Mr. Marlowe looked from her to Wynter and visibly registered that they hadn’t greeted each other. “Please allow me to introduce you,” he said with a little gasp.
She’d have to teach him to be less nervous around the peerage. They were just people like anyone else, after all.
“Your Grace, may I present Miss Astley, the Duke of Lindow’s stepdaughter? Miss Astley, this is the most noble Duke of Wynter.”
A case in point: Mr. Marlowe should have presented the gentleman to the lady, not the reverse, because although Wynter was a duke, he wasn’t an aged or particularly important duke. She nodded and dropped into a curtsy, giving the duke a wry smile that didn’t hide either her amusement or her dislike.
“Your Grace,” she said. “What a pleasure to meet a man who has such original ideas about courtship, not to mention the animal kingdom.”
His face appeared completely indifferent, so much so that for a moment she thought perhaps he hadn’t put her name together with the “mouse” his uncle had told him to marry.
“The pleasure is mine,” he said, bowing. “A young lady of enterprise with such unexpected habits. My uncle would be astonished.”
No, he had definitely caught her name.
Mr. Marlowe looked puzzled.
Viola patted his arm, and on better thought, tucked her hand into his elbow. Of course, he was not wearing a cassock—he only did that when he was actually in the chapel—but a lovely hint of incense hung about his coat.
The black fabric brought out his eyes, whereas the duke’s ostentatious garb merely increased his satanic air.
In her opinion.
The duke’s eyes rested for a moment on Viola’s hand. In response she curled her fingers a little tighter and widened her smile. “Mr. Marlowe, did I understand that you used to be attached to one of the Duke of Wynter’s livings as a curate?”
“St. Wilfrid’s was my first posting after my ordination,” Mr. Marlowe said, nodding. “A most pleasant parish.”
“Yes, I agree,” the duke said, his voice still unfriendly. “What I still don’t understand is what you are doing here in the middle of the night.”
“I came to offer support to Miss Astley,” Mr. Marlowe said. “A debut is a taxing event for a young lady with delicate nerves.”
“I requested that he meet me,” Viola clarified, making it clear with a stare borrowed from Aunt Knowe that further commentary would be unwelcome.
Wynter treated her to a raised eyebrow—single, of course!—and proceeded to ignore her silent command.
“I suppose any young lady might be unnerved by a ball thrown in her honor. Though I’m not certain how that translates to a need for ecclesiastical counsel,” the duke said, with the distinct air of someone who was about to insist that vicars ought not to offer said consolation, at least not in the middle of the night.
Viola felt dislike prickling all over her skin. She rushed into speech before he could elaborate on his opinion.
“It is more difficult to enjoy a debut ball when some guests seem to believe that it is not thrown in one’s honor,” she said. “In fact, some people act as if my presence here is not only unnecessary but somehow fraudulent.”
The duke nodded, apparently feeling no need to apologize. As if he were simply agreeing with her.
Fine.
Viola might not have learned to wield an eyebrow in the nursery, but as Joan often pointed out, she had her own ways of defending herself.
“Like myself, His Grace is discomfited by ballrooms,” she said to Mr. Marlowe, putting on a sympathetic expression. “He retreated to the library because his nerves couldn’t take the excitement. You might want to offer prayers that he grows more courageous, Mr. Marlowe. His Grace will never be able to find a wife while hiding in the library.”
Wynter’s eyebrow arched again, but she had stopped being intimidated by that particular weapon years ago. “I have learned to overcome my nerves,” she said, pitching her voice to treacly comfort. “I’m certain if you put your mind to it, Your Grace, you’ll be able to dance more than one measure without running to hide.”
Mr. Marlowe patted Viola’s hand encouragingly. “I assured Miss Astley that if she trusted in Providence, all would be well.” He paused. “And it has been, has it not?”
“One gentleman uttered absurdities as could turn my stomach, but I managed to contain myself.” She couldn’t resist glancing at the duke to make certain he understood that he was the author of those absurdities.
“Excellent,” Mr. Marlowe exclaimed.
“The duke has a more serious affliction than mine,” Viola continued, noting with pleasure the way Wynter’s jaw had tightened. “He apparently envisioned an army of cats rampaging about the ballroom on the verge of attacking him.”
Mr. Marlowe’s brows drew together. “Your Grace, if you’ll excuse the presumption, did you visualize these cats or merely imagine them?”
“Oh, he saw them,” Viola said. “He specifically mentioned the terror he felt on seeing beady eyes fixed on his face.”
“I will pray for you, Your Grace,” Mr. Marlowe said with the ready sympathy he showed everyone, even a duke.
“Thank you,” Wynter said, his tone dangerously soft. But at least he was growling at her, not at Mr. Marlowe.
Viola was enjoying herself. “His Grace is somewhat . . . shall we say . . . mature to be attempting to find a wife,” she continued, giving him an innocent smile. “I’m certain he could use your prayers in that regard as well, Mr. Marlowe.”
The unfriendly glint in the duke’s eyes seemed to worry Mr. Marlowe. He slipped his arm from her grasp. “I shall allow both of you to return to the festivities.” He hesitated. “I am a stranger to the ways of polite society, but I can fetch the duchess, Miss Astley.”
“We are of one mind,” the duke said. “How did a fair young lady—the belle of the ball—find herself in the library unchaperoned at this hour? One might almost say hidden in the library?”
“There was nothing untoward about our meeting!” Mr. Marlowe said hastily. “I offer support to all members of the duke’s household, though I did expect Her Grace to accompany Miss Astley to the library.”
Viola felt slightly humiliated, because it sounded as if her darling Mr. Marlowe didn’t care to meet her alone. He didn’t mean that; he was merely responding to the duke’s critical tone. She’d watched men make fools of themselves in front of her stepfather for the entirety of her life.
The word “duke” had a magic sound in England. People couldn’t stop themselves from groveling.
Not that Mr. Marlowe was groveling. But he was flustered. Anyone would be flustered.
“There’s no need to bother my mother,” she said briskly.
“I am happy to escort Miss Astley back to the ballroom,” the duke said.
“I promise not to jangle your nerves by meowing.”
“The reassurance should be mine,” the duke said. “My understanding is that mice are terrified of cats.”
“It’s too late to claim to be a feline,” Viola told him. “All appearances to the contrary, we do have one thing in common. My nerves go to my stomach, and yours drive you to hide in the library. You too are a mouse.”