Say Yes to the Duke EPB

by James, Eloisa

  Viola was shaking with desire, her eyes shining, her hands roaming over his shoulders.

  He bent over her, hands running up her bare thighs, pushing her voluminous skirts out of the way. “I’m not asking you,” he stated, his eyelids drooping.

  “Oh,” she breathed, realizing he was quoting her, from her dream. She wound her arms around his neck. “I like this way of arguing.”

  An hour later, Viola realized she had come to an important conclusion. Devin loved her. He did. But he probably would never say so. In fact, she had the distinct idea that he himself had no idea that he loved her.

  It wasn’t in his vocabulary. His wretched parents had abhorred each other. Viola spared a sympathetic pang for his mother—but she left her little boy behind every time she left. And when she drank stewed foxglove, she abandoned him for good.

  No, Devin had no idea what love was, and he didn’t know he was experiencing it now. All the same, she felt desperate to hear the words from him. To hear him acknowledge that the emotion existed, and that they shared it, and that she loved him.

  To say it aloud.

  Yet she was desperately in love with him, and she didn’t have the courage to say so. The memory of his face talking of love, dismissive and even a trifle scornful?

  It was enough to stop any woman from blurting out her feelings.

  The Duke and Duchess of Wynter didn’t arrive at the vicarage until nearly four o’clock, and an observant person might have noticed that the duchess’s lips were swollen, and she had a slightly dazed look about her.

  The duke was as austere as ever, but a very, very observant person might have noticed that he kept glancing at his wife, and his gaze would catch and trail across her cheeks, or even her low-cut bodice before he would look away again.

  Had that observer known His Grace very well, she would have seen an intentness in his gaze that generally he bestowed only on mathematical theorems.

  The grounds of St. Wilfrid’s were bustling with people running to and from the cloisters, where the stage had been erected.

  Devin put a hand on his wife’s back as he escorted her into the vicarage. It was stupid, but he wanted that sign of ownership. Viola was his to seduce, his to touch, his to . . .

  To care for.

  No matter what she said.

  As they entered the front door, Mrs. Pettigrew emerged from the sitting room door with all the force of a stone flung from a boy’s slingshot. “Your Grace!” she cried. “I mean, Your Graces!”

  Devin took Viola’s pelisse and handed it to his groom, who had accompanied them. “Mrs. Pettigrew,” he acknowledged.

  Viola inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pettigrew.”

  The lady paused just long enough to drop a curtsy in their direction and said, “Mr. Marlowe is in the sitting room, if you’re looking for him. As is my daughter. I shall . . . I shall request tea.”

  “That was odd,” Devin said, handing his greatcoat to the groom.

  Viola looked up at him. “I believe that she is worried about the success of her daughter’s marriage.”

  They were almost to the door of the sitting room.

  “It is my firm belief that His Grace is squandering money by supporting this performance,” Miss Pettigrew declared from within. “As you know, Mr. Marlowe, I have no patience with people of quality wasting their money on trifles. It sets an unfortunate precedent for their inferiors. Do you not agree?”

  Devin couldn’t hear any reply from Marlowe. Viola came up on her toes and whispered, “He rarely answers, but she doesn’t notice.”

  Miss Pettigrew certainly seemed unperturbed by her husband-to-be’s silence. “I assure you, Mr. Marlowe, that I shall encourage no such vanities when I am the mistress of this vicarage. As your wife, I will promote virtue above sin.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” Devin said to Viola. “One wouldn’t want a vicar’s wife who was actively promoting sin.”

  Viola looked up at him, her eyes filled with laughter, and desire ran through his veins like summer lightning. The corridor was dimly lit and yet his wife glowed like a jewel. “You’re damned beautiful,” he said, leaning over until the words dusted her lips.

  She giggled. “I’m not beautiful, Devin!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Miss Pettigrew had apparently given up waiting for a response. “Next year, when we are married, I shall simply point out—kindly, mind you—that people are better preached out of their follies than entertained by more follies. No more plays. Do you not agree, Mr. Marlowe?”

  Devin wasn’t listening because he had decided to kiss his wife into agreeing with his assessment of her beauty. Her hand was curled behind his neck and he had an arm under her bottom, supporting her against the wall.

  “Your opinion is very clear,” came Mr. Marlowe’s voice.

  Beneath his caressing hands, Viola shivered. “We shouldn’t kiss here,” she whispered.

  He loved the husky catch in her voice. The way she transformed from a prim duchess to a lover, her nipples hard against his chest.

  “What on earth are you finding interesting at the window?” said the strident voice from within the sitting room.

  “Mrs. Pettigrew will return at any moment,” Viola murmured.

  “We could go upstairs,” Devin replied, his voice no more than a thread of sound. “I’m quite fond of the small sitting room at the top of the stairs.”

  “You don’t smile enough,” his wife said, and kissed him again.

  “There’s naught out that window but a clutch of tombstones,” Miss Pettigrew said. “Falling over, all of them. I assure you, Mr. Marlowe, when I am mistress of this vicarage, the sexton will have to do better than that. Each of those stones will face straight ahead in an organized fashion.”

  Devin leaned his forehead against Viola’s. “Could we please go home? We could visit the stage tomorrow.”

  “Go home and go straight to our bedchamber, I take it?” His wife’s eyes had a languid invitation in them. They had come to a silent agreement that they slept together in the ducal bedchamber, and the duchess’s chamber was merely for dressing.

  He nodded.

  “My goodness, how very peculiar,” Miss Pettigrew exclaimed from inside. “That is Lady Caitlin, is it not? What on earth is she doing?”

  “Oh, no,” Viola whispered, pulling away from Devin’s kiss. Her head bumped softly against the wall.

  “Teaching the children, I believe,” Mr. Marlowe replied.

  “She—she’s sitting on a tombstone!”

  “Who is sitting on a tombstone?” Devin asked, his lips skating over Viola’s cheekbones. “Let’s go home. I want to kiss you privately.”

  “It appears so,” Mr. Marlowe said.

  “She ought to know better! The daughter of a lord!” Miss Pettigrew spat out the words.

  “Caitlin must be sitting on a tombstone,” Viola said. “Let me down, Devin. Miss Pettigrew will come bursting out in a moment, on the way to shouting at Caitlin that she’s not allowed to be in the churchyard or some such thing.”

  “She will?” Devin carefully put his wife back on her feet and straightened the frivolous scrap of silk and lace that topped her curls. “Perhaps we should return to our house before we find ourselves embroiled in an embarrassing scene?” he asked, knowing she’d refuse.

  “Certainly not,” Viola said. “She’s horrid to Caitlin, which is unfair, because Caitlin is genuinely good.”

  “I can think of nothing more insalubrious than dragging those young innocents into a graveyard,” Miss Pettigrew said, her voice rising. “I shall speak to her at once.”

  A black figure swept through the door into the corridor. Miss Pettigrew’s hand fluttered to her heart. “Bless me!”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Pettigrew,” Viola said. “I’m sorry to startle you. The duke and I just arrived and were hoping to know how preparations for the play are proceeding.”

  Miss Pettigrew curtsied, her mouth a tight line, and
then opened her lips just enough to say, “If you’ll forgive me, I shall return in a moment.”

  Viola sighed as the lady slammed out the front door. “Miss Pettigrew has a frightful time controlling her temper, and no one seems to make her more incensed than Caitlin.”

  Devin tucked his hand into Viola’s. They walked into the sitting room to find Mr. Marlowe leaning against the window frame, looking outside intently. He didn’t hear them enter.

  They paused just behind him and glanced past his shoulder out the window.

  Lady Caitlin was indeed sitting on a tombstone. She was wearing a charming gown, hand-painted with sprigs of spring flowers. She and the children had spread out some bread, apparently hoping that a bird would snatch a crumb or two.

  At the moment she was leaning forward, holding out her palm to a sparrow recklessly considering a free lunch. Pale sunlight streaked her hair with shining threads, as if gold were woven into the strands. She looked extraordinarily pretty, perched on a mossy tombstone.

  Viola’s mouth opened to greet the vicar, but Devin’s grip on her hand tightened.

  Miss Pettigrew was advancing through the graveyard like an avenging angel in serviceable cambric. The sparrow cocked its head and flew straight into a tree; Caitlin gave a chuckling, infectious laugh and said something to the children.

  “Good afternoon, Your Graces,” Mr. Marlowe said, turning to them.

  “Perhaps you ought to join the graveyard set,” Devin said, nodding at the scene outside.

  Those were Mr. Marlowe’s parishioners, small though they were, who had hastily scrambled up from the ground and were milling about as Miss Pettigrew laid down the law. Devin cleared his throat. “Your fiancée appears to be annoyed.”

  The children had caught the giggles from Caitlin. Miss Pettigrew’s back grew straighter and more outraged, even though Caitlin was now listening soberly, without a sign of amusement.

  “The matron will be waiting for them with bread and milk,” Mr. Marlowe said. Sure enough, the group began trailing out of the graveyard.

  Devin didn’t know much about women’s apparel. But it didn’t take a modiste to compare Lady Caitlin’s flowery gown, albeit with a modest neckline, to Miss Pettigrew’s sturdy gown, cut high to the throat.

  He glanced at Marlowe and saw stark longing in his eyes. The poor sod.

  Caitlin was at the tail end of the procession, holding one small urchin by the hand while solemnly agreeing with whatever Miss Pettigrew was preaching about.

  Mr. Marlowe cleared his throat and moved away from the window. The door burst open two seconds later and Miss Pettigrew reentered.

  “I was correct,” she said triumphantly. “Lady Caitlin was actually leading a Bible class! She is now saying farewell to those poor children—we must hope that they live to take another lesson, given the insalubrious air in the graveyard—and she will be here shortly. You must point out the error of her ways, sir. The error of her ways.”

  “I didn’t see any error,” Viola said.

  “Neither did I,” Devin said.

  Mr. Marlowe walked toward his fiancée. “I’m certain that Lady Caitlin did not intend to endanger the health of her students.”

  “I do wish you would wear proper clerical garb during the week,” Miss Pettigrew said irritably. “My father always wears his bishop’s robes, I assure you. Clerical garb lends a touch of authority.”

  Mr. Marlowe glanced at Devin with discomfort. “Miss Pettigrew, this is not—” he began in a soothing voice.

  But his fiancée was clearly unrestrained by any notion that she should curb her thought or speech in front of guests, whether noble or not. “Lady Caitlin has something of an impudent air about her,” she said, cutting him off. “She does not show you the respect that you are due, as the vicar of one of the largest and most wealthy parishes in London.”

  “I have noticed nothing out of the way,” Mr. Marlowe said flatly.

  “Well, I have,” Miss Pettigrew said. But she seemed unable to continue, and the room lapsed into silence.

  Viola squeezed Devin’s hand. “How is construction of the stage coming along?”

  Miss Pettigrew swung her head about with all the grace of an enraged bull. Devin managed to catch her eye just in time to silently remind the woman that no one, under any circumstances, was allowed to be rude to his duchess.

  She snapped her mouth shut.

  “The men have been remarkably efficient, Your Grace,” Mr. Marlowe said. “I have no doubt but that the stage will be erected in time for the performance next week.”

  “Shall we be seated?” Devin asked Viola, deciding that Miss Pettigrew had no intention of playing the role of hostess.

  Caitlin entered the door and Devin turned his hand to squeeze Viola’s. Not that he was entirely sure what the language of squeezes meant.

  “Good afternoon, Your Graces, Miss Pettigrew, Mr. Marlowe,” Caitlin said, dropping into a faultless curtsy.

  Viola dropped Devin’s hand and walked across the room to embrace her friend.

  The vicar bowed. “Lady Caitlin.”

  Miss Pettigrew apparently felt that the greeting they had exchanged in the graveyard was serviceable enough for the moment. She glared at her fiancé and nodded in a commanding fashion.

  Mr. Marlowe cleared his throat. “Lady Caitlin, Miss Pettigrew fears that the graveyard is not a healthy place for children.”

  “I was teaching them about St. Francis of Assisi,” Caitlin explained.

  “What an excellent notion!” Viola said.

  The battle lines were clearly drawn, and poor Marlowe was stuck in the middle.

  Devin gave Caitlin a wry smile. “You were hoping that a London sparrow would mistake you for a saint and eat from your hand?”

  “Assisi?” Miss Pettigrew demanded. “Who is that? A Roman Catholic of some sort?”

  “As it happens, yes,” Caitlin replied, turning to her. “A saint, and the founder of the Franciscan order.”

  “We shall have no talk of Papists in this parish,” Miss Pettigrew stated. “You’ll frighten the children, Lady Caitlin. Perhaps talk of boiling oil does not affect you. But I was raised to have the kind of sensibility that abhors such details.”

  Devin settled back in the sofa, drawing Viola more snugly against him. Then he said, in her ear, “This is better than a play about Noah.”

  Viola was biting her lip and likely thinking that the pinched and unpleasant Miss Pettigrew would make her favorite vicar a terrible wife.

  “Francis of Assisi had nothing to do with boiling oil,” Caitlin pointed out. “He greatly loved animals, and birds ate from his hand.”

  Miss Pettigrew indicated with one twitch of her lip what she thought of saints who frolicked in the barnyard. “Birds—nay, all animals—have no place in the life of children. Your task, Lady Caitlin, is to teach the orphans to behave in a manner that reflects their station. They must learn to be neat and clean, and sit quietly at all times.”

  “Only two weeks ago, many of these children were living on the streets of London,” Caitlin protested.

  The orphanage building had not yet been erected, but Mr. Marlowe had launched into the project without delay, hiring women from the area to care for the children.

  Miss Pettigrew shuddered. “The less said about that the better. And certainly not in the presence of a duchess!”

  “Why not?” Caitlin asked, turning to Viola. “Are you horrified? I do not consider my task to be teaching children to sit quietly. I was teaching a Bible class, not a lesson on deportment.”

  “I am not horrified,” Viola promised.

  “I am,” Devin said, but he muttered it in Viola’s ear.

  “Nowhere in the King James Bible does it advocate touching filthy animals,” Miss Pettigrew announced.

  “God created the great whales and birds, and saw that they were good,” Caitlin protested, in a brisk summary of Genesis.

  “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap,
nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” Mr. Marlowe said. He was standing before the mantelpiece, curls tumbling over his eyes.

  Blue eyes, fixed on Caitlin’s face.

  It occurred to Devin that no one could consider Mr. Marlowe an object of pity if he married a daughter of the peerage, who was both remarkably pretty and truly pious.

  “Yet I believe Miss Pettigrew has a point,” Mr. Marlowe continued, demonstrating nimble peacemaking abilities. “The children will hardly learn to summon birds in a mere half hour.”

  “He’s working on growing a backbone,” Devin murmured in Viola’s ear.

  “Hush!” she told him, but he saw his wife’s lips curl in a smile.

  “I was hoping to make Francis seem alive to them,” Caitlin explained.

  “St. Francis is not alive,” Miss Pettigrew said, clearly aiming to end the discussion.

  “Incontrovertibly true,” Devin said.

  Miss Pettigrew glared at him, but he noticed that Caitlin was looking back at the vicar, eyes full of suppressed emotion.

  “Tea!” Mrs. Pettigrew announced, bustling in the door, followed by a young maid.

  “Look at Caitlin,” Devin murmured in Viola’s ear. “Desiring the vicar has to be a sin.” Suddenly he remembered that his wife was guilty of the same fault.

  Thankfully, she gurgled with laughter.

  Chapter Thirty

  In the last days before the play of Noah’s ark was performed, the Wilde family was constantly running in and out of the vicarage. Ophelia had flatly refused to give anyone, especially Joan, permission to act on the stage, but Erik had put himself in charge of prompting the cast if they forgot their lines.

  Lavinia’s love of costume meant that she was forever running over to measure one of the children playing the role of an elephant or a squirrel. They were allowed to pick the animal of their choice, not necessarily biblical, and she was doing her best to create trunks and fluffy tails.

  Viola walked in the last day before the performance on Devin’s arm, hardly able to stop smiling. That morning . . .

  Well.