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“She has to,” Devin said. “The fellow would be giving up a future bishopric for her, and he’s not going to declare himself, as it would be unethical.”

“He doesn’t want to be a bishop,” Viola said. “You heard him.”

“Lady Caitlin,” Mr. Marlowe said, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“If he tells her to trust in Providence, I’ll . . . I’ll kick him,” Viola muttered to Devin.

“Are you worried about the Noah play, Mr. Marlowe?” Caitlin interrupted. “Because it is a lively play. Miss Pettigrew might—well, she might have a point.”

“Bloody hell,” Devin muttered. Meanwhile, though, his fingers slid even higher on Viola’s thigh. She was having trouble thinking. Her veins were slowly heating, desire sliding through her like hot tea on a chilly morning.

Devin’s breathing had become deeper. Suddenly, in a welter of desire, she had a clear thought: If her husband would have been naughty, if his natural bent was disobedience, she was the perfect wife for him, because she grew up surrounded by naughty children.

Devin would have risked his life had he flouted his father’s rules as a child.

Not any longer.

“What could possibly be indelicate about Noah and his ark?” Mr. Marlowe asked.

The Wildes practically defined the term “naughty”—from Ophelia’s youngest daughter, Artie, to the older boys she grew up with. A smile growing in her heart, Viola moved from the shelter of Devin’s arm and braced herself to stand.

“No,” her husband growled, his voice just soft enough not to be heard.

“The play is medieval,” Caitlin explained. “They had more exuberant attitudes toward Scripture at the time.”

“Such as?” Mr. Marlowe’s tone was distinctly skeptical.

“Genesis 9:21,” Caitlin said unhappily. “And Noah drank of the wine and was drunken.”

“And uncovered himself?” Mr. Marlowe asked, obviously horrified.

“No!” Caitlin cried. “No, no, but the play does include the part when Noah curses his son Canaan. Naturally, the text plays up drunkenness. I gather the part of Noah would have been played by a tapster.”

“Bloody hell,” Devin muttered.

Putting a hand on his cheek, Viola whispered, “Don’t move.” Moving as slowly as she could so that her skirts didn’t rustle, she made her way to her feet, turned, pulled up her skirts until she was holding huge wads of cloth in each hand, and sank back down, her knees on either side of Devin’s hips.

“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.