“Joey’s grown up,” Mr. Marlowe exclaimed, leaning forward, blue eyes shining. “I can’t imagine that, Lady Caitlin.”
Caitlin dimpled and assured him it was true, and launched into tales of all the children whom he might remember from his years as a curate.
Looking about, Viola realized that Miss Pettigrew’s afternoon was not proving a happy one. Clearly, Mr. Marlowe’s fiancée wanted him to accept the appointment to St. Wilfrid’s parish. She wanted to be near her mother. She wanted her husband to become a bishop, and a rich parish like this was an excellent means to that end.
But St. Wilfrid’s included Caitlin, whose family was as important to the parish as Devin’s—and Devin owned the living. Caitlin knew everything about the parish, and she was happily informing Mr. Marlowe of the health of all the parishioners whom he remembered.
In short, they had a friendship—or at least an acquaintanceship—that went back years.
Mrs. Pettigrew had been wandering the room, poking at books with a disapproving look, picking up a misshapen clay pig and putting it back with a click, running her finger along the shelves, pausing to squint at a pendulum clock that likely stopped ticking a century ago.
“This furniture will not do,” she said now, returning to the group. “It is inappropriate: A lady prefers chairs with high backs and sturdy fabric.”
Luckily Otis had taken himself off to consult with the housekeeper about touring the rest of the vicarage.
Caitlin smiled and admitted that her cats had destroyed several chairs in her home, sharpening their claws. “This velvet would be hanging in strips,” she said cheerfully. “I believe Mrs. Pettigrew is right about the durability of the fabric.”
“Although it is exquisite,” Viola put in.
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Pettigrew said frigidly. “Am I to believe that you allow felines to roam your home at will?”
“My cats are house pets,” Caitlin explained. “They sleep in a basket in my room.”
Miss Pettigrew’s mouth drew in very tight. “Modern science indicates that cats carry diseases. Some say they do worse.”
“Worse?” Caitlin said, straightening her shoulders, which Viola recognized as a danger sign from when they were in school together. Caitlin was endlessly sweet—but not when it came to defending her pets.
“Oh, no,” Joan muttered. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make myself scarce.” She stood up and sauntered away.
Caitlin had arrived in Miss Stevenson’s Seminary a year after Viola and Joan, sent there by a father who had neither the time nor the inclination to cope with a newly motherless daughter. From his point of view, he had to marry again quickly in order to produce the heir needed to carry on his name and title.
Caitlin had been grieving for her mother and shaken by the loss of her home. She had distinguished herself on the first night at Miss Stevenson’s by throwing an unprecedented tantrum when the maids tried to remove the kitten she had brought with her, hidden in a hatbox.
“I can assure you that cats are entirely harmless,” Caitlin said now. “Unless you are a rodent, of course. Cats are excellent at keeping down vermin. Indeed, I feel that any house without a cat is likely suffering from an invasion of mice, if not rats.”
All those years ago, Joan and Viola had been parlor boarders, sharing a suite with two bedchambers and a parlor. When the battle over the kitten erupted, they invited Caitlin to take one of their bedchambers. “You and I can sleep together,” Joan had told Viola. “I know you’ll never allow that kitten to be banished to the stables.”
“Scientists believe that a cat can steal breath from a sleeping person,” Miss Pettigrew informed Caitlin.
“Miss Pettigrew, I assure you that is not the case,” Viola said hastily. “When Joan and I were in school with Caitlin, her cat often slept on one or another of our beds.”
“His name was Pitchy,” Caitlin said, nodding. “If he stole our breath, apparently we had enough air to go around.”
“My daughter attended the same seminary, a few years before you, and I clearly remember that animals were not tolerated,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, with a look that suggested she meant to demand her tuition money back.
“Did you meet Mr. Marlowe while he was a curate here at St. Wilfrid’s?” Viola asked Miss Pettigrew, trying to change the subject.
“No,” Miss Pettigrew said shortly.
“We met last All Hallows’ Eve,” Mr. Marlowe said. He looked as eager as Viola to change the subject of conversation.
Viola blinked. In the end of October? She had met him in November. Could he and Miss Pettigrew have been betrothed upon their first meeting?
“We were introduced by my father,” Miss Pettigrew added.
Viola felt another surge of sympathy. Instinctively, she glanced across the room at Devin. As if he felt her gaze, he looked up and their eyes met. The emotion in his was unmistakable. Joan was telling him a long story, her hands flying, and he was in need of rescue.
“Excuse me,” Viola said, standing up and heading toward His Grace.
Otis appeared at the door. “Come along, everyone! Mr. Marlowe won’t recognize the bedchambers after the changes I made.”
Viola hadn’t reached the duke, but he turned away from Joan and strode toward her as if her beautiful stepsister didn’t exist.
Toward her.
Short, insignificant Miss Astley, who wasn’t a Wilde, and wasn’t a good candidate to become a duchess.
And yet . . .
Perhaps she was a good candidate to be the Duke of Wynter’s wife.
Behind his back, Joan’s face was alight with laughter.
“It’s time to tour the vicarage, I believe,” Viola said, feeling distinctly awkward.
Devin bent and said in her ear, “As long as you are not planning a future here.” His voice rasped.
She gave him a saucy smile, certain on that point, if not on the question of being a duchess. “I’m certain that Mr. Marlowe would welcome my advice as regards renovation.”
“No renovation necessary,” he growled.
For the first time in Viola’s life, she looked up at a man from under her lashes, the kind of look that Joan had given every male under the age of eighty since she was five.
Devin swallowed hard; she saw his throat move.
Viola let her smile widen before she turned and walked out of the room, following her aunt, aware that she was having one of the best days of her entire life.
“Have you thought about what I said?” Devin asked her as they climbed a set of narrow wooden stairs. He was behind her—every lady climbed alone as the steps were too narrow for fashionably wide gowns—and his voice tickled the back of her neck.
“Thought about what?”
“My decision to woo you?”
She reached the top of the steps and shook out her skirts as Devin stepped onto the landing. He wasn’t handsome, the way Mr. Marlowe was. Her eyes moved to the vicar—
Devin grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me.”
Was it wrong to feel thrilled by the intensity in his eyes? Yes, it probably was. Still, it felt that for the first time in her life, someone had chosen her. Her family loved her, but they hadn’t chosen her. Barty, Cleo, and Daisy loved her, but she had saved their lives.
The duke was attracted to her, but he didn’t love her.
How could he? They scarcely knew each other.
All the same, he had chosen her, even though she didn’t fit any of his preconceptions about whom he wanted as his wife.
She pushed open the door of the room closest to her and walked inside. It was a small sitting room, likely designed for the mistress of the house.
Devin followed her. And pushed the door shut behind them, which was thoroughly improper.
“Are you trying to compromise me, so that I have to marry you?” she asked, not believing it for a moment.
He scowled. “I would never do that to anyone.”
“You should open the door,” she point
ed out.
He wrenched open the door. The corridor was empty; she could hear Mrs. Pettigrew exclaiming from some other room about the presence of more celestial blue velvet.
Devin strode toward her, his eyes intent on hers. Viola leaned against the back of a high-backed sofa. “I’m not entirely certain what courtship entails,” she said.
“Courtship is made up of stolen moments,” he said. “In which we come to know each other better. For example, after our conversation yesterday, I am now fairly certain that you have no interest in bringing home an elephant to join Cleo and Daisy.”
“You remembered their names!” Viola exclaimed and colored. “Why did you suggest an elephant?”
“One of my closest friends lives in India, and I’d like to visit him someday. He is a mathematician, and in one letter he described a herd of elephants wandering across the garden before his window.”
“All I know is that they have long trunks,” Viola confessed.
“They are loving,” he said, moving closer. “They mate for life and never forgive an insult.”
A sizzling feeling was coursing through Viola’s veins. Instinctively, she knew that this feeling would lead a person to abandon the rules of polite society, no matter how firmly held. Devin’s eyes looked at her so intently that he must be seeing all her cowardly bits and pieces, and yet he was still here, in this room.
Looking at a woman whom both of them agreed would not be a suitable duchess.
“What do you think courtship should be like?” he asked her.
Was it her imagination that his voice had taken on an even deeper note?
“Practice for marriage?” she said awkwardly. His eyes were stormy gray, yes, but it was a particular kind of storm. An invitation was being issued, silently. If emotion were a wire, it would be strung between them tightly. “One must learn to understand the other person. Why were you cross a few minutes ago?”
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“This is where you can imagine me raising one eyebrow,” she told him. “You were practically growling.”
One corner of his mouth crooked up. “You looked at that bloody vicar.”
Just as she suspected. “Are those two words allowed to be in the same sentence? If you must know, I was comparing the two of you.”
The storm clouds in his eyes darkened.
“He’s very handsome,” Viola said, feeling inarticulate and shy. She dropped her gaze and stared at his chest instead.
“I’m not.” Devin crossed his arms, which meant that she noticed the breadth of his chest again. “But I’m the right one for you, Viola.” There was utter confidence in his voice. In fact, she’d noticed that he was always confident.
It was probably a bone-deep part of him, in the same way that a little frisson of fear was commonplace to her.
“How can you possibly know that?” she asked. “You may be feeling something temporary. Your uncle suggested my name, and it was time for you to find a wife, and it was easier to choose me than find another.”
“My uncle has nothing to do with it. Although I’ll admit he was right.”
Viola bit her lip. She couldn’t help thinking that Devin would wake up one morning, take a look at her, and realize that he could have married a gorgeous, tall woman with flashing eyes and ducal cheekbones.
She darted a look at Devin. He wasn’t watching her as if she were ordinary. At the moment, he was staring down at her with a sensual gaze that practically smoldered.
For her!
“May I lift you?” He patted the padded back of the sofa.
“Yes.”
His outstretched hand wrapped around her waist, his fingers molding to her curves. Viola could feel the warmth of his hand and before she registered it, he put her on the back of the sofa and stepped away.
There was silence in the room as their eyes met.
“I like being able to see you across from me rather than from above,” he said, a trace of a smile on his lips.
“You wouldn’t like it if I were actually this tall,” Viola said, scarcely knowing what she was saying.
“I don’t care what height you are.” Devin gathered her into his arms with an almost soundless groan. “When you are anxious, you bite your lip. If anyone is going to bite your lip, it’s me,” he whispered, nipping her bottom lip.
Viola found herself giggling, because how often does one see a duke with a hungry look? Dukes were given everything they wanted before they knew they wanted it. And they were never wild, because a duke—with his snowy wig, embroidered coat, and embroidered satin shoes—is the very epitome of civilization.
Yet Devin’s eyes were both wild and hungry. They kissed until she gathered her courage and said, “What if you get tired of having a short, nonduchessy duchess?”
“I want a nonduchessy duchess. Which is nothing less than what I said from the moment I decided to find a wife.”
“What?” she asked. She was trembling all over.
“I said I wanted a Wilde,” he reminded her.
She stared into his eyes, trying to believe him. Wilde Child echoed in her head. If she was a Wilde . . . was she Wilde enough for him?
“I don’t want just any Wilde. I want the most beautiful Wilde of all,” Devin said, his voice rasping. “The woman with a wide mouth who laughs easily and taught me in the space of one day to love a giggle. Who knows about medieval plays and abandoned crows. The woman with a darling pointed chin and exquisite hazel eyes.”
“Did you say that I have a ‘darling’ chin?”
He nodded.
“You’ve lost your mind,” she said with conviction.
“I believe you’re right.” He gave her his rare, brilliant smile that transformed his features entirely.
Viola stared, thinking that Devin was not just ducal: He was magnificent. His rough-hewn features were manly in a way that she’d never noticed before. The opposite of her, who was always afraid.
Always a little afraid, she amended.
“I’m a coward,” she said, blurting it out.
“As am I,” he said, enfolding her in his arms.
“What are you afraid of?” she managed, before they sank into a kiss so fierce and passionate that she emerged shaking like a leaf, her knees weak.
“I’m afraid you’ll say no and choose that bloody vicar over me,” he growled. “I don’t make impulsive decisions. You are my one impulse, and yet I know in my gut that it’s the right one.”
“Are you . . .” She cleared her throat and started again. “Are you sure you are not saying that you’re in love with me?”
“No.” The word was gentle but absolute. “I’ve known you less than a week, Viola.”
She nodded hastily. And yet she couldn’t help remembering that she fell in love with Mr. Marlowe at one glance.
Yet had she really been in love?
“Perhaps that’s what courtship is for?” Devin asked.
“Falling in love?”
His smile grew. “And kissing. Though if I can’t find a handy settee like this one, I will get a crick in my neck.”
“Because I’m short?” Viola felt a flash of humiliation. “I’m sorry.”
He braced his arms on either side of her. “I like short.” There wasn’t anything complex in his eyes. He liked short.
Viola, having grown up in a family of giants, could scarcely believe it.
She kept her knees primly together, but she could feel the warmth of his body and the wintergreen smell that hung about him.
“Why do you smell like a pine tree?” she asked.
“My soap.” He leaned closer. “You smell like flowers.”
“Tobacco soap,” she said, feeling as if she were babbling because there was something in his eyes that looked like tenderness. “Aunt Knowe has a few plants in the greenhouse that one of my stepbrothers brought back from the colonies.”
“May I kiss you again?”
She drew in a quick breath. “Yes.”
“May
I put my hands on your back, to make certain that you don’t topple over?”
She grinned at that. “You plan to kiss me dizzy, is that it?”
“You make me dizzy,” he said. He leaned forward and licked her bottom lip. “Your mouth is absurdly sensual. When I first entered the drawing room for tea, I couldn’t breathe for a moment. You shouldn’t do that to a man without warning.”
“Sensual? Me?” Her voice squeaked because, yes, there had been that moment when she stood in front of the mirror and Joan said she looked . . . and Aunt Knowe said . . .
But she had spent four years carefully looking at the feet of whichever man was bowing in front of her. The conviction that she was ordinary couldn’t be abolished by a swipe of lip color.
“You’re driving me mad, Viola,” he said huskily. “I’m having a difficult time remembering that you’re a proper young maiden and I can’t shut the door. Yet courtship should include privacy.”
The look in his eyes made her breath come in a little staccato gasp. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps no one would mind if the door was closed briefly. Very briefly.”
His eyes flared, which made her want to do something mad, part her legs and allow him to ease forward in order to—
Heat flooded up her bosom and into her throat. His eyes flickered. “I’m holding on to my gentlemanly credentials by a hair,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Now I’m going to say something unforgivable.”
Viola met his eyes and decided that nothing he could say would be unforgivable. “All right,” she said.
“Your breasts, Viola, are meant for worshipping. How can you possibly have thought that you are ordinary?”
She squeaked with laughter. “That is unforgivable! You mentioned a part of my body that gentlemen are allowed to gawk at, but never name.”
“I loathe that pretense,” he said. “The idea that gentlemen aren’t males, like the rest of the sex.”
“Dukes? Are dukes men like anyone else?”
He was silent for a moment, thinking that over. “I gather you would say yes, grouping dukes with the rest of the eyebrow-raising male population?”
Say Yes to the Duke EPB Page 16
