Say Yes to the Duke EPB

by James, Eloisa

  She’d had a sudden realization.

  Devin had done this for her.

  He had realized the difficulty of having one’s husband dependent on one’s father. He was showing extraordinary thoughtfulness and kindness. In fact, she felt a little weak at the knees realizing just what a good friend he was.

  “While I am honored by Your Grace’s faith in me,” Mr. Marlowe said, catching her attention. “I too have some conditions.”

  Devin’s eyebrow swept into the air but with a glance at Viola, he replaced that expression with one of respectful interest. “I should be happy to consider them.”

  He overdid it a trifle, but Viola couldn’t help whispering, “Bravo!”

  “Hair powder is an affront to hungry people who cannot afford flour,” Mr. Marlowe stated. “I shall never wear it, and I would hope that the patron of my living would support this decision.” He didn’t glance at the Duke of Wynter’s snowy wig. “I have no expectations that he or other parishioners would follow my practice.”

  “Of course,” the duke said. “I fully support your right not to powder your hair, nor wear a wig.”

  “I learned during my two years as curate that St. Wilfrid’s is a very wealthy parish,” Mr. Marlowe said.

  “Mayfair is home to most of England’s noblemen,” Aunt Knowe contributed.

  She was looking reluctantly impressed. Viola could have told her that Mr. Marlowe wasn’t merely handsome; he was genuinely good. Genuinely concerned about the welfare of his parishioners.

  “The parish can support an orphanage,” Mr. Marlowe stated. “Were I to become its vicar, I would institute an orphanage to raise and educate abandoned children.”

  “I’m not sure there are many such children in Mayfair,” Devin said, “but I will support it.”

  “Precisely,” Mr. Marlowe said, with a touch of impatience. “The orphanage will not help only those unfortunates who happen to be born within the environs of Mayfair. We must look to the world outside our gilded gates. London is in desperate need of a foundling hospital, but we can start with an orphanage.”

  A moment of silence followed, during which Viola bit back a smile.

  Devin cast her a glance that she couldn’t read and said, “I understand, Mr. Marlowe, and I agree.”

  Viola realized that she’d never before heard the duke address the vicar as “Mr. Marlowe” rather than “Marlowe.”

  “As do I,” Lady Knowe said. “My brother and I will support the orphanage. Moreover, if you put on a biblical play as my niece has suggested, we will guarantee an audience that will establish the building’s charitable foundation.”

  Viola blinked. Had she just been given permission to marry a vicar?

  If so, she knew why.

  It was not because of Mr. Marlowe’s virtue, per se, but because he had stood up to the Duke of Wynter. Because he had ethical standards and he stuck to them.

  In short, the only thing standing in the way of her union with Mr. Marlowe was—

  Well, Miss Pettigrew.

  And Mr. Marlowe. She had to admit that he showed no signs of falling in love with her, even given his kindness in supporting her during her debut ball.

  Her eyes went across the room to Miss Pettigrew, sitting extremely upright. Viola knew how difficult it was to sit among exquisite people feeling less attractive.

  Perhaps it was immoral to pine for Mr. Marlowe, even if his marriage was likely to be unhappy.

  An elbow gently bumped her in the side. “We are planning a visit to the vicarage tomorrow afternoon,” Devin informed her. “Otis has been extolling the blue velvet upholstery in the drawing room.”

  “Of course,” Viola said, pulling herself together.

  “Lady Knowe would like to investigate whether it would be possible to build an orphanage on the church grounds, and Otis thinks that the cloister could house a temporary stage.”

  Viola nodded.

  “Do you often lose track of conversations?” Devin asked, clearly amused.

  She glanced up at him apologetically. “It’s a failing of mine. I always seem to be thinking of three things at the same time.”

  “You truly aren’t a candidate for a duchess,” he observed.

  “No, I’m not.” Viola shook her head.

  “Not for a vicar’s wife either,” he said in a low voice.

  Her brows drew together.

  “Parishioners? Endless meetings with the ladies who sew sheets for the poor, and the ladies who put flowers in the nave, and the ladies who do needlework renditions of Noah’s ark? Even longer conversations with irritated ladies offended by the dramatic version of Noah’s ark performed for the most virtuous of reasons?”

  Sir Reginald’s butler was at the door; they all rose. Mr. Marlowe hurried away to escort the Pettigrews.

  Devin held out his arm and Viola took it. They led the way into dinner, as Devin had the highest rank in the room.

  The very idea should have sent Viola’s stomach into knots.

  It didn’t.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following day

  Otis, Devin, Mr. Marlowe, and the Pettigrews had been invited for tea before the visit to the vicarage, since St. Wilfrid’s was a few blocks from the Lindow townhouse.

  “Do you ever consider how odd it is that life revolves around tea?” Joan asked, as she and Viola walked into the drawing room. “Why not turnips?” She threw her hand dramatically in the air and announced, “The duchess will be receiving at three for a collation of cabbage.”

  “Polite society is organized around meals,” Viola said. “I felt it acutely after I stopped being able to eat among strangers.”

  Joan paused and gave her a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

  “You were a tremendous help,” Viola said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You and your silly Wilde Child.”

  “Did you keep it in mind yesterday while you were walking into dinner on the duke’s arm?” Joan asked curiously. “You looked very calm. Ducal, even. Wilde, to be precise.”

  “Devin wishes to marry a woman from the nobility,” Viola reminded her. “My mother married into the nobility, but my father was from the gentry.”

  Joan broke into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Aunt Knowe called from the settee.

  “Silliness,” Viola said, leaving Joan behind and walking over to her aunt.

  “I adore that walking dress,” her aunt exclaimed, looking at Viola from head to foot. “You look particularly delectable this afternoon.”

  Viola glanced down. It was the third gown she had tried on, if she were honest. She had chosen it because it made her feel important. More than merely a shy woman, a wallflower with a habit of hiding behind the drapes.

  The lavender bodice was closely fitted with three large buttons, and the sleeves and neck were trimmed in silver braid. The slight military air made her look powerfully feminine. She wore her hair unpowdered, loose curls pinned around her head with the spangle-topped pins that Barty loved.

  “Excellent choice,” Aunt Knowe confirmed. She dipped her hand into the voluminous pocket of her robe à la française and pulled out a little tin. “I have a gift for you, Viola. I bought it in Soho yesterday.”

  “It’s adorable,” Viola said, taking the enameled tin. “Is it perfume?”

  “Lip color,” Aunt Knowe said, showing her how to flick open the top. Inside was a rosy pink salve. “Joan, do try it. If you like it, I’ll send my maid to fetch another for you.”

  “Excellent!” Joan cried, rubbing her finger against the salve and darting over to the mirror over the fireplace.

  Their headmistress’s admonishments about the unladylike nature of face paint darted through Viola’s mind.

  “There’s nothing worse than a prude,” her aunt said firmly. “I haven’t said anything to this date, darling, because I know that you prefer to be invisible. But tucking yourself into a neat little bundle isn’t the way to escape who you are. You are a Wilde.”

 
Viola nodded and rubbed a finger in the rosy-colored ointment.

  “That dress is made to stand out,” Aunt Knowe said. “Not blend into the wallpaper.”

  Viola took a deep breath and joined Joan at the mirror. Her stepsister was objectively one of the most lovely women Viola had ever seen. If Joan had been allowed to become an actress, she would be a star from the moment she sauntered from behind the curtains.

  But that didn’t mean Viola was nondescript.

  Joan’s lips had turned a deep rose that made her terrifyingly beautiful. As unattainable as Venus or Aphrodite.

  Lip salve gave Viola an entirely different look.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Joan exclaimed, turning from the mirror to stare at Viola. “You look so—what’s the word?”

  “Desirable,” Aunt Knowe said, coming up behind them. “You are beautiful, Joan, but if Viola were not so shy around men, she would have them all on their knees before her.”

  Viola saw what she meant. One might admire Aphrodite, but one wouldn’t necessarily want to marry her. Lavinia’s design for her walking dress emphasized her curves, and the buttons drew attention to her bosom. The lip color did something too.

  “Look at the two of us together,” her stepsister said as she turned back to the glass. “I look overly bold; in fact, I think lip color probably isn’t right for me.”

  “I agree,” Aunt Knowe said. “That’s why I didn’t buy you a tin, Joan. You’d terrify anyone under thirty.”

  Joan pulled out a handkerchief and began rubbing off the color.

  “But, Viola, you look enticing,” Aunt Knowe said, meeting her eyes in the mirror and smiling. “Like a perfect lady—but one with hidden depths. And believe me, darling, gentlemen like hidden depths. They long for them, in fact.”

  “I don’t believe I have any hidden depths,” Viola said uncomfortably.

  Aunt Knowe wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “The right man will take pleasure in helping you investigate the question.”

  “I spoke to the Duke of Wynter yesterday,” Joan said, her face gleeful as she tucked away her handkerchief. “Did Devin ask me about myself? Did he?”

  “No?” Viola asked.

  “He was too busy inquiring why you were afraid of horses, and whether you had a mare of your own. I told him that cows were more to your liking, and he could buy you a nice Hereford if he wished to impress.”

  “Joan!”

  Aunt Knowe was laughing so hard that they didn’t hear the door open, and it wasn’t until Prism cleared his throat and announced, “Lady Caitlin Paget,” that they all turned.

  “I didn’t know Caitlin was joining us,” Joan exclaimed.

  “Miss Pettigrew is not a good choice for Mr. Marlowe,” Aunt Knowe said quietly. “I assured Caitlin’s father that I would chaperone her. I want to give the two of them a further chance to know each other, albeit in the presence of Miss Pettigrew, which is awkward. But necessary.”

  Viola frowned, but Aunt Knowe shook her head. “You merely want to rescue him,” she said. “He’s a good man, Viola, and he deserves better than that.”

  “I would have made a good vicar’s wife,” Viola said, feeling a little hurt.

  “You would have tried with all your heart,” Aunt Knowe said, neatly dodging the point as she walked toward the drawing room door.

  They had barely finished bobbing curtsies when the door opened again. “Mrs. Pettigrew. Miss Pettigrew. Mr. Marlowe,” Prism intoned.

  “Such a pleasure,” Aunt Knowe said, turning to Mrs. Pettigrew. “You’ll have to forgive the duchess; she is suffering from an attack of the vapors.”

  In truth, on hearing that Mrs. Pettigrew was bid for tea, Ophelia had promptly been afflicted by a nervous headache that could be relieved only by retiring to the nursery and playing with Artemisia’s new dollhouse.

  Tea had been poured by the time Devin and Otis were announced.

  “I offer deep apologies for our late arrival,” Devin said, bowing before Aunt Knowe.

  “My fault,” Otis said cheerfully. “I couldn’t seem to choose the proper upholstery for the day’s journey.”

  “Upholstery?” Mrs. Pettigrew repeated, her brow pleating. “I understood from Mr. Marlowe that the vicarage has been refurbished with the finest furnishings.”

  “I was referring to myself,” Otis told her. “I felt one shouldn’t strike too bright a note, since I am returning, not to the scene of a crime, but to my former post.”

  They all looked, of course. Otis was wearing a green coat with matching pantaloons.

  “His third trunk hadn’t yet been unpacked,” the duke said, moving to Viola’s side.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s expression was naturally sober; now it darkened.

  “Lincoln green was a perfect choice,” Caitlin said before Mrs. Pettigrew could share her opinion, “and the lace on your cravat is exquisite. Did you read the piece in the Morning Chronicle about how many men are newly employed by Sterling Lace? As I understand it, Mr. Sterling plans to open two more factories.”

  “Which means it would be positively virtuous to acquire another such cravat,” Otis said. “I’ve been eyeing one embellished with lavender lace. Something like the color of your costume, Viola.”

  “This is Sterling lace,” she said, touching her wrists, well aware that the Pettigrews did not seem to appreciate her daring gown.

  “Do I understand that you are addressing Miss Astley by her first name?” Mrs. Pettigrew asked Otis. Her lips were pursed, and her eyebrows nearly met.

  “I shall be the arbiter of my family’s behavior,” Lady Knowe stated.

  Of course, that didn’t stop Joan. “I much prefer birth names. It’s quite the fashion these days, you know. Devin and Viola are on the very best of terms as well, are they not?”

  “Certainly.” Devin’s expression didn’t alter a whit, but for some reason Viola felt a delicious twinge anyway, as if he had looked at her and—

  But he hadn’t.

  “More tea!” Aunt Knowe cried airily. “We have a most important errand this afternoon. A cucumber sandwich or two, and it’s time to be on our way.”

  In the bustle of pouring fresh cups of tea and handing out the said sandwiches, Mr. Marlowe and the duke drew to the side of the room and began speaking quietly. Viola could only think that Mr. Marlowe must have decided to accept the post at St. Wilfrid’s.

  She stopped listening to the chatter about sandwiches and tried to think clearly. She had the distinct sense that Devin was no longer searching for the daughter of a duke.

  Perhaps he had decided she, Viola, had sufficiently noble blood?

  She felt a little short of breath at the thought.

  “I was extremely fond of rhetoric,” Miss Pettigrew announced, catching Viola’s attention. “Rhetoric rewards the use of one’s intelligence.”

  “I must be rotten at using my intelligence, or I don’t have any, because I loathed it,” Caitlin said. “I don’t know if you are aware, Viola, but Miss Pettigrew was famous for her rhetorical abilities at Miss Stevenson’s Seminary.”

  “I too found rhetoric difficult, as I am shy,” Viola admitted.

  “You appear to have outgrown the trait, Miss Astley.” Mrs. Pettigrew’s lips were drawn very tight and she directed a hard look toward Viola’s mouth.

  Viola promptly decided to wear lip salve every day.

  “In a well-ordered mind, there is no room for shyness,” Miss Pettigrew added, capping her mother’s pronouncement.

  “Do you have a well-ordered mind?” Joan inquired, less than politely, but no one could say that the conversation was precisely conventional.

  “I do,” Miss Pettigrew said, folding her hands in her lap. “My mother taught me that a well-ordered mind reflects a well-ordered soul. That, of course, is an objective toward which we should all strive.”

  “Miss Pettigrew, may I offer you another slice of lemon cake?” Aunt Knowe said, turning from her conversation with Otis to exhibit her unfailing instinct for the mo
ment when the nursery was about to erupt into war.

  “You must hear about Miss Pettigrew’s well-ordered soul, Aunt Knowe,” Joan chirped.

  “I’d be honored,” Aunt Knowe said. “Do share with us the secrets of achieving this desirable state?”

  “One begins by knowing one’s place in the world,” Miss Pettigrew said.

  “I have always insisted on that point,” her mother agreed.

  “I agree that lack of ambition is a partner to happiness,” Aunt Knowe said, nodding.

  “You misunderstand me,” Miss Pettigrew said. “If one does not strive, life has no meaning. As Mr. Marlowe will regularly profess in his sermons, one must constantly practice a life of purity.”

  Caitlin’s brows drew together. “It almost sounds as if you will be intimately acquainted with the content of Mr. Marlowe’s sermons.”

  “My mother has always written my father’s sermons,” Miss Pettigrew said. “I will take the onerous task from Mr. Marlowe’s hands. I have been trained by the best in the land. He can spend his time succoring the poor and ill, while I will tend to the moral garden, as it were, pruning weeds as they arise.”

  Viola watched as Caitlin glanced at Mr. Marlowe’s back. He was still talking to the duke, but she had the idea that Caitlin agreed with her: Mr. Marlowe had no idea that he would be handing over responsibility for his sermons on his wedding day.

  “Pruning weeds,” Aunt Knowe said, with obvious fascination. “Mr. Marlowe will be in charge of discovering sins, and you will provide admonishments.”

  “I will be the scribe for his inmost thoughts,” Miss Pettigrew said, dodging the question. “I will exert my powers to phrase the thoughts of his heart and mind, just as my mother has done for my father.”

  “Bishop Pettigrew has preached before the king himself,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, a proud smile playing around her mouth.

  “I must congratulate you,” Aunt Knowe said, after a stark moment of silence. “If I understand your daughter correctly, in essence you preached before the king.”

  “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.”