“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” her husband said in her ear.
Viola wound her arms around his neck and leaned forward until her breasts were brushing against his coat. “We’re making love in a vicarage, with the vicar just through the door,” she whispered. “This is very scandalous.”
Devin reached out and very slowly eased the door shut until just a line of light entered the closet. “We are?”
Viola didn’t answer because Devin was kissing her with a searing need that answered his question. In the room, Caitlin had launched into a tangled explanation of why the Noah play, or any medieval biblical play, was important. “I wanted the children to—to—”
“See Noah as a living person?” Mr. Marlowe asked incredulously. “By showing a saint cursing a family member while drunk, performed by actors accompanied by rodents?”
“It sounds terrible put that way,” Caitlin said. “Those details are in the Bible. Well, not the rat.”
Now that only a thread of light was coming through the door, Viola felt as if all her senses other than sight had flared into being. Her stockings tied just above her knees, and her naked thighs rested against the fine wool of Devin’s breeches. It was unbearably erotic.
His fingers dipped between her legs.
She took in a silent gulp of air.
“I want you,” Devin whispered roughly in her ear. “May I take you?”
“Oh,” she breathed, her blood singing with desire. His fingers caressed her skillfully until she bit back a sob and buried her face in the crook of his neck.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.
“Noah just becomes a trifle inebriated,” Caitlin said, desperately. “As it describes in the Bible, when Noah drank the wine that he had made. This particular play was performed by ale makers, in the Middle Ages, that is.”
There was a moment of silence.
“So Noah is a drunkard,” Mr. Marlowe said. His voice was hard to read.
“Shouldn’t he be more horrified?” Viola whispered. Her heart was thumping.
“He merely drinks a bit too much. It’s funny,” Caitlin said. “Mr. Higgins is interpreting his part liberally.”
“I should have paid more attention,” Mr. Marlowe said. “I’ve been too busy with the parish and the orphanage.”
“He almost sounds amused,” Viola whispered. She was having trouble listening, because her husband knew exactly how to touch her in such a way that she could scarcely shape a sentence.
“I don’t give a damn,” Devin whispered back, his voice ragged. “I’m as drunk as Noah. Drunk on your hair, and your eyes, and the rest of you, or I wouldn’t be in this bloody closet.”
He thrust one thick finger inside her warm heat, then two, barely catching Viola’s gasp with his mouth. At his urging, she found herself riding his hand, her palms cupped around his cheeks, her mouth sealed tight to his.
“Tell me, Lady Caitlin, what are you doing here?” Mr. Marlowe asked.
“Doing here?”
“You don’t belong in the vicarage,” he said bluntly. “Young ladies of fashion appear in church only on Sunday, wearing their very best new gowns. Yet you are teaching a class to the orphans, you are a member of the sewing circle, and you have entered into the parish’s fundraising efforts, to the extent of staging a drunken biblical character.”
Fire was spreading through Viola’s limbs, and keeping silent was torture.
Devin was fumbling at the fall of his breeches and at last, to her exquisite relief, he eased her down onto something broad, hot, thick . . . His cock.
She kissed him fiercely as she slowly, slowly, took him in. All of him, from the peppermint on his breath, to the fierce heat as they came together, to the embarrassment of actually hearing how aroused she was.
“When I was growing up, we took an active part in our parish,” Caitlin said. “My mother taught the local Bible class. A week after my mother died, my father sent me away to school. I felt like an orphan. I have a special affection for those children.”
“Bloody hell,” Devin said in a near-soundless growl. “I can’t . . .” He tilted his hips and pushed home the last inch.
“You feel marvelous,” Viola whispered. She was kissing him frantically, letting her lips do what her eyes would, had she been able to clearly see the angles of his face. Caress him, love him. She rose up on her knees and then pushed back down.
“It is commendable that your mother was active in her parish,” Mr. Marlowe said.
“I find it hard to believe that you would dissuade ladies from participating in parish affairs, Mr. Marlowe,” Caitlin said. “Are only bakers’ wives allowed to teach Bible classes?”
“No!”
“He’s making a mess of it,” Devin muttered. His voice was raw with desire. His hands had slid around her hips and his fingers bit into her flesh, pulling her sharply down.
“I’m in charge,” Viola whispered, wiggling.
Lightning was darting through her limbs; her toes were curling in her slippers. A few more rough strokes and she’d be lost.
“We can’t,” she whispered in his ear.
“We already are.” Devin braced himself against the ground, moving his hips in short, sharp thrusts.
“Wait,” Viola breathed.
“You know that there are many married women active in this parish,” Mr. Marlowe was saying. “I am grateful for them. Young ladies are supposed to be busy with other things.”
“I should be sitting at home embroidering a sampler, is that it?” Caitlin’s voice was controlled, but even a child could hear her rage.
Devin wrapped his arms around Viola and kissed her ear. She could feel him throbbing inside her, and even without either of them moving a muscle, tension surged in her body. Her legs shook.
“Wait,” Devin ordered in a low, rough voice, echoing her.
“I can’t,” Viola squeaked. “I have to move, Devin.”
“No.”
It felt delicious, as if her body had become only sensation, only need.
“No,” her husband commanded again. His lips skimmed her cheekbone and he bit her earlobe.
Viola’s interior muscles were clenched around him, trying to find the last friction that—
“Stop that,” Devin said in her ear. She could hear lust and laughter in his voice.
“I think I might die,” she told him, very seriously, very quietly. She flexed her interior muscles again. “Can you feel that?”
“Hell, yes. Lovely bride, beautiful bride,” he said, crooning in her ear. “Just stay still, all of you, still. You can come after they leave the room. Not before.”
“Attending a champagne breakfast,” Mr. Marlowe said lamely. “Later, when you are married and have children of your own, you will undoubtedly be—” He broke off.
Viola tipped her head back and looked up at the velvet darkness. Her entire body was focused around one point. If she rose even the smallest amount and slammed back down, that would do it, propel her into a wash of pleasure.
“Don’t even think about it,” the devil said softly.
“How can I not think about it?” Somehow she managed to keep that cry to a whimper.
Devin grinned at her, his eyes glinting in the dusky light, and flexed his hips. Viola felt her lips shape into a circle, struggling to bite back sound.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Let’s do that again.”
“You are by far the youngest woman in the sewing circle,” Mr. Marlowe said, digging his own grave. “You don’t look the same as the other women.”
Viola’s senses had narrowed to the hard feeling of Devin inside her, the uncontrollable shaking of her limbs, the moans silenced by his mouth. He settled into a steady rocking. Disconcertingly, Viola felt a drop of sweat on her neck but still she clenched her teeth and fought back against the pressure to explode.
Mr. Marlowe and Caitlin had fallen silent. “Perhaps they left?” she whispered.
Devin shook his head. “Silent gl
ares, I think.”
Each time the pressure built up like a kettle on the boil, her fiendish husband would stop moving altogether, leaving her trembling as his mouth lingered against hers.
Suddenly Caitlin burst back into speech. “I do not wish to spend the morning embroidering the alphabet on a sampler to hang in the nursery. I do not wish to attend champagne breakfasts. I don’t care for wine in the morning.”
“Think about something else,” Devin instructed Viola, a wicked, enticing voice full of laughter. “For example, your vicar is going to end up a miserable bishop with a shrew for a wife.”
“You want to talk?” Viola leaned forward and nipped his earlobe; she could feel his responding shudder through her entire body. It occurred to her that she was giving him altogether too much power over the situation.
“Yes, let’s talk,” she whispered, caressing his cheekbone with her lips. “Could you help Mr. Marlowe?”
“Me?” Devin’s sleepy eyes didn’t fool her. He was as consumed with desire as she was. She could hear it under all that amusement, a taut wire of dark lust as intent and uncontrolled as her own.
“You solve problems,” she reminded him. “People bring you problems, and you fix them.”
“You want me to help my rival?”
Viola knew she probably looked feverish; she could feel her eyes were glittering. She eased her knees apart and sank lower, just a hair. “He is no rival of yours,” she breathed. “Please help him.”
Devin chuckled into her hair, the sound so low that hardly a strand trembled.
“Obviously, Marlowe should marry Caitlin,” Viola whispered. “Can you please make it happen, for me?”
“He’s too stupid to save,” Devin muttered.
“Still . . . please?”
“Damn it,” Devin said. “I can’t believe I’m considering this.”
He licked Viola’s lips and she opened to him, pulling his head closer to hers. It felt as if she had become part of him, or he part of her.
“I don’t wish to go to a dance in the afternoon either,” Caitlin said, raising her voice far above a ladylike cadence. “I like dancing, occasionally. I do like wearing beautiful dresses. But I have no interest in changing my gown ten times a day!”
“Why would you?” Mr. Marlowe asked, sounding genuinely mystified.
“Fool,” Devin muttered against Viola’s lips.
“Don’t you have any idea what the life of a lady is like?” Caitlin demanded.
“You . . . you go visiting. Dress elegantly, go shopping, and dancing, perform music and, and—”
“And find a husband!” Caitlin completed his sentence.
Viola shook her head. She lifted her hips just a touch and pushed down again.
Devin made a sound in the back of his throat.
Thankfully, Caitlin spoke at the same moment. “I am sorry that you find I am an inappropriate addition to your parish, Mr. Marlowe. I certainly did not mean to inconvenience you.” Her tone was as arctic as the north wind.
“Lady Caitlin, I never meant to make you feel unwelcome.”
“All right,” Devin whispered. “I’ll do it. For you, if not for the good of my fellow man.”
“I shall not bother you in the future,” Caitlin said icily. “I had no idea that church activities in St. Wilfrid’s were reserved for those over the age of thirty.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Too little, too late,” Devin muttered. “I’m getting sick of this closet.” His fingers were floating over the curve of Viola’s upper thighs. She grinned at him, dizzy with power, and repeated the movement that she knew would set him on fire, catching his groan with her lips.
“I know what you meant,” Caitlin said, shakily. There were tears in her voice. “I shall not vex you any further. Miss Pettigrew will be happy to see the last of me.”
“No!”
“Getting his balls back,” Devin murmured.
“Caitlin,” Mr. Marlowe said, voice husky. “Oh, God, Caitlin.”
“He swore,” Viola whispered. “He used her first name!”
Devin was clearly weary of being an audience. He pulled her body firmly down to his and crushed her mouth under his. Viola melted against him and his hips tilted up, pressing his shaft even deeper.
Her eyes closed, she was fighting a battle to stay silent as her limbs turned to fire and she began to shake. The next moments passed in a silent conversation, spoken in a language of tongues, pressing bodies, and small inarticulate noises.
Viola’s lips danced over Devin’s cheekbones and pressed shut the thick fringe of his eyelashes . . . and let go only because she wanted to see his eyes again in the faint light.
“Viola,” he muttered, his voice dark with longing, caressing her breasts. “We need to get out of this bloody closet.”
His large hands had shaped her entire body into a shrieking mass of nerves. Her nipples were standing against the fabric of her bodice.
“I know you are marrying another woman,” Caitlin said. “I know . . . I know I don’t belong in your parish. I shall find some other—”
The sentence broke off.
“Finally kissing her,” Devin growled.
“You—we mustn’t,” Caitlin cried. “I shall attend the performance of the Noah play tomorrow night. But I will not bother you again.”
“That’s sad,” Viola gasped.
Devin pushed back the curls he’d disarranged and kissed her cheek. “I’ll solve it for you, Viola. If they would just leave the bloody room.”
“I can be silent,” Viola said, hoping she was right. She couldn’t hold back much longer.
“You see,” Caitlin said clearly, “my deadly sin is envy. I cannot stay here and watch Miss Harriet Pettigrew take what I want most in the world.” Her aching words fell softly into the room.
“Caitlin.” Mr. Marlowe’s voice was unsteady. “If your sin is envy, mine must be lust. For I want you more than anything I have wanted in my life.”
“Damn, he came through in the end,” Devin muttered.
Caitlin did not answer.
There was the sound of swift footsteps, and the door opened and shut. A moment of silence, and the vicar—Mr. Marlowe, who never raised his voice!—snarled, “Bloody hell,” and the door slammed behind him.
“Thank God,” Devin grunted.
He thrust up at the same moment that Viola ground down on him, a cry escaping her lips.
“Not too loud,” Devin said, thrusting again and again.
“I can’t be still,” Viola gasped, just as he sealed his mouth over hers. Fire washed over her and he took her cry. Kissed her hard and let himself go, with such a powerful thrust that she felt his entire body shudder.
For long minutes afterward, she lay against his chest, his shaft still thick within her, his heart still pounding against her cheek, his harsh breathing telling her of his pleasure.
At length, she said, drowsily, “I think that if I stand up, there might be a mess. On my legs, I mean.”
“There will be,” Devin said. “I’ve never come so hard in my life.”
Viola didn’t answer, storing up his words to think about later.
Strong hands gripped her hips and lifted her carefully up and away from him.
She sucked in a breath: She was a little tender, but mostly her body tingled with remembered pleasure.
“I’d like a bath,” she murmured.
Devin handed her a snowy white handkerchief, embroidered with the ducal crest. “For the mess,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.
Viola busied herself with doing what was necessary, but she couldn’t stop herself from giggling.
“What is funny, Duchess?” her husband asked, coming nimbly to his feet and holding out a hand to her. “Let’s go home. I have plans that involve a bed.”
“A bath,” Viola said firmly, as he eased open the door. Light streamed into the closet. “Just look at my skirts.” They had been pale yellow, but now they were streaked with
brown dust.
Her husband’s mouth curled. “Agreed.” He began walking toward the door, but Viola caught his hand and pulled him to a halt.
She pointed to the back of a sturdy chair. He popped her on it, seeming to love picking her up as much as she adored his hands around her waist. She slung her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
Her love for him felt as if it was simmering under the surface. “You said that you have an estate in the country,” she said.
He nodded.
“What if we went there the day after the play?” she asked. “Just the two of us.”
“I haven’t had time to clear out the wheelbarrows.”
“I’m sure that you could think of some way to make a wheelbarrow amusing.”
He leaned forward, cupping her nape with a large hand. “Just the two of us? You’d miss the rest of the Season. My uncle is giving a ball for Hazel in our townhouse.”
“I needed Joan’s support, not the other way around, and we could return for the ball. Sir Reginald wants no assistance from either of us.”
Devin frowned. “Your sister is reckless. It might be better if you were here for the rest of the Season.”
“My mother and Aunt Knowe are her chaperones,” Viola said. “Besides, my stepfather is having Daisy and Cleo sent to your estate, just as soon as I am certain that your cowshed will keep them comfortable. Why are you laughing?”
“Because my cowshed is more like a cow mansion, and the king of it is a sturdy fellow called Rex. Who will make Daisy and Cleo very comfortable.”
“Comfort is good,” Viola agreed, her voice husky. She leaned forward and eased her mouth onto his, unable to stop herself.
“Bath,” Devin said later. “Bed. Are you certain that you want to see the play? We could leave for the country now.”
“Yes, because you’re going to save Mr. Marlowe, remember?”
“I could do that by eight in the morning and we could be on the road out of London.”
“I can’t miss the play,” Viola said. “It was my idea. What if there is a fuss over that drunken Noah? You should be there.”
For a second, Devin got the calculating look he had when he worked with his equations. Then he scooped her up and carried her out of the room.
“My wife twisted her ankle,” he told the vicarage housekeeper, as Viola hid her face against his chest to hide the fact that she was shaking with laughter.
Say Yes to the Duke EPB Page 27