by Eloisa James
“Very well,” she said.
Her gloves went almost to her elbows, after all.
The duke bent over her hand and pulled gently at the tips of all five fingers. She stared down at his hair—thick, dark, and unpowdered, unlike many gentlemen in the room—and felt a strange qualm in her stomach, not at all like the warning of imminent gastric distress.
“I’ve never done this before,” Wynter said, flashing a glance at her.
“There’s nothing very difficult about it,” she said. “Just pull it off, if you please, Your Grace.”
He looked up at her again, his bare right hand holding her left. “It’s the first time I will have seen your hand. You wore gloves at the ball.”
Viola frowned at him. “Mine are perfectly normal fingers, Your Grace. You’re making a spectacle of us.”
“I don’t mind,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth as he picked up her other hand and began tugging each of her fingers free of her glove. “Very small,” he observed.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Viola moaned. “I shall go sit elsewhere, if you don’t stop it. We aren’t suited, remember?”
His large fingers curled around her hand, hiding it from sight. “If you run away, it will cause more gossip.”
“Stop it,” she ordered, knowing that her cheeks were pink.
Slowly he unwrapped his hand from around hers. “Am I allowed to say that I think your hand is very beautiful?”
“Absolutely not!”
In the ensuing hour or so, Viola danced with every eligible gentleman at the party, including the Duke of Wynter. At one point her stomach began to clench, after a gentleman asked her too many questions about what it was like being “raised with the Wildes,” but she caught sight of Wynter over the man’s shoulder.
He was looking at her, not his partner. He nodded.
Her stomach uncurled and settled. “I wasn’t raised ‘with’ the Wildes,” she told her dance partner, and gave him a wide smile. “I am a Wilde.”
Why hadn’t she understood that? The most important thing was to know the truth herself. That was what Joan had tried to tell her. Joan’s father was almost certainly a Prussian count, but she knew herself to be the duke’s daughter, and she didn’t need their father’s assurance.
“Of course,” the gentleman said respectfully. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
When Sir Reginald called the last dance, the Duke of Wynter bowed before Viola as if there was no question where he would be.
As if there was no question with whom he would dance.
Lord Poplar—Poppy—had been a step from her side, but he turned away with a rueful smile.
“What are you doing?” Viola asked Wynter in a whisper. “You should only dance twice with the lady whom you are planning to court!”
“I enjoy dancing with friends,” he answered. A gleam of humor shone in his eyes. “I dislike dancing with strangers, and it’s not as if I can dance with Otis.”
“Surely one young lady took your fancy?” Viola asked.
“It is possible.” There was a look in his eyes—
“Not me!” she said, frowning at him. He had an eyebrow raised, but when she looked at it, he stopped.
The duke had a brooding, rawboned face, but it transformed when he smiled.
Viola could feel her cheeks glowing, and she instinctively looked away, feeling flustered and uncomfortable.
And slightly mad, as if she were on the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump off. Of course she wouldn’t jump. She was someone who was attuned to danger above all. Who avoided powerful men. Who was—perhaps not in love with a vicar, but—
Could it be that she had chosen Mr. Marlowe because he was unthreatening?
She looked back at the duke, and discovered that he’d stopped smiling, but he was still looking at her. Waiting.
She got the feeling he wasn’t used to waiting for anything.
Of course, dukes never waited. That would imply that they put someone else before themselves: someone else’s wishes or needs above their own.
Years of feeling that she was insignificant rushed into her mind and stiffened her backbone. She must be misreading the situation.
The music drew to a close, and she dropped into a deep curtsy. The duke bowed and bent to her ear. “May I pay you a call tomorrow?”
She gulped. Words fluttered around in her head and refused to line up in proper order. His eyes searched hers in the silence, and that devastating smile appeared again, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making him . . .
Irresistible.
“Or take you for a carriage ride?”
“I think it would be better if you spent time with a young lady whom you might woo,” Viola said.
“Viola,” Joan called.
She dropped into another curtsy, forgetting she’d already done so.
When Viola raised her head, the look in the duke’s eyes made her feel as if her skin was too tight for her body.
There was a wordless moment in which they just looked at each other until Viola pivoted on her heel and hurried toward the door.
Chapter Eleven
By the end of the week, the Duke of Wynter had sent several bouquets of violets and paid two morning calls, both of which Viola had avoided by running up the stairs the moment his card was presented by the butler.
“You cannot avoid him at dinner tonight,” Joan pointed out gleefully. She was absolutely delighted by the fact that the most eligible bachelor of the Season seemed to be making a determined effort to woo Viola. No matter how Viola protested that she would make a terrible duchess, Joan had begun dropping into deep curtsies at the slightest pretext, addressing Viola as “Your Grace.”
In fact, to Viola’s horror, the younger Wildes had taken up the practice, and she couldn’t even pop her head into the nursery without Erik bowing until his head almost touched his knees while chortling himself sick.
Tonight they were bid to dinner at Sir Reginald’s townhouse, an invitation that explicitly included Mr. Marlowe, and apparently Miss Pettigrew and her mother as well. Viola wanted to attend, of course, since Mr. Marlowe would be there. Viola’s mother had promptly sent her regrets, and Aunt Knowe was again enlisted as chaperone, although she told them flatly that she meant to stay on the other side of the room from Mrs. Pettigrew.
“Once you’re a duchess, you’ll be able to refuse invitations with impunity,” Joan said mischievously.
Viola turned away from the mirror and shook her head. “I’ve told you a million times that the duke isn’t truly interested in me.”
But she wasn’t entirely sure.
“We wouldn’t suit,” she said more firmly. “Hazel agrees.”
It was a warmish evening, and the first thing Viola saw was that Sir Reginald had opened the doors that led to the gardens. Outside was a line of tall torches, apparently warding off any evening chill. The fire danced against the darkening sky, making the garden look more intimate than the drawing room itself.
Viola was wearing one of Lavinia’s designs, a gown made from pale rose silk with cream lace that wrapped around her bosom. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Miss Pettigrew’s lips pursed, and her eyes seemed to fasten on Viola’s chest as they greeted each other.
Were vicars’ wives required to wear black, a version of a female cassock? Miss Pettigrew hadn’t a hint of skin showing below her collarbone. She turned away with a final, condemning glance at Viola’s bodice.
Joan dropped a curtsy and trotted over to Otis on the other side of the room, sitting in a group of young people that included Caitlin, but Sir Reginald caught Viola’s arm and steered her, the Pettigrews, and Mr. Marlowe to a group of chairs, calling, “Nephew, come with us and talk to Mr. Marlowe about that idea of yours.”
Sir Reginald’s matchmaking attempts were not subtle. Even if Viola hadn’t overheard him urging his nephew to court the mouse, she could have guessed his intent from the way he bade Wynter be seated while pointing directly
to the cushion beside Viola.
Aunt Knowe rolled her eyes and strolled off to join Joan.
The duke obeyed, sitting down next to Viola on the sofa, so close that their shoulders touched. “How are you, Miss Astley?” he asked.
“I am very well, thank you,” she said, rearranging her skirts. It was surely imagination that led her to feel the warmth of his body next to her.
The butler appeared with a glass of sherry for Viola. “Would you like another glass, Your Grace?”
“Yes, I would,” Wynter said. “Good evening, Miss Pettigrew. I believe I’ve met your father, the bishop, recently.”
“My father counts among his acquaintances the highest in the land,” said Miss Pettigrew, giving the duke a lavish smile with little relation to the pinched greeting she gave Viola. She sipped her sherry, frowned, and put it down.
“The Bishop of London is an excellent connection for you, Mr. Marlowe,” Sir Reginald said. “My nephew tells me that you spent a few years as curate at St. Wilfrid’s.”
Viola had a strong feeling from the way Sir Reginald was eyeing Mr. Marlowe’s golden hair that he felt a vicar ought to powder his hair, if not wear a wig. But Mr. Marlowe had once shared his equally strong feeling that flour that could feed the poor shouldn’t be wasted to fabricate wig powder.
As Miss Pettigrew took it upon herself to confirm both her parentage and Mr. Marlowe’s previous position, Viola turned to the duke.
“Shoo,” she whispered. “Take yourself off, if you please.”
“And allow you to make a cake of yourself ogling the vicar? Better you look at me, even if you are scowling at the moment.”
“You are drawing attention,” Viola explained.
Wynter glanced about, and Joan and her friends instantly looked elsewhere. A perfect storm of chatter rose.
“You see?” Viola asked. “Now they’re talking of us.”
“Why do you care?”
“Don’t ask such a foolish question.”
“I truly desire to know.”
“They may come to the conclusion that you are courting me,” Viola whispered. “We both know that isn’t the case. Please don’t encourage their attention. And while we’re on the subject, why on earth did you send me flowers?”
“Let them talk,” Wynter said, his lip curling in a truly ducal fashion. “I shall send you or any other woman in London flowers every day if I wish to.”
“You should be across the room searching for a bride. I am not a real Wilde, as you yourself said,” Viola reminded him.
“I was not in possession of essential information when I said that,” the duke said. “Besides, I need to speak to Marlowe. I have a proposition for him.”
A proposition?
Before she could ask what he meant, Sir Reginald pulled them into a conversation about the art of growing rhododendrons, a topic on which Miss Pettigrew seemed to have a great deal of information. Since Sir Reginald fancied himself an expert—said expertise gained by hiring the best gardeners—the conversation quickly grew animated.
Having no interest in shrubs, Devin sat silently beside Viola. He kept an eye on her to see if she was gawking at the vicar, but she was lost in thought. She was the sort of person who didn’t have to be entertained at all times.
She appeared to be listening intently, for instance, but anyone who knew her could tell that she was far away, thinking of something else.
Rather more disturbing, to his mind, was the fact that Mr. Marlowe’s eyes kept straying to Viola’s gentle face, inspecting her thickly fringed eyes—at least, he did until Devin caught his attention and gave him a direct look.
“Wynter, you are not listening,” his uncle complained.
“Please forgive me.”
“Miss Pettigrew was remarking on my rhododendrons, which Miss Astley has never seen in bloom. You must escort Miss Astley to see them.”
“They are remarkable, even at this time of year,” Miss Pettigrew allowed.
“It’s dark outside,” Viola observed.
“My torches throw off more than enough light,” Devin’s uncle said proudly. “You should examine them, my dear. The pedestals are brass and highly ornate, made from my own design, I don’t mind saying.”
Viola had given Devin a few commanding glances in the time since he’d met her, but Miss Pettigrew’s stare was extraordinary. She would be a natural governess for a royal nursery. No matter how entitled the children, she’d keep them in order.
She couldn’t have said more clearly that Devin was to take the irritating young lady away with him. Apparently, Miss Pettigrew had noticed that Viola was offering some competition.
“Of course,” Devin said, coming to his feet and holding out his hand to Viola. “May I escort you to the window, Miss Astley?”
“Oh, not the window,” his uncle said. “Take her outside, Wynter. That’s why I left the doors open to the garden. The torches are lit, as you can see, and there are wraps out there as well. As long as you don’t leave the terrace, we’ll consider you chaperoned.” He airily waved his hand in that direction.
Viola put her sherry down and Devin took her hand, helping her to rise. He walked her past all the other guests. Viola was mumbling words under her breath, and Devin had the feeling they might be phrases considered improper for a young lady.
An unusual wish to laugh rose in his chest.
“We were as good as a circus exhibit, given the ogling we inspired,” he said, once they neared the open doors leading to the garden. “Yet you don’t appear to have turned green from the stress of entertaining an audience. Should nausea overtake you, we could duck behind a bush.”
She darted a look at him. “Believe it or not, I am too irritated for nausea.”
They walked out onto the terrace and she stopped. “Why, it’s warmer outside than in!”
At even intervals down the terrace, tall brass oil torches warmed the air.
“My uncle saw these in India years ago, and had his own version fashioned here.”
He led her around to the left, out of view of the occupants of the drawing room.
Viola peered over the marble balustrade at the shrubs below. “Are those rhododendrons?”
“One has to assume,” Devin said. He leaned against the balustrade, which came to his lower hip, crossed his arms, and looked at Viola. He was very aware of how much he liked to look at her, especially in a gown that allowed a great deal of her to be admired.
“Are you chilled?” he asked, thinking that he ought to be more gentlemanly.
“Not at all. Now everyone is speculating about us,” Viola burst out, in clear frustration. “I wouldn’t have obeyed your uncle, except . . .”
“Miss Pettigrew,” Devin said. “The lady does not appreciate your admiration of her fiancé. Or perhaps his of you.”
She gave him a cool look. “That is an improper subject for conversation. Speaking of which, I want to apologize for my impoliteness the night of the ball. I was provoked, but I shouldn’t have lost my temper. You didn’t know I was eavesdropping, after all, and you have a right to your opinion about my parentage.”
“I was mistaken,” Devin said. “You are clearly a real Wilde.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because no one else would have dared rebuke me,” he said frankly.
She smiled at that, and Devin had a queer feeling, as if he’d had a gulp of champagne straight out of the bottle.
“We can forge a friendship,” she suggested. “After all, we both fled my debut ball, albeit for different reasons.”
“Hmm,” Devin said.
“There’s something very reassuring about you,” Viola said. “Have your friends remarked on your calm?”
“I have few friends,” Devin said bluntly. “I was schooled at home, and I was already a duke by the time most men went to university. I hadn’t the time to join them.”
“No friends?” She looked appalled.
“I have cousins,” he said, not liking the s
ympathy in her eyes. He patted the flat marble that topped the balustrade. “Otis and I used to sit here and play jackstones for hours.” That would be when Devin had been dispatched to his uncle’s house because his father was in a fit of homicidal rage, though he hadn’t understood that as a child.
“I shall be your friend,” Viola said, her voice so warm that he blinked at her. “I’m very good at friendship, although you’ll have to try to be less haughty. For example, when I arrived here for tea a few days ago, Miss Belluce had a desperate expression and you looked bored.”
“She had been talking about a baby monkey for at least fifteen minutes,” he said flatly. “I was bored.”
“You may feel that way, but you can’t show it. It’s impolite. I don’t mean to lecture you as if I haven’t personal failings,” she added. “I am trying to better myself, but I am prone to jealousy, for example.”
“Of the Wildes?”
“Well, yes. This is an odd conversation, isn’t it? Were you jealous of your cousins since they had each other, and you are, I gather, an only child?”
Devin didn’t care to think about his childhood; he said nothing.
“I wasn’t jealous until I realized that I didn’t belong in the family,” Viola said, wrinkling her nose.
“You do belong.” He didn’t know why he was certain, but he was. “I suppose we could be friends.”
He knew damned well that he didn’t want to be merely friends with her. Not when lust coursed through him every time their eyes met.
She positively beamed at him. “I shall help you find a wife!”
“I can find my own wife.”
“Now, there’s an example,” Viola said, poking him in the shoulder.
“Of what?”
“You almost looked human before you raised your eyebrow again.”
“Eyebrow raising is not a sin,” he said.
“It’s lazy,” she said, surprising him. “Easily done. Bred into the bloodline of dukes and the like. It’s much harder to actually put into words what you are feeling. I gather you don’t want me to choose your wife, and I understand your reservations. After all, your uncle knows you far better than I, and he made an obvious error.”