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“I am pleased to know that excellent attendance is expected tomorrow,” Mr. Marlowe said.

“We may be trapped in this closet all morning,” Devin said. “They’re arguing like a married couple.” His face looked even more angular because of the slash of light cutting across it.

“Thank goodness, we don’t fight like that,” Viola said, her hands running through his thick hair. “I love it when you don’t wear a wig or powder.”

“We can only hope that the audience will not be so offended that they leave in high dudgeon,” Miss Pettigrew said.

Devin eased Viola back against his right arm.

“Did you hear something?” Miss Pettigrew asked, her voice rising. “I think I heard a rustling. If this vicarage is infested with vermin, I will not move here, Mr. Marlowe. Married or no, I will not expose myself to disease.”

Devin was amusing himself by running his hands under Viola’s skirts.

“My wife must live where I live,” the vicar said evenly. “Many church buildings are infested with mice. I may choose at some point to take a living in one of the poor areas by the docks, for example. A vicar cannot live apart from his parish.”

Devin nipped Viola’s earlobe. “The man is truly developing a backbone.”

“All the more reason to ensure that the play is not scandalous,” Miss Pettigrew said after a small pause. “Bishop Pettigrew is paying a visit tomorrow precisely to further his acquaintance with you.” Her voice had a desperate tone. “You may well be the person to succeed him, someday.”

“I do not wish to become a bishop,” Mr. Marlowe stated.

“Cat is among the pigeons now,” Devin murmured, but he tilted Viola farther back against his arm and took her mouth.

She missed Miss Pettigrew’s response. In fact, by the time she surfaced from a long, intoxicating kiss, the drawing room was silent.

“Thank goodness, they’re gone,” Viola whispered breathlessly.

“No.” Her husband’s hand circled her wrist. “He’s still in there. She stormed out. The poor sod is contemplating his fate. We may have to remain here all day, Viola. What in the world will we do to amuse ourselves?”

Viola felt her heart swell as she met Devin’s laughing eyes. She hadn’t known it was possible to adore someone this much.

“I love you,” she whispered, the words flying from her mouth. “I’m in love with you.”

He frowned.

“I know you don’t feel the same,” Viola said. “I understand. I just want you to know.” But she held her breath anyway.

He put a finger to her lips.

The door opened in the outer room, and a woman’s voice said, “Mr. Marlowe? Am I interrupting you?”

“This truly is as good as a play,” Devin rumbled in Viola’s ear. “Who cares about Noah? We have a comedy of manners right here in the vicarage, and for free too.”

She was trying to catch her breath. His hand had crept higher under her skirts and he was drawing tender circles on her inner thigh. “Who . . .”

“Your friend, the third participant in this drawing room comedy, of course,” her husband said.

“Cat,” Viola breathed.

Sure enough, Caitlin said, “I wish to apologize for provoking your betrothed. It is the fault of my particular deadly sin.”

After a silence, Mr. Marlowe said, “I find it hard to believe that you sin.”

“I’d say we’re at the opening of the fourth act,” Devin said.

“Envy,” Caitlin said, her voice clear. “Miss Pettigrew is very sure of herself, whereas I am always uncertain. In fact, I am only confident of my own wrongdoing. Quite through no fault of her own, Miss Pettigrew’s self-command makes me envious.”

Viola gasped softly. “She’s declaring herself!”