by Eloisa James
“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?”
She nodded. Right now, perched on the back of a sofa, she felt such a strong wish to throw herself into his arms that she was having trouble concentrating.
Right.
Dukes versus men.
He bent just close enough that she took advantage and kissed him. It was all she could think about, to be truthful. The way Devin’s mouth felt, firm and sleek. The rough sound he made in the back of his throat.
It couldn’t be catalogued, that sound. But after only five kisses, she already knew it. It did something to her knees and stomach and all those parts that ladies aren’t supposed to mention. They turned hot and tingling.
They—all those heated parts of her—made her head swim. When he pulled her closer, the only thing she wanted to do was yield, open her lips.
He pulled back when voices echoed in the corridor, and their eyes met, suddenly alert. His hands landed on her hips, ready to pull her to her feet.
But the voices receded, another door opening somewhere else.
“They surely have realized we are nowhere to be seen,” Viola whispered.
“Quite likely.” Devin cleared his throat but left his hands where they were. She didn’t wear panniers under her walking costume, and his fingers were curling around her hips.
“What were we talking about?” she asked, dazed.
“We were discussing whether dukes are different from other men, and whether you are ordinary, and whether your breasts are the most beautiful thing that God put on this earth.”
Viola gaped at him and then clapped her mouth shut.
Devin bent his head and nuzzled her cheek. “That can’t be a surprise to you.” His eyes were very clear, not stormy now. They were the color of twilight just before night falls.
Her smile was entirely unplanned; it flashed out of somewhere along with words that she couldn’t believe she spoke aloud. “I like my breasts,” she admitted. “I—I think they are very . . . nice.”
“Nice!” Devin shook his head. “You truly have spent too much time with your siblings, who are all very fine, but since we’re on this topic—and gentlemen really do make comparisons, Viola, it’s part of the nature of the beast—your stepsisters are beautiful, lanky creatures. Thank God, you are not.”
“I really don’t think you should mention ‘God’ in a vicarage,” she said, fighting a mortifying attack of shyness.
When he looked at her, she felt voluptuous. They were so close now that their breaths intermingled. Then he turned and reached the door in one large stride, shut it quietly, and returned to her side. “Just for a moment,” he said.
A lifetime spent thinking that she wasn’t as beautiful as the Wilde sisters, versus the utter conviction in Devin’s eyes? She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him a tiny bit closer until their lips slid together and their tongues danced past each other in a dizzying caress that made her feel hazy.
His large hands were clamped on her hips again, making certain she was steady. Her stomach clenched, but for a very different reason than was customary. She nestled toward him, dropping one hand to his chest to feel his heart beating.
With a murmured word that she didn’t understand, he deepened their kiss. Viola pushed away thought and clung to him, learning the music of kisses, the give-and-take of tongues, the way the thump of his heart sped up under her hand, the tension of his body, as taut as the strings of a violin.
His tongue invaded her mouth again and she had the sudden instinct to suck on it, so she did, and he let out a raw groan and all ten fingers tightened on her hips. She was busy learning, busy taking stock, and thinking about how it felt, and how his grip made her blood feel as if it was scorching—
When the door opened, she didn’t even register the sound.
Chapter Seventeen
“Well, I never!” Miss Pettigrew squealed.
Devin raised his head reluctantly, looking down into Viola’s flushed face and feeling a deep certainty that echoed in his bones. Her eyes were round with shock, and she looked utterly mortified.
His fault. He had shut the door. No matter that she’d bid him to do so, he was a gentleman, supposedly. Yet he had kissed her the way a man kisses a mistress, not a proper young lady. Theirs had been no docile peck on the lips: It was the forerunner to what he felt certain would be the best lovemaking of his life.
Raucous, sweaty, noisy lovemaking.
Viola looked as if she might explode with embarrassment. Her lips were swollen with his kisses, and he didn’t want anyone in the world to see that, other than him. Anger at the invasion began to march up his backbone.
He straightened and turned his head. “Excuse me,” he growled.
The vicar’s fiancée stood in the doorway, hand on her heart, eyes hard. For a moment, he had a flash of sympathy for Marlowe, not that he had the faintest intention of allowing Viola to sacrifice herself at the marital altar.
Behind Miss Pettigrew’s shoulder stood her mother and Lady Knowe, whose face was utterly composed. But she had a stern fury in her eyes all the same.
“Oh, no,” Viola breathed.
“I believe our courtship has just been curtailed.” Devin turned his shoulder to their audience and held her gaze, saying quietly, “You may jilt me later, if you wish.”
He dropped a kiss on her lips, picked her up, and put her gently on her feet. “I’d like you all to be the first to know that Miss Viola Astley has agreed to become the next Duchess of Wynter. My duchess.”
Miss Pettigrew still blocked the doorway, looking at him with seemingly genuine horror in her eyes, but Lady Knowe deftly nudged the lady to the side and strolled in.
“I told the duke after you asked for my niece’s hand yesterday that Viola would never be able to resist you.”
At his shoulder, Viola made a small sound, akin to a gasp. She knew Devin hadn’t yet spoken to her stepfather. It stood to reason that she wasn’t very good at deception; her eyes were too expressive. Luckily, it appeared that Lady Knowe was a master.
Devin wrapped his hand around Viola’s. “Within five minutes of meeting Viola at the Lindow ball, I knew that she would be my duchess. It took me longer to convince her than I imagined.”
“Your efforts to convince her were not worthy of a lady,” Miss Pettigrew hissed, her lip curling. “The door was closed, you were unchaperoned, and we all saw where your hands were!”
Devin could feel rage rising in his chest, and he took a deep breath. He had promised himself as a boy that he would never behave like his father. But now fury boiled up inside him, as poisonous as stewed foxglove.
Words were lining up behind his teeth, but he forced himself to remain silent. He never spoke when he was angry. It was the habit of a lifetime, a desperate technique adopted to avoid turning into his father.
Miss Pettigrew’s eyes were bright and sharp, and she seemed to have swelled above the waist like a bantam rooster scratching the dirt.
“Daughter,” her mother said, “you forget yourself.”
“I haven’t forgotten myself,” Miss Pettigrew spat, crossing her arms over her chest. “Earlier they kissed on the street, in the broad daylight, and His Grace just referred to her by her first name.”
Lady Knowe fixed the Pettigrews with a stare that suggested they were night-grown mushrooms that had made an unwelcome appearance on the lawns of Lindow Castle.
“I address Devin by his first name, don’t I, Devin?” Joan said brightly, popping into the room. “We already discussed that, and you’ll remember, Mrs. Pettigrew, that I suggested your mores might be somewhat out of date.”
“If you’ll forgive me, Lady Joan, you have no need to engage in the sort of wiles displayed by Miss Astley,” Miss Pettigrew said shrilly. Her hand moved jerkily, but no one in the room had any doubt about what she was gestur
ing toward. Apparently, she didn’t care for Viola’s bodice. Her mouth was a thin, disgusted line.
“You’re quite awful,” Joan said in a conversational tone. “You seem to have no understanding of dress”—her eyes made a scathing sweep of Miss Pettigrew’s gown—“but I assure you that my stepsister’s bodice is in the forefront of fashion.”
“She—”
“She, as in my niece,” Lady Knowe cut in, her voice sharp as a whip, “will soon be married to the Duke of Wynter, who holds the living of St. Wilfrid’s, the very vicarage in which we now stand.”
“Likely that marriage ought to happen soon, given the way his hands were—” That was the moment when the meaning of Lady Knowe’s sentence sank into Miss Pettigrew’s mind.
She began blinking rapidly.
“My daughter is very sensitive to sin, in all its forms and practices,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, taking a step forward. She had turned somewhat pale. “In her enthusiasm, she misinterpreted what she saw.”
“I expect,” Miss Pettigrew said with a gulp.
“My brother will never countenance such impoliteness toward his daughter,” Lady Knowe said flatly. At that moment she appeared to be a replica of her twin brother. “Mr. Marlowe is no longer welcome at Lindow.”
Devin tightened his hand around Viola’s small fingers. Miss Pettigrew had been genuinely disgusted by a simple kiss. She was not someone whom Devin wanted to have authority over the women of his parish.
Not to mention the fact that he still felt a burning wish to eviscerate her.
Viola spoke before he had a chance to extend Lady Knowe’s judgment to St. Wilfrid’s. “I’m certain that Miss Pettigrew was merely startled by opening a door and encountering people whom she didn’t expect to see. It can be shocking to find . . . to find a couple engaged in a private moment.”
Devin frowned down at her. A moment ago she had seemed mortified, as if someone had stripped her naked in public. Wasn’t she stricken by humiliation after having been caught in the act of kissing a man in a closed room?
Viola was looking at Miss Pettigrew, her eyes compassionate. “I’m certain that His Grace understands that a startled woman might say words she didn’t intend. You didn’t mean to imply that there was anything improper about a kiss shared by a betrothed couple, did you, Miss Pettigrew?”
“No,” the lady managed to gasp.
“Nor that a betrothed gentleman and a lady cannot be trusted together without a chaperone.” She smiled, she actually smiled, at Miss Pettigrew. “I’m sure that on occasion you and Mr. Marlowe have been alone together.”
Devin’s anger was drenched by a sense of wonder.
He had known Viola was kind and had an instinct to save everything from cows to crows. But he hadn’t imagined that she would extend her mercy to the woman marrying the vicar whom she loved.
Hopefully, in the past tense: had loved.
Everything in him suggested that he should ban Mr. Marlowe from all premises that might contain his bride. No more soulful blue eyes around Viola. He could find a weathered, elderly vicar who would run an orphanage with calm deliberation rather than ethical fervor.
But he didn’t want to disagree with his bride.
What’s more, he had a suspicion that Viola was the kind of woman who would listen to advice and make her own decision, regardless of a husband’s attempt to dictate. She grew up in Lady Knowe’s nursery, after all.
“As a devoted mother, I trust my daughter implicitly,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “If she and Mr. Marlowe wished to talk in private, I would have to discuss it with Bishop Pettigrew, but we would likely allow a brief conversation.”
“As I trust my niece,” Lady Knowe said, turning her stony gaze onto Mrs. Pettigrew. “Which is why I am very disturbed at the implications of your daughter’s statements.”
“I apologize,” Miss Pettigrew said with a gulp.
“There!” Viola said brightly. “I accept your apology, Miss Pettigrew. And now I’d like to see the rest of the vicarage.”
Devin frowned. There was something deeply unpleasant about Miss Pettigrew. He truly didn’t want her in the parish.
But Viola was looking at him, holding out her hand.
“Viola always gets her way,” Lady Knowe told him, as they walked toward the hallway. She’d stopped looking like an avenging angel, sword in hand.
As Devin saw it, Viola could have her way, as long as she didn’t keep thinking that Mr. Marlowe needed rescuing from his sour fiancée.
Viola had no interest in Devin’s title or wealth, and he didn’t have persuasive charm or pretty looks. Or virtue, for that matter.
But they had something between them, because that kiss had rocked him to his core.
The tour of the vicarage and grounds resulted in one triumph: A cowed Miss Pettigrew agreed that a play depicting the events of Noah’s ark, put on in order to make money to support Mr. Marlowe’s orphanage, would be acceptable.
“You’d better come home with us,” Lady Knowe said to Devin when the tour of the cloister was over, Otis having established where the stage would be erected, the Pettigrews nodding with tight-lipped acceptance. “You need to speak to the duke.”
“Yes,” Devin said.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Lady Knowe asked him.
“He can be very talkative on occasion,” Viola said, tucking her hand into his elbow.
Lady Knowe snorted.
Devin didn’t smile, but he came damned close.
“I don’t know what your mother is going to think of this,” Lady Knowe said to Viola, with a groan. “Ophelia will probably say I should have done a better job chaperoning you. But who would have thought Miss Pettigrew was such an inquisitive creature? She even opened the doors to the cupboards. I expected her to begin counting the linens.”
Viola glanced around to make sure that the Pettigrews had returned to the vicarage and were nowhere in sight. “You don’t have to worry, Aunt Knowe. I’ll explain everything.”
“Explain what?” Devin asked.
“Well, that it wasn’t really . . . that it didn’t . . .” She stopped, flustered.
Lady Knowe glanced at Devin, her eyes full of mischievous laughter. “I’ll leave this to you, Your Grace.”
He gave her a nod and waited until she strode away, leaving them alone.
Then he tipped up Viola’s chin and said, “You’re going to be my bride. My duchess.”
Her eyes widened. “Not for such a silly reason!”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.”
It was a claiming kiss, a leisurely kiss, one that made him feel drunk. Her tongue met his and she made a sound in the back of her throat that sent him out of control. Not entirely. Just enough to shrink the world to their bodies arching together, gasping in union.
“That,” he said huskily, a minute later. “I’d keep convincing you, Viola, but I don’t want another lecture from Lady Knowe.”
She was nestled against him, her cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “I don’t know if our kisses are ordinary,” she said shyly.
He cleared his throat, unwilling to let go of her. He hadn’t had experience with kisses such as this. “They aren’t.”
“I’ve developed a fearful idea of what marriage might entail,” she said. “Which is absurd because my mother and stepfather adore each other, and I’ve watched some of my siblings happily pair off.”
He was having trouble concentrating because her lips had been kissed scarlet, and they were plump and soft. But they had to walk back to her house.
“I had a terrible experience at my first ball,” she said in a rush.
Devin felt a cold pang in his gut. “Did someone—did anyone harm you?” He didn’t recognize his own voice, likely because that wasn’t his voice; it was his father’s. There was the promise of murder in it.
“No, no,” Viola said hastily. She had been holding on to his greatcoat, but she smoothed it, as if she were soothing a wild
beast.
“You said you threw up,” he prompted, remembering. “That must have been a harrowing experience.”
“Humiliating,” Viola said, glancing up at him and then looking back at his coat.
Devin was having trouble keeping his mind fixed on what she was saying because she hadn’t been injured, and that meant his mind reverted to the languid way that she was stroking the rough frieze of his coat.
Which could be his chest. Her slim fingers touching him was the most erotic image he’d—
“I accidentally interrupted a private moment between a couple. The gentleman was furious. He was bellowing at . . . at his wife. He said horrible things.” She swallowed hard. “I was terrified. I can’t explain it; his words felt like blows, not directed at me, but still terrible.”
Devin froze. It couldn’t be. Of course, that scene years ago did happen in Lindow Castle.
No: Viola said wife. And the couple were arguing, not having sex.
Not him . . . but still terrible.
Perhaps he should question her more closely, but that might lead to a discussion of what he himself had done. Anyone might come across an arguing couple; his parents had likely shocked any number of people.
“It seems stupid now,” she went on. “You must think me a perfect ninny. All I can say is that the rage in his voice did something to me. I was dreadfully nervous anyway, and on the verge of throwing up. After that . . . after that I couldn’t imagine how I would ever trust a man not to erupt at me.”
Devin was scarcely breathing. Her description spoke to an ancient, raw part of his soul, the part that had learned at the age of two not to visibly cower—which was his earliest memory of his father’s bellow.
“My father was often enraged,” he said. “I know exactly how you felt.”
Viola came up on her toes and kissed his chin. “You gave Miss Pettigrew a furious look, but you didn’t say anything.”
“I do not speak when I’m angry,” he said. “Because of that.”
She blinked.
“What you described.”
He had never been very good with words, perhaps because such a flood of words had bombarded the walls of his house: bouncing between his parents, flung with impunity at guests, servants, strangers. And always, in his father’s voice, was the threat of violence and death.