by Eloisa James
“I could do that by eight in the morning and we could be on the road out of London.”
“I can’t miss the play,” Viola said. “It was my idea. What if there is a fuss over that drunken Noah? You should be there.”
For a second, Devin got the calculating look he had when he worked with his equations. Then he scooped her up and carried her out of the room.
“My wife twisted her ankle,” he told the vicarage housekeeper, as Viola hid her face against his chest to hide the fact that she was shaking with laughter.
“Your Grace! I had no idea . . .”
But the housekeeper’s voice trailed away as Devin strode out of the vicarage and straight into their waiting carriage.
Chapter Thirty-one
In retrospect, Devin realized that he should have guessed everything would go wrong. It was too good to be true.
Making love to Viola in the dusty closet, she’d blurted out that she loved him.
Loved him!
He didn’t have much faith in the emotion, or belief in it. But he recognized the statement as a landmark.
Viola had thought she was in love with Marlowe; now she thought she was in love with him. He told himself that love was an illusion, but the sentence warmed him nonetheless.
The next day, Binsey entered his study looking flustered. “We are removing the last of the chamber pots, Your Grace. You do want all of them to go to Oxford? Even this one?”
Devin looked up and realized the butler was carrying the burnished one that had supposedly been used by King Henry VIII.
“Did you remove that from Her Grace’s desk?” he asked. “I believe she was making use of it.”
Binsey nodded. “You said the entire collection, Your Grace.”
“Here, give it to me,” Devin said. “I’ll ask her if she still wants it, and if she doesn’t, we’ll send it to the Ashmolean on its own.”
The butler brought over the pot and set it on Devin’s desk, bowed, and left.
Devin opened it. Like Pandora’s box, he thought later. It held an unfinished letter, and the greeting leapt out at him.
Dear Mr. Marlowe.
Viola was writing to the vicar.
She was corresponding with one man while married to another . . . while married to him. His duchess was—
Without realizing what he was doing, he plucked the small sheet of paper from the chamber pot.
Dear Mr. Marlowe, Viola had written, I wish to congratulate you on the perspicuity of your recent sermon on marital harmony.
What the bloody hell? He cast his mind back to Marlowe’s most recent sermon, but frankly, he hadn’t paid attention. Attending church was more interesting now that he had a duchess beside him, but he had never seen any reason to accept advice from a vicar.
His wife clearly had a different point of view.
She not only listened, but apparently she was sharing details with Mr. Marlowe about their marriage. Confirming whatever it was he said by reference to their private life.
I shall take to heart your point as regards avoiding using another human being as an instrument for one’s own pleasure, thus making a spouse an object of indulgence.
His hand crumpled the page, and rage filled his chest.
For long moments, he stood stock-still, letting the anger course through him. It was a trick he’d taught himself, thanks to Annabel’s betrayal. All those years ago, when she tried to trick him into marriage, he had lost control.
Since that moment, at the slightest anger, Devin shut his mouth and simply breathed, no matter how long it took, or how peculiar it seemed.
When he was certain that he was in no danger of shouting at his wife, he walked upstairs. He shouldn’t have read Viola’s letter, but the crime was inadvertent. She shouldn’t share details of their married life with a vicar or anyone else.
That crime was not inadvertent.
His heart was thudding in a jerky rhythm because even though he was in control of his words, his body didn’t agree. His body felt betrayed, the way he felt every time his mother fled the house without a backward glance.
No matter how much he told himself that there was no parallel, his body wasn’t convinced. His hands were unsteady. Every breath he took burned in his chest.
He found Viola in her chamber, sitting by the fire. Her hair fell over one shoulder, a waterfall of bronze strands.
He couldn’t say anything.
Who had committed the greater crime, he or she?
He still had to tell her who he was. He still had to confess his secret, and discover whether her love was strong enough to forgive him. Every day he woke up, telling himself that today would be the day, but somehow it never was.
How could he tell her that he had ruined her life? Her future husband had frightened her until she spent years in purgatory, living in the country, hiding in a cowshed, terrified of men? He opened his mouth, but no words emerged.
She would leave him.
She would take everything that mattered in his life and leave him.
For the first time in their marriage, he seduced Viola not because he was blind with lust but because he wanted to see her blind with lust. He made love to her expertly, caressing her, kissing her, turning her this way and that, showing her new sensations and building her to such a shattering climax that she brought him with her.
Afterward she lay prone on the bed, her hair spilling around her in kinks and curls, her creamy hips showing the ruddy imprint of fingers where he had deftly held her at just the right angle until she could feel every bit of his shaft.
He felt a surge of satisfaction.
Viola rolled over and pushed a thick lock of hair out of her eyes.
He smiled at her. “How are you?”
She sighed. “What was that?”
“What?”
“That,” she said. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it, because I did. But I liked it better in the closet.”
He stared at her, astounded. “Because there was someone nearby?” His mind spun. He could think of any number of public places where he could make love to her if that’s what she wished.
“No!” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I wouldn’t want to do it again. I liked the closet because you were tender.”
Tender?
He tried the word out and decided he wasn’t sure what she meant. His eyes went back to his fingerprints on her hips but they had faded. “I should have been more gentle,” he said. “I apolog—”
Viola clapped a hand over his mouth. “No!”
He blinked at her and opened his lips enough to nibble on one of her fingers.
“Come here,” she said, wrapping her other arm around his neck and tugging. “Here.”
They lay together, and she tugged and pushed and pulled until she had their bodies in just the right position for whatever she wanted to demonstrate. Her slender knee was between his and her arms were around his neck.
She leaned forward and his body rejoiced. He was thoroughly in favor of his wife teaching him the meaning of every word in the English language, as long as the lesson was conveyed when they were naked.
She didn’t kiss him.
Instead, she rubbed noses with him, her eyes looking into his.
“Tenderness,” she said. She pushed at him again, and he rolled onto his back. She pressed a kiss on one eyelid and the other. Eyes shut, he let himself experience tenderness, which turned out to have nothing to do with his demanding cock, or his thumping heart.
Perhaps it had something to do with his heart.
When she kissed his chest and murmured “tenderness,” he had the feeling it might break.
Chapter Thirty-two
The cloister of St. Wilfrid’s was a long, narrow space, lined with fantastically carved stone windows that seemed to be made from wood, not stone, since the casements curled into arresting shapes, complete with sprouts and tiny leaves. The high ceiling was formed of arches made from the same beautiful cream stone.
Devin walked do
wn the chamber, noting with interest that footmen in Wilde livery were arranging chairs in long rows down the cloister, preparing for the play that would be staged in the evening.
A boy was trotting up and down the room. “You must fit in at least thirteen more chairs,” Erik shouted. He had all the force of a Wilde, and footmen scurried to do his bidding.
A neatly built stage filled nearly the entire width at the far end of the chamber. As Devin neared, Lavinia clapped her hands. “One more time with the flood, if you please!”
“Right you are,” shouted a voice that Devin recognized as that of his coachman. On the opposite side of the arch a man in Lindow livery was peering down. “Ready, Hollyburn?” The two men nodded to each other.
Shimmering blue silk unfurled from the arch high above, fell down to the back to the stage, and flowed forward, more slowly, falling off the front.
“Magnificent,” Devin said, strolling forward.
“Not quite,” Lavinia said, sparing him a glance. “See the right edge? Mr. Hollyburn, you forgot to give a last flip to the string.”
“Sorry, me lady,” a voice bellowed back.
“Again,” she directed. The cloth began gathering into folds.
“How does that work?” Devin asked.
“String runs through small brass hoops sewn underneath the cloth,” Lavinia told him, watching closely as the cloth began slowly making its way back to the heavens. “Where’s Viola?”
“At home, napping.” Devin had left her behind, a cloud of silky hair spread over the pillows, her cheeks still high with color, her eyes shut. He had to fulfill his promise to her as regards Mr. Marlowe, and he had a good idea how to do it.
Lavinia looked at him with a wry smile but said nothing.
The second time the flood spilled from the sky seamlessly, rolling forward and flowing over the edge of the stage.
“Perfect!” Lavinia called.
A whiskery face peered down from the arched roof. “I have it now, me lady,” Mr. Hollyburn said.
“Where are the actors preparing themselves?” Devin asked.
“They’re in the library,” Lavinia said absentmindedly. “Rogers, can you roll out the ark, please?” she called.
Devin strolled on, taking in the brightly painted wooden ship, a frontispiece that had clearly been painted by children. The lines weren’t straight and the colors merged, but it was a magnificent piece of art, all the same.
“A larger chair for the bishop,” Erik shouted from behind him.
The front row would hold ecclesiastical dignitaries. The second row was for peers and their spouses, creating an interesting collision of two powerful worlds that rarely found themselves in the same audience. Without question, Bishop Pettigrew had never watched the outrageous play Wilde in Love, which had transfixed London audiences for weeks.
“I think we may have sold too many tickets,” Viola had told Devin that morning, her eyes shining.
Gentlemen could stand along the walls. The important thing was that his wife’s idea was coming to fruition. All of this came from an idea that Viola quietly—but persistently—brought into being.
The truth was that his duchess, his small, funny, shy, brilliant wife, was formidable. She was like a tidy hurricane. She came into his life . . . and now everything was changing. Mathematics was falling behind him, reminding him of the passionate way he used to play war with his wooden soldiers, until the day he put them away for good.
These days, he spent his days and evenings with the Wildes or Murgatroyds, surrounded by people who didn’t show any particular interest in his behaving like a duke. In fact, he had the feeling that ducal behavior was strongly discouraged among the Wildes. There were too many strong men.
They had to lay down their weapons and their dignity in order to enjoy each other.
Behind the stage was a curtained area, a sign indicating it was intended for costume changes. Next to it was what seemed to be the staging ground for Noah’s animals—given that a pensive-looking goat was tied to a stone railing.
Two things occurred to him on the way to the vicarage library. One was that his parents had never enjoyed anything, including time together. The other was that he wanted more than anything in the world to spend his life enjoying Viola.
One errand and he could return home to her. His quickened blood beat in a rhythm that had to do with—
Love.
He wasn’t a fool. Men who felt the way he did announced they were in love. They wrote poetry, painted portraits, generally made fools of themselves.
He loved his wife.
The Wildes loved their spouses; his uncle had loved his wife; someday Otis and Hazel would love their spouses.
He loved Viola. He’d thought as much before, but now the truth of it settled into his bones.
Through some miracle, he had been reformed into a new person, a strange man who knew instinctively how to love. Who recognized the emotion in other people’s eyes. Who had become part of a fellowship that he hadn’t truly believed in: people who loved others.
He did his errand and went back home, finding Viola in the bath.
His skin prickling with this new emotion, Devin nodded to her maid, who whisked out, giggling. He sat down on a stool and played maid for his wife, washing her long hair.
The bathing chamber pulled the world snugly around them. It was such a safe, warm space that for the first time in years, Devin allowed himself a glimpse of the freezing, black fear that he had grown up with.
He had been gently combing her wet hair, but he put down the comb.
Viola turned her head. “Devin?”
He dropped a kiss on her ear and said, stunned, “I was afraid for a long time as a child.”
She turned around completely, a wave of water following her motion, threatening to pour over the tub like Noah’s flood. She rose on her knees, wet hair covering her breasts.
“You look like a naiad,” he said. “You’re beautiful, Viola.”
She ignored the compliment. “Being afraid is exhausting.”
Devin considered her point and realized she was right. Some part of him had wound tight in childhood and spent years vibrating in a high wind. He nodded.
She leaned forward and put wet hands on his cheeks. “There’s nothing to be afraid of now.”
She was wrong.
Was it possible to be terrified of losing love one has only known for a short period of time? He knew the answer. It was yes.
“Are you afraid that you might become your father?” Viola’s eyes searched his and she gave him another sweet kiss.
“If I lose my temper, I might turn into him,” he said, forcing the words out of his mouth. “I might hear his shouts emerging from my mouth. I might become him.”
Viola sat back on her heels. A few strands of wet hair slid around her right breast. He was instantly hard. She shook her head. “You won’t become him.”
Her voice held complete certainty.
“Devin,” she said, crinkling her brow. She stood up and got out of the tub, paying no attention to the water that came with her. She stood in front of him, an exquisite, very wet water nymph.
Then she knelt in front of him. “Devin,” she said again, and opened her arms.
The look in her eyes was intolerable. Pity. He loathed pity. His male pride snapped around him like the suit of armor up in the attic, the one that had belonged to his great-great-grandfather.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Viola.” He stood, catching one of her hands and bringing her to her feet. He turned and caught up a sheet of toweling, wrapping her in it until her back was to him and she couldn’t see his face.
What in the bloody hell was happening to him?
Chapter Thirty-three
Viola walked into the cloister on Devin’s arm that evening, her heart beating quickly with excitement. She was tired—the day had been nothing if not emotional—but also thrilled. She had first had the idea of putting on a cycle play when they studied them in s
chool, years ago.
And now . . . here it was.
Not that she could take credit for it. Otis and Joan had managed casting and rehearsals; Lavinia and a crew of seamstresses had created the costumes. Caitlin had overseen the sets, painted by the children in the Sunday school and orphanage. Erik would prompt the actors.
Still, it had been Viola’s idea.
The cloister was crammed with elegantly dressed aristocrats. Every chair was occupied, and gentlemen stood along the back and sides of the room.
“Our seats are reserved in the second row,” she reminded Devin. “It will go well, won’t it?”
He looked down at her, heavy-lidded eyes calm and confident. “If the play is boring and the ark falls over and the flood doesn’t work, the orphans won’t care. They’ll just be happy to be warm and fed and off the streets. It has already gone well.”
She took in a deep breath. “Caitlin said the children are wildly excited to see the performance tomorrow. They painted the sets, you know. Every single one of them had a hand in the ark.”
“I could tell,” Devin said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.
That smile was so beautiful that her mind fogged. By the time she pulled herself back together, they had reached the front of the cloister, and Devin was bowing before Bishop Pettigrew and his flock of soberly dressed clerics.
Miss Pettigrew had made a special effort this evening; she was wearing a ruby-colored dress trimmed with orange satin leaves around the bosom. The color suited her dark hair and coloring, Viola thought, determined to be kind.
“The Duke and Duchess of Wynter,” Miss Pettigrew said. “My father, Bishop Pettigrew. And my father’s archdeacon, Mr. Bell.”
Mr. Bell was a splendidly bearded man who appeared to great advantage in clerical garb. He looked like a plausible bishop, in fact.
“We are somewhat concerned about this entertainment,” the bishop said ponderously. “I gather this is your idea, Duchess. The cause is an excellent one, though I feel compelled to point out that the Anglican Church has frowned upon the cycle plays since the days of Good Queen Bess.”
