Say Yes to the Duke EPB

by James, Eloisa

  Devin stopped himself from groaning, but it was a near thing.

  “Lilac trees lined up all around the ballroom, draped in all manner of flowers and candles as well. And a flowery arch leading to the dining room. I have to check every detail. Do you know that Binsey thought to serve collared eels for the supper!”

  Devin steered his uncle through the door.

  “I told him that we’ll have fowls, lambs, lobster, and various meats. No fish and certainly no eels.” He disappeared into the nether regions of the house in pursuit of Binsey, squaring his shoulders to take on the battle.

  Devin went back to his chair with one idea foremost in his mind: He’d take a clear-eyed look at Viola Astley tomorrow. She was likely not worth the trouble.

  All London knew her as a mouse, after all.

  The very idea of an upset stomach was off-putting.

  Then he thought about the way her eyes sparkled when she scolded him. It was an outlandish thing to find attractive.

  There was plenty else to admire. She was just the size and shape that he would most prefer for his duchess, not that he’d given it much thought before.

  But now that he had, his wife would definitely have to have a deep bosom. In fact, it was a requirement. And she had to be petite, with lush lips and thick lashes. It was hard to tell, given the fashion for panniers, but he had the idea that Viola’s hips were round instead of lean, like those of taller women.

  Joan Wilde was beautiful, like Venus or Helen of Troy.

  But Viola was like a treasure box, hiding her sensuality and her intelligence and her sense of humor.

  He had the feeling she shared it only with family.

  Right. He’d always preferred a challenge. A woman who didn’t share her thoughts? Who had no particular interest in going into society?

  She was made for him.

  All he had to do was get rid of the pretty vicar.

  And somehow convince Viola that he was just as pretty—which he wasn’t.

  Ditto, as virtuous as Marlowe. Paying for orphans’ maintenance didn’t feel virtuous when one’s father was responsible for their destitution.

  Oh, and as malleable as Marlowe—no. He couldn’t see himself obeying orders, even those handed out by a wife.

  He shrugged.

  Likely he would see Viola at the tea party, making eyes at the vicar, and realize that he’d suffered a bout of temporary insanity.

  Chapter Ten

  An Afternoon Tea with Dancing

  The town residence of Sir Reginald Murgatroyd, in honor of his daughter Hazel

  Hanover Square

  Viola was feeling glum as the Lindow carriage arrived at Sir Reginald’s house. Mr. Marlowe wasn’t invited, of course. When she saw him in the hallway as she and Joan were walking toward the front door, he merely nodded and walked briskly on.

  She was fairly certain that Mr. Marlowe hadn’t shared with Miss Pettigrew the fact they had been exchanging innocuous notes, but she had to admit that his fiancée would be unlikely to approve of such correspondence.

  In short, she felt distinctly shaken by guilt, which was absurd, because hadn’t she decided that Mr. Marlowe needed rescuing from his fiancée? But on the other hand, she had a strong feeling that she had been disrespectful of Miss Pettigrew, no matter how objectionable she might find her.

  As if Aunt Knowe had been following her train of thought, she said out of the blue, “I’d be surprised if Mr. Marlowe isn’t a bishop within the decade. Miss Pettigrew will ensure it.”

  Viola wasn’t lost to the fact that her aunt had taken to mentioning Miss Pettigrew at every possible turn.

  “I’m sorry,” Joan whispered, as Aunt Knowe surged up the steps toward the Murgatroyds’ butler, waiting at the front door. “Are you horribly cross that I told her about your correspondence with Mr. Marlowe?”

  Viola felt a surge of affection meeting her stepsister’s anxious eyes. “No, you were right. It wasn’t proper to exchange those notes, no matter how innocent. I was just thinking that it wasn’t fair to Miss Pettigrew.”

  “I’m sorry that I don’t appreciate Mr. Marlowe the way you do,” Joan said. “If you . . . if you are together in the future, I promise that I will make myself like him.”

  “On deeper acquaintance, you would certainly enjoy his company,” Viola said. But inside, she wasn’t sure. Joan, like most of the Wildes, had little tolerance for self-anointed sainthood, as Aunt Knowe put it.

  The Murgatroyd drawing room was generously proportioned, with elegant plaster flourishes covering the ceiling. The walls were painted a pale green stripe down to the knee, with cream wainscoting to the floor. There were three seating areas, including one in front of a pianoforte, and tall windows at the far end opened onto a formal garden.

  The first person Viola saw was the Duke of Wynter, seated to the left in a cluster of four young ladies. He looked like a bricklayer who’d been summoned to the parlor and found himself bored to death by elegant conversation.

  No, that wasn’t fair.

  He wasn’t a bricklayer, for all his features weren’t refined nor delicate. The duke’s nose had to be twice the size of Mr. Marlowe’s, for example.

  Mr. Marlowe had a trim nose, the kind that everyone admired. Viola had always wanted a stronger nose, like that of her sisters.

  One couldn’t overlook the Duke of Wynter’s nose. Not that it was outsized. It fit the rest of his face: a bold nose. A patrician nose, like the rest of him, and like the noses of the Wildes too.

  He was wearing a coat of a dark peach color without ornamentation, except where the collar turned over, showing a bit of cream satin. To the side of his leg, she could see his coat was lined in the same warm cream.

  The costume was plain, but all the more elegant in its simplicity. Lavinia would approve.

  He looked up, and she felt color surging into her face, so she quickly looked away.

  As the butler announced their arrival, all the guests rose and moved toward them en masse. Viola already felt unnerved. She found herself falling back into her custom of curtsying with her eyes on the floor, though she registered the Duke of Wynter, not merely because he was tall but because he smelled marvelously like a pine forest.

  And because he murmured, “Steady.”

  She almost glanced up, as it was a kind thing to say, but Sir Reginald had already moved on to the next introduction.

  Joan was instantly surrounded by young gentlemen, and Aunt Knowe was chatting with Sir Reginald, so Hazel pulled Viola to the side.

  “Why are you late?” Hazel hissed. “This tea party is a disaster. I have been desperately watching the door for your arrival.”

  “My little sister has a cold, and my mother decided to stay home,” Viola explained. “My aunt had to change her dress to accompany us. The party seems very well attended.”

  “Naturally, because my father told most of London that Devin would join us.” She nodded over to her left, where the Duke of Wynter was once again surrounded by eligible ladies. “He’s looking for a wife, obviously. I do love Devin—he’s my cousin—but he’s frightfully superior and will scarcely attend any social occasion.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Viola observed.

  When Hazel looked at her inquiringly, she shrugged. “He’s a duke. First on Caitlin’s list, after all.”

  “Oh, I thought for a moment that you knew him.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t be insulted if he scarcely notices you’re there, even if you’re standing before him. He’s all right around the family but haughty in public. Oh, and I should tell you that my father got an idea that you and Devin would suit, but it’s only based on the fact that your father managed to put up with his father, who was a frightful beast. Devin is not the sort of man you would like at all, duke or no duke.”

  “I see,” Viola said, feeling oddly disgruntled about Hazel’s assessment. “What is the problem with the party?”

  “All the girls are sighing over Devin, and you’d think that would
leave the gentlemen to me, but instead they’ve been sitting about waiting for Joan to arrive. Now look, they’re clustered around her as if she was handing out sweets.”

  Viola tucked an arm through hers. “You are beautiful and kind, Hazel. The right person will come along. Joan said last night that she hadn’t danced with a single man whom she’d contemplate marrying.”

  “The Earl of Kimp asked me to dance twice, but his only subject of conversation is gargoyles,” Hazel said. She lowered her voice. “As a joke, I told my father that I had taken a fancy to the earl, and he took me seriously.”

  “Whereas the only person whom Joan liked was Kimp,” Viola pointed out. “She enjoys eccentrics.”

  Now she thought of it, that character trait might explain Joan’s dislike of Mr. Marlowe. The vicar was not at all eccentric.

  “I’m just glad you’re here,” Hazel said. “I want to introduce you to my brother Otis. He’s over there, hiding from my father.”

  They were walking to the far side of the room, when a deep voice said, “Good afternoon, Miss Astley,” from just behind her shoulder.

  She startled, and let out a squeak as the duke stepped forward.

  “Hello, Devin,” Hazel said, glancing across Viola. “We’re going to talk to Otis.”

  She kept walking toward the other side of the room, but Viola stayed where she was, if only to prove to the duke that she was capable of looking him in the eye.

  “How’s your stomach?” His Grace inquired.

  “In no danger,” she said, smiling because his straightforward question suggested that he hadn’t the faintest worry about his shoes. That contrasted with her family members, who tended to look at her with apprehensive expressions.

  She had been nauseated—just a tad—but now her stomach steadied. There was something very calming about Hazel’s cousin.

  Partly because of the whole not-Wilde business being out of the way, but also partly due to his calmness which stemmed, she would guess, from having nothing to prove to anyone.

  In short, he was her opposite, because she constantly felt that she had to prove herself a real Wilde, and he was at home in his own skin. What’s more, he knew she had an affection for Mr. Marlowe, and that took all the pressure away from their conversation. She didn’t have to worry about whether he was courting her.

  Hazel, having realized that they had not followed, trotted back and tucked her arm in Viola’s. “Come along, V!”

  “V?” the duke inquired, ambling along on Viola’s other side.

  “That’s what we called her at school,” Hazel said. And before Viola could elbow her, she said, “Because she’s short. No need for a whole name.”

  “I didn’t notice that she was short,” the duke said, his eyes gleaming with an emotion that Viola couldn’t quite make out.

  Wasn’t sure that she wanted to make out.

  “You’ve gone blind from staring at mathematical formulas,” Hazel said.

  Viola was coming to the uncomfortable conclusion that perhaps the duke wasn’t quite as fatheaded as she had thought. For one thing, Hazel clearly liked him. He couldn’t be as stiff-necked as he first appeared.

  For another, there was laughter in his eyes, though it didn’t show on his face.

  “Otis!” Hazel cried, when they reached a short gentleman in a bright yellow satin coat. “I want to introduce you to my dearest friend, Miss Viola Astley. I know you met a moment ago, but I mean a proper acquaintance. Viola, this is my brother.”

  Viola was somewhat surprised to find that Otis Murgatroyd had no resemblance to his cousin, the duke.

  Before she thought of it, she turned to look up at His Grace.

  “Absurd, isn’t it?” Otis said. “Even Hazel is taller than I am, and given that she’s a beanstalk for a woman, that makes me a shrimp.”

  “Mixed metaphors,” the duke remarked. “If Hazel’s a beanstalk, you are a bean. A yellow bean, as it were. I didn’t realize that you liked such sunny clothing.”

  “My cousin is used to seeing me in black, as I used to be a vicar in one of his livings,” Otis said to Viola. “Sartorial commentary to the contrary, my relatives are quivering with joy because I am returning to the embrace of the family.”

  “Now that you’ve stopped being such an ecclesiastical humbug, I shall introduce you to all my short friends,” Hazel said, with a younger sister’s brutal candor.

  “I am one of those short friends,” Viola admitted, smiling at Otis. “A white bean, given my attire this afternoon.”

  Otis beamed back. “I am looking forward to dancing with you. I can’t tell you how awkward it is to find oneself eyeing a lady’s bosom, when it’s that or keep my eyes turned to the sky like one of those languishing saints about to be martyred.”

  “I think everyone agrees that you aren’t a candidate for sainthood,” Wynter said dryly.

  “It wasn’t very sporting of you, Hazel, to draw the biggest fish in the marital pond over here,” Otis said. “Devin, I suggest you return to all those damsels throwing longing glances in your direction.”

  Hazel sat down and flapped her hands at the duke. “I agree. Shoo, Devin. My father promised that you’d be on display, not hiding amongst the family.”

  Viola thought she saw something in the duke’s eyes—heavens, couldn’t the man just show expressions like everyone else?—that might have been hurt feelings. His own relatives were tossing him onto the battlefield.

  She sat down on the settee opposite Hazel. “I have a different suggestion, Your Grace,” she said, patting the cushion beside her. “You may compose yourself among family, after which Hazel will introduce you to just the right lady.”

  The duke settled down next to her, looking pleased to be rescued.

  Hazel shook her head at him. “Viola isn’t that lady, by the way. I’ve already warned her that the two of you wouldn’t suit. My father has a silly notion stemming from the fact that your father actually restrained himself from dueling with Viola’s father.”

  Viola blinked. That sounded more serious than merely a question of friendship.

  One side of the duke’s mouth rose in a lopsided smile. “The late duke, my father, was prone to duels,” he told Viola, “which were more acceptable at the time than they are now. Since his friends were more likely to be within shouting distance when he had the impulse, he challenged almost all of them.”

  “Killed one of them,” Hazel said with relish.

  “That is not for general knowledge,” His Grace said.

  “I apologize, cuz, but Uncle’s dueling is general knowledge,” Hazel said.

  “We don’t want to put off Miss Astley, if you’re hoping that we two beans will become friendly,” Otis said.

  He was a born peacemaker. Not unlike herself, Viola realized. But not someone she had any interest in marrying.

  “The real question is which of those ladies is right for our duke?” Otis continued. “I don’t mind telling you, Miss Astley, that I’ve put in a bet against Lady Caitlin.”

  “She has to be tall,” Hazel said. “A beanstalk, like me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the duke said, glancing at Viola. “I am partial to beans. Whereas Hazel is partial to eccentric earls, according to my uncle.”

  “The earl plans to take a wedding trip to Paris,” Hazel said, giggling, “and whilst he is there, arrange to buy a few gargoyles from the Cathedral of Notre-Dame.”

  “Less daring than doomed to failure,” Otis observed. “He’s a collector, I gather.”

  “Absolutely,” Hazel confirmed. “If Notre-Dame refuses to sell him one, he means to make his way to the top and knock it off and take it away.”

  “I did meet him, but he didn’t share his criminal tendencies with me when we were dancing,” Viola said, laughing.

  She was pricklingly aware of the duke’s large body next to her. He was no beanstalk. He felt very muscled and solid sitting beside her. Like a stone gargoyle, she thought with amusement. She turned her head to see if she
could imagine him glaring out over the city of Paris.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked her, warmth deep in his eyes that wasn’t the slightest bit gargoyleish.

  “I was imagining you on top of Notre-Dame,” she admitted, before she thought better.

  “A noble gargoyle,” Otis said, hooting with laughter.

  Devin had promised himself that ten minutes’ acquaintance would chase away the odd fascination he felt for the Duke of Lindow’s stepdaughter.

  Viola wasn’t a real Wilde, as she herself had said. Not a likely prospect for a Duchess of Wynter, and Otis and Hazel agreed. Too shy. Too short. Too funny. Not to mention too fond of a vicar.

  Ten minutes ago, he had been sitting in a near stupor, listening to a group of young ladies prattle on about the baby monkeys in the Royal Menagerie, when Viola walked in the door, wearing a confection that seemed to float around her and at the same time favor her bosom. When she glanced at him and turned pink, his entire body came alert.

  The Duke of Wynter wasn’t used to questioning his decisions. It was with a certain sense of satisfaction that he realized he had been wrong to doubt himself.

  He had found a treasure in the Lindow library, and he merely had to win it away from a vicar. How hard could that be?

  Even given the fact that his treasure had made it clear that she had no interest in his courtship, his title, or his person.

  Lady Knowe strolled up. “Time to join us for tea, my dears. The fiddlers are tuning their instruments.”

  Viola rose when everyone else did, and somehow she found herself not only walking with the duke, but seated beside him as well.

  “May I help you remove your gloves, Miss Astley?” he asked.

  Viola glanced to the left and right and discovered that indeed, other young ladies were removing their gloves. Where a gentleman was available to help them, they had accepted his assistance.

  “Very well,” she said.

  Her gloves went almost to her elbows, after all.