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“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.