world will we do to amuse ourselves?”
Viola felt her heart swell as she met Devin’s laughing eyes. She hadn’t known it was possible to adore someone this much.
“I love you,” she whispered, the words flying from her mouth. “I’m in love with you.”
He frowned.
“I know you don’t feel the same,” Viola said. “I understand. I just want you to know.” But she held her breath anyway.
He put a finger to her lips.
The door opened in the outer room, and a woman’s voice said, “Mr. Marlowe? Am I interrupting you?”
“This truly is as good as a play,” Devin rumbled in Viola’s ear. “Who cares about Noah? We have a comedy of manners right here in the vicarage, and for free too.”
She was trying to catch her breath. His hand had crept higher under her skirts and he was drawing tender circles on her inner thigh. “Who . . .”
“Your friend, the third participant in this drawing room comedy, of course,” her husband said.
“Cat,” Viola breathed.
Sure enough, Caitlin said, “I wish to apologize for provoking your betrothed. It is the fault of my particular deadly sin.”
After a silence, Mr. Marlowe said, “I find it hard to believe that you sin.”
“I’d say we’re at the opening of the fourth act,” Devin said.
“Envy,” Caitlin said, her voice clear. “Miss Pettigrew is very sure of herself, whereas I am always uncertain. In fact, I am onl
y confident of my own wrongdoing. Quite through no fault of her own, Miss Pettigrew’s self-command makes me envious.”
Viola gasped softly. “She’s declaring herself!”
“She has to,” Devin said. “The fellow would be giving up a future bishopric for her, and he’s not going to declare himself, as it would be unethical.”
“He doesn’t want to be a bishop,” Viola said. “You heard him.”
“Lady Caitlin,” Mr. Marlowe said, his voice rumbling in his chest.
“If he tells her to trust in Providence, I’ll . . . I’ll kick him,” Viola muttered to Devin.
“Are you worried about the Noah play, Mr. Marlowe?” Caitlin interrupted. “Because it is a lively play. Miss Pettigrew might—well, she might have a point.”
“Bloody hell,” Devin muttered. Meanwhile, though, his fingers slid even higher on Viola’s thigh. She was having trouble thinking. Her veins were slowly heating, desire sliding through her like hot tea on a chilly morning.
Devin’s breathing had become deeper. Suddenly, in a welter of desire, she had a clear thought: If her husband would have been naughty, if his natural bent was disobedience, she was the perfect wife for him, because she grew up surrounded by naughty children.
Devin would have risked his life had he flouted his father’s rules as a child.
Not any longer.
“What could possibly be indelicate about Noah and his ark?” Mr. Marlowe asked.
The Wildes practically defined the term “naughty”—from Ophelia’s youngest daughter, Artie, to the older boys she grew up with. A smile growing in her heart, Viola moved from the shelter of Devin’s arm and braced herself to stand.
“No,” her husband growled, his voice just soft enough not to be heard.
“The play is medieval,” Caitlin explained. “They had more exuberant attitudes toward Scripture at the time.”
“Such as?” Mr. Marlowe’s tone was distinctly skeptical.
“Genesis 9:21,” Caitlin said unhappily. “And Noah drank of the wine and was drunken.”
“And uncovered himself?” Mr. Marlowe asked, obviously horrified.
“No!” Caitlin cried. “No, no, but the play does include the part when Noah curses his son Canaan. Naturally, the text plays up drunkenness. I gather the part of Noah would have been played by a tapster.”
