Except perhaps Beelzebub himself.
She had the distinct impression that His Grace planned to dance once with a lady and meet her next at the altar.
In fact, he thought he was the cat’s meow.
Ha! She made a note of that: perfect for her dramatic rendition of the ducal terror caused by Lady Caitlin’s beady-eyed wig ornament.
“I prefer the other one,” Wynter said dispassionately.
Viola had no interest in him, obviously, but he still made her blood burn with annoyance. She’d like to stick him with one of her wig pins. She might not be a Wilde by blood, but knowing the truth herself, and being dismissed on those grounds, were not quite the same.
Not unrelated, but different.
It was very satisfying to realize that while His Grace could woo Joan all he wanted, Viola—the not-Wilde unworthy of his lofty attentions—would thwart his marital ambitions with a quiet word to her sister.
Or better yet, a lively performance of his arrogant disclaimers.
“You could try to push Otis onto the other one,” the duke said now.
The other one? He meant her! And who was Otis?
“I’ll come talk to you tomorrow morning about that boy,” Sir Reginald said. “He was laicized yesterday. I am displeased that he has been released from Holy Orders, most displeased. For now, I’ll nip into the retiring room and fetch you on the way back. I plan to introduce you to Miss Astley, whether you will or no.”
Or no, Viola thought frantically.
Go back to the ballroom and find your own wife!
“Certainly,” the duke said, suddenly amiable. “Take all the time you wish, Uncle. I’ll be happy to await you here.”
They moved out of Viola’s eyesight but apparently stopped at the door.
“Your father was a difficult man,” Sir Reginald said, a hint of regret in his voice.
The duke didn’t respond.
“I believe Astley was the only friend he had whom he didn’t challenge to a duel.”
“A singular honor,” the duke said. “One devoutly to be wished, given that the late duke killed at least one of those friends in a duel.”
“The man died due to an infection,” Sir Reginald said, clearly pained. “Your father didn’t prick him in the lung.”
“I doubt that was a consolation to his widow.”
“Didn’t have one,” Sir Reginald said. “Good thing too. Otherwise there might have been a real fuss about the matter. Just think about the Astley girl, won’t you?”
“Of course, Uncle,” the duke said.
Viola didn’t need her years of experience with Wilde males to translate his agreement into outright insubordination.
His uncle didn’t reply. Maybe he kicked him a last time in parting.
One could hope.
The duke returned to his seat and stretched out his long legs again.
For two long minutes, there was silence as Viola tried frantically to figure out what to do. Before she could decide, the worst happened.
The door opened again.
“Your Grace!”
Chapter Six
Viola couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
She had sent a note to Mr. Marlowe, imploring him to meet her this evening. Although he hadn’t replied, in a clear sign of his growing affection, he had obeyed her, even at this late hour.
As ever, Viola couldn’t stop herself from delighting in his pure beauty. His profile was Grecian, and his eyes the color of the Aegean Sea.
Not that Viola had seen the Aegean, but her brother Alaric had said it was the bluest sea in the world. Mr. Marlowe’s eyes were a tender, melting blue.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Mr. Marlowe said, dipping into a deep bow.
Wynter stood up and inclined his chin a fraction of an inch. “This is a surprise, Marlowe. One doesn’t expect to see one’s former curate at a ball.”
“I currently have the pleasure of serving as vicar in one of the Duke of Lindow’s livings,” Mr. Marlowe replied, bowing again.
“You travel in lofty circles,” Wynter said. “Forward-thinking ones too, if Lindow invites his vicar to circle the floor. I wasn’t aware that clergy attended this sort of hell-begotten occasion. Though I suppose you have other ideas about Hades.”
“I assure you that I am not attending the ball,” Mr. Marlowe said, a touch of indignation in his voice.
Viola couldn’t help smiling again. Mr. Marlowe’s wife would never have to endure an endless conversation about the newest country dance, nor circle the floor anxiously trying to remember which way to turn.
“Luckily for you,” the duke replied. “What are you doing here? Whether you are attending the ball or no, you are in the Duke of Lindow’s library in the middle of the night. I hardly think that you are searching out a rare volume of sermons for inspiration.”
An edge to his voice suggested there might be something nefarious about Mr. Marlowe’s appearance in the library at this hour.
Viola’s brows drew together. He was horridly distrusting. Just what sort of crimes did he think a man of God might commit?
“His Grace, the Duke of Lindow, brought me to London, or rather, his sister, Lady Knowe, asked me to accompany the family to London,” Mr. Marlowe said. “There is a small chapel attached to the townhouse.” He paused and added uncomfortably, “I am here to offer encouragement and support to the family.”
Viola had a clear view of Wynter’s face, and she knew that he was about to point out that the responsibilities of a vicar did not include midnight rendezvous.
Yet if Wynter made a fuss—or even a joke—about encountering clergy at the ball, her father might send Mr. Marlowe back to Cheshire.
As it was, she had counted it the greatest good fortune of her life that Lady Knowe had brought their new vicar to London. If Mr. Marlowe was sent back to Cheshire, he would be far away. An awful thought followed that realization.
What if the duke dismissed him?
Viola’s eyes narrowed. She couldn’t allow that to happen, not when the meeting was her idea.
This was her fault. After she had again told Mr. Marlowe how terrified she was by the ball—and the vicar had again promised her that Providence would provide—she had slipped a note under his door imploring him to meet her. She’d known perfectly well that he was too kind to refuse.
Quickly she slid along the curtain, ducked behind a tall-backed settee, and emerged as if she’d been seated against the wall, unobserved.
“Good evening,” she called.
Mr. Marlowe jumped; their eyes met and she thought she saw a flash of happiness in his. Certainly, she was happy to see him; she couldn’t repress a wide smile.
The duke, on the other hand, turned his head, and impatience crossed his face. “I came here for solitude, but this room is as crowded as the queen’s antechamber,” he said to Mr. Marlowe.
What a pompous fool. As if Mr. Marlowe knew or cared about the queen’s antechamber! He had far more important concerns than the trivialities of polite society.
“Good evening, Miss Astley,” Mr. Marlowe said, bowing as Viola reached his side. She dropped into a curtsy and beamed at him. She couldn’t wait until they could greet each other the way her mother greeted her stepfather: with a kiss.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the duke hadn’t responded to her name.