by Eloisa James
Viola sighed inwardly. She had to train him out of opening doors for . . . well, she hated the word . . . “betters.” She may not be a real Wilde—not in her own eyes nor in those of the Duke of Wynter—but her father had been a lord.
Yet she didn’t consider herself “better” than Mr. Marlowe.
Quite the opposite. She couldn’t wait until she could help him with his life’s work.
“You are no mouse,” the duke commented, as they walked away from the library, heading down the long corridor that led to the ballroom, while Mr. Marlowe returned to the upper regions of the house.
Viola was trying to decide whether Aunt Knowe would allow her to retire before the repast offered to their guests. Now that she had no appointment with Mr. Marlowe to look forward to, she hadn’t the faintest interest in a lavish meal that would last until two in the morning.
She shrugged. “I thought your uncle’s assessment was fair as regards my character, though obviously he was mistaken about our suitability for matrimony.”
“Because you were hiding in the library, waiting for the vicar?” His voice was velvety smooth and amused.
She cast him a look of real dislike. He was probably the sort of fellow who would go back to his club and make fun of her.
His opinion of her didn’t matter, Viola told herself. What he said to his friends about her was unimportant as well.
Mr. Marlowe had been kind enough to meet her and to offer his support, although he had to rise with the dawn. Surely that was a sign that his affection for her was growing, if not turning to love.
“Perhaps you should return to the library and wait for Sir Reginald,” she said, ignoring Wynter’s question. It was self-evident that they would have been a wretched match, even if he hadn’t already declared her unsuitable. “I shall be perfectly fine returning to the ballroom myself.”
“My uncle won’t be surprised that I didn’t wait for him,” the duke said indifferently.
“In that case, why did you promise to do so?”
“As you undoubtedly overheard while lurking behind the curtains, my plan was to wait in the library until it was time to dance with Lady Joan.”
That was the final straw. It wasn’t as if she had wanted to eavesdrop on his insults.
She came to a halt and drew her hand out of his arm. “Even for a duke, you are exceptionally rude,” she informed him. “Your uncle sought you out in the library in an effort to help you find a wife, and you clearly need his assistance. Despite his kindness, you didn’t wait for him.”
“No, I didn’t,” the duke stated, looking down at her with a wry smile. “Will it give you an even worse opinion of me to learn that it didn’t occur to me?”
“My opinion of you is irrelevant,” Viola observed.
“Perhaps, but you are sharing it with such enthusiasm.”
That was fair.
“If I left without dancing with your stepsister, I’d have to put on this ludicrous coat and go to another ball,” the duke added.
She glanced at his coat. It was fashioned from lilac silk and embroidered up the front and waistcoat with cabbage roses. “Gaudy but not entirely tasteless. You are a duke. You need to dress to your station, enabling the army of ladies lying in wait to know instantly who you are when you enter a room.”
“‘Gaudy’?”
“Would you prefer ‘extravagant’?”
“Apparently, I am a casualty of my lack of interest and my valet’s questionable taste.” His voice was deep—and amused. “Would you consider your gown its opposite?”
Viola and Joan were both dressed in white, their gowns explicitly designed to strike a balance between demure and ducal.
“The pearls could be said to be extravagant,” Viola allowed.
“You could snip them off and buy yourself a country estate,” the duke agreed.
Had his eyes lingered on her bosom? Viola’s finest feature had been shaped by a corset that hugged her curves and presented her breasts to the world in a manner that had almost distracted the young earl out of his obsession with gargoyles earlier in the evening.
Almost.
But no, the duke’s eyes were fixed on her face.
“You will have to attend at least one more ball,” Viola told him. “Joan is as unsuited to be your wife as I am.”
“I hadn’t met either of you before tonight,” he said, sounding not in the least ashamed.
Was that supposed to be an excuse?
An explanation?
Music could be heard from the ballroom, but Viola could see guests drifting out of the door toward the dining room, where a supper was to be served before they all returned to their own houses. She began walking again, a little faster.
The duke kept pace with unhurried strides. “Miss Astley, may I have the honor of the next dance?”
“Certainly not,” Viola replied. Then she realized that her response hadn’t been precisely polite, although she had just criticized his manners. Hypocrisy is a sin, she reminded herself. Now that she meant to be a vicar’s wife, she was trying to improve her personality.
Not just her shyness in public, but all her other faults as well.
The impulse to call the duke a fatheaded ass, for example. Not a sin, but an offense.
She stopped walking, flipped open her fan, and glanced at the names scrawled there. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid that I have promised every dance, and I cannot make room for you. If only you had asked earlier, when you first arrived.”
“You could accompany me to supper. I believe that the supper dance is playing now, and obviously the gentleman to whom you promised the dance has been unable to find you.”
She had promised the dance to her stepbrother Alaric, since his wife wasn’t attending the ball. It was all planned beforehand so she wouldn’t have to endure a meal with a stranger.
“Unless you’re planning to run away, now that you’ve met with the vicar,” the duke added.
That was too close to the truth to be comfortable.
Perhaps she could contrive to spill something on her gown, allowing her to retire for the night. Aunt Knowe would see through it, of course, but the ball had been such a success to this point that she wouldn’t be too cross.
No, because a print would undoubtedly appear depicting Graceless Viola, the bumbling not-Wilde.
Speaking of which, she had to get rid of Wynter before anyone saw them together. He would draw far too much attention. She didn’t want to be Graceless Viola, but she didn’t want anyone to think that she had caught the eye of a duke either.
“You are waiting for Joan,” she reminded him. “You must know what she looks like since you asked for a dance. Perhaps you can find her. There might be a seat free at her table. Or you could wait for her in the supper room and lunge when she makes an appearance.”
“I would prefer to meet Lady Joan at the arranged time,” the duke said.
“I understand,” Viola said. “You don’t want to look desperate.”
“No,” the duke agreed. “Never that.”
“Well, I will bid you good night, Your Grace.”
“We might go to supper together,” the duke repeated.
“No, thank you.”
“You would be making my uncle happy, not to mention your father and mine,” he said, looking down at her. He was absurdly tall. “That has to count for something.”
“I didn’t know my father,” she said, nipping this ridiculousness in the bud. “He died before I was born. It sounds as if yours was not entirely affable, but all the same, he left you a direct command as regards marriage that should be respected. I am not a real Wilde, and certainly not a duke’s daughter. You needn’t waste your time with me.”
“Sharing the meal will make my uncle happy. I scarcely knew my father and I am very fond of Sir Reginald.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he somehow had managed to put on an expression that suggested filial duty. “You might well be barraged by women with stuffed birds on their wig
s. I saw at least two or three.” She herself was wearing a reasonably sized snowy white wig, ornamented only with pins topped with pearls.
“I would have you at my side.”
“Yes, but I don’t want you at my side,” she said, resorting to truthfulness. “You will attract far too much attention and I don’t care to be employed as a shield between you and your admirers. I have better things to do.”
He looked faintly offended. “Better than hiding behind the curtains waiting for a milksop?”
“Mr. Marlowe is not a milksop,” she retorted, staying calm because . . . Wynter was an ass and that was that. No point in crossing swords with him. “Mr. Marlowe isn’t vain, like the sort of aristocrat who boasts about his knowledge of the queen’s antechamber. He is a vicar, and as such, he is . . . he is full of the milk of human kindness!” she finished in a rush, the phrase coming to her suddenly.
“Milky indeed,” the duke said, a gleam of humor in his eyes.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I imagine not, since the vicar has clearly been showering his milky kindness on the Lindow household, making himself available for pastoral counsel day or night.”
Viola frowned at him. “Your Grace, I suggest you return to the ballroom and find another candidate to marry other than my sister.”
“Why not Joan?”
“I won’t have it,” Viola said. “She won’t have it either. You’re not the sort of person whom . . . whom one would want to face over the breakfast table for years on end, to use your own criterion. Although,” she added, “you must know that married ladies are allowed to eat from trays in their bedchambers.”
Despite herself, envy leaked into her voice.
“Do you not care for the breakfast table, or are you simply a champion of breakfast trays?” the duke inquired.
“I can’t imagine why you’re interested, but the truth is that my nerves have often gone to my stomach, making a public breakfast an uninviting proposition,” Viola admitted.
“More at breakfast than at supper?” he asked, looking as if he was actually interested.
“My aunt used to force me into the breakfast room to test my nerves,” Viola said with a little shudder. “You can’t imagine how many times I have come close to vomiting on a gentleman’s shoes when he had no more temerity than to ask me if I was enjoying the sausage.”
“Should I be worrying about my shoes?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the fact you’re laughing silently, because I have.”
“Not at your distress,” he said immediately. “Perhaps at your phrasing. You are very funny, in a quiet way. What changed, Miss Astley? How were you cured? Because here you are, talking to an eligible duke, and you show no signs of gastric distress.”
“You aired my opinion of me—that I’m not a real Wilde—before I had the chance to worry about whether you thought I wasn’t a real Wilde. It was refreshing.”
They were nearing the great doors to the ballroom.
“Goodbye,” she said. “I should find my partner for the supper dance, even if I have missed it.” She bobbed a curtsy.
He didn’t bow. “You could take me with you. I am a fellow sufferer,” he said instead. “Think of my nerves. You could support me, just as milky Marlowe supported you.”
“No, thank you,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll get over it. Jangled nerves are not a life-long affliction. I can assure you that if you had met me last fall, I would have been miserably contemplating your shoes at this moment.”
“What changed?” he asked. And: “Oh, bloody hell.”
She looked around him to see Caitlin barreling toward them. “Hello!” Viola cried, waving.
Caitlin stopped before them, only slightly out of breath.
“Lady Caitlin, His Grace was just telling me of your graceful dancing,” Viola said. “He has offered to accompany me to supper, but I’m afraid that I have torn my hem and I’ll need to retire for repairs.”
Wynter was staring down at her as if she were abandoning him to a conquering army.
“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, giving him a smile, “I’ll find my mother and ask for her assistance.”
“Her Grace is just inside the ballroom,” Caitlin said, showing her eagerness all too evidently. Ophelia had emphasized that there was nothing a gentleman disliked more than being stalked.
But Cat was like her namesake in that.
“I’d like an answer to my question,” the duke said. “What changed, Miss Astley? How did you conquer your nerves?”
Rather than answer, Viola dropped another curtsy. “Your Grace, it has been such a pleasure.”
“You could join us,” the duke said, showing remarkable persistence. “I would consider myself most fortunate to escort two lovely young ladies to supper.”
Caitlin had attached herself to the duke’s side like a limpet, and she gave Viola a direct look that begged her not to accept the duke’s invitation.
The Wildes thought of Joan as the actress of the family, but Viola hadn’t watched her perform all these years for nothing. She fluttered her eyelashes like a butterfly in a storm and said, “Would that I could, Your Grace! But . . . my gown.”
“Your hem,” Caitlin chimed in.
“Good evening, Your Grace, Lady Caitlin,” Viola said, beaming at both of them before she walked off.
It wasn’t until she was inside the ballroom that she realized she had given the duke a real smile.
Chapter Seven
The Duke of Wynter’s study
The next morning
Devin had taken Lady Caitlin into supper after he was deserted by Miss Astley—whose name was Viola, he’d discovered by striking up a conversation with her stepsister Joan while they danced later that evening.
Viola was right: Joan wasn’t the wife for him.
Joan shone like torchlight in that bloody ballroom; all eyes were on them from the moment he bowed before her. If he married her, their every move would be catalogued in the popular press.
Exquisitely beautiful, yes. But one doesn’t marry a woman for the sake of the portrait gallery.
The image of Viola practically baring her teeth at him as she informed him that she wouldn’t allow him to marry her sister came to mind.
“What are you smiling about?” his cousin Otis asked. He had stopped by to let Devin know that he’d finally been officially released from the clergy, and his belongings were being moved from the vicarage in the afternoon. “You never smile.”
Devin glanced at him. “You didn’t attend the Lindow ball last night.”
“I thought Father might break into tears if he saw his ungrateful son circling the ballroom floor,” Otis said. “After we had an argument, I told him that I was thinking of heading to Spain to find an heiress, which led to a ruckus since Spanish women are Catholic.” He was seated in a chair before Devin’s desk, long legs stretched out before him. From his disheveled look, he’d been out all night, in livelier environs than the Lindow townhouse.
“No going to Spain until you find me another vicar. You took on the task months ago, and you haven’t come up with a replacement,” Devin said. “Luckily, I can point you in the right direction.”
“That’s your responsibility,” Otis said. “Must be hundreds of them floating around. Some of the fellows I was at university with had five brothers, all of them taking orders. I’ll give you some free advice, Dev: I don’t think you should find another third, fourth, or fifteenth gentleman’s son. We’re not in the business for the right reasons, and that’s me saying it. I say, don’t you think we should celebrate my escape with a spot of brandy?”
“It’s 10 a.m.,” Devin observed.
“It feels later than that,” Otis replied. “I’ve been out all night.”
“I gathered as much from your attire. You have a distinctly nonclerical air.”
Otis glanced down at his crumpled maroon coat, enlivened by a waistcoat embroidered with
pansies. “A bit cheerful for the fellows in black,” he acknowledged. “I had the waistcoat made while I was at Cambridge, but I hadn’t worn it since I moved into the vicarage. I couldn’t even find it at first, until it turned out that my valet had tucked it away in the attic. He never liked it.”
“Sherry?” Devin asked, moving toward the sideboard.
“Champagne is better for breakfast,” Otis said, brightening immediately. “Here, I’ll ring for that owl you call a butler. Now he would make a good vicar. You need a Bible thumper with a feeling for the business, a proper gospel grinder. You can tell that wearing black and brooding over people’s sins comes naturally to Binsey.”
Devin’s butler, Binsey, pushed open the door with an alacrity that indicated he had been hovering in the vicinity of the door. And the dark look he threw at Otis suggested that he’d had his ear pressed to the keyhole.
“Champagne,” Devin said, heading back to his chair.
Binsey narrowed his owlish eyes to indicate disapproval but took himself away.
“I hear you went to the Lindow ball last night,” Otis said. “There was plenty of chatter about it from fellows who ended up at the club later. I don’t know why people say that women are the gossiping sex; men love to blather on.”
“What was the blather?”
“Did you see Viscount Greywick? Remember, I warned you that he would be competition?”
“I missed him.”
“Well, apparently he danced with the Astley girl twice, and everyone says that he’s decided that Joan’s bad blood can’t be allowed to dilute his family line. Which means that the coast is clear for you to scoop up your Wilde. Except for the competition I offer, of course,” Otis added. “It could be that Lady Joan will take one look at me and shrug off her ducal ambitions.” He grinned.
“Greywick danced with Viola? He can’t have her,” Devin said, the words leaving his mouth without conscious volition.
Otis’s mouth flopped open like a Scottish trout on the riverbank. “What?”
“What?” Devin was feeling disconcerted.
“He can’t have her?”
“No,” Devin said, committing to something that he hadn’t even articulated to himself.