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“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.

“Noah just becomes a trifle inebriated,” Caitlin said, desperately. “As it describes in the Bible, when Noah drank the wine that he had made. This particular play was performed by ale makers, in the Middle Ages, that is.”

There was a moment of silence.

“So Noah is a drunkard,” Mr. Marlowe said. His voice was hard to read.

“Shouldn’t he be more horrified?” Viola whispered. Her heart was thumping.

“He merely drinks a bit too much. It’s funny,” Caitlin said. “Mr. Higgins is interpreting his part liberally.”

“I should have paid more attention,” Mr. Marlowe said. “I’ve been too busy with the parish and the orphanage.”

“He almost sounds amused,” Viola whispered. She was having trouble listening, because her husband knew exactly how to touch her in such a way that she could scarcely shape a sentence.

“I don’t give a damn,” Devin whispered back, his voice ragged. “I’m as drunk as Noah. Drunk on your hair, and your eyes, and the rest of you, or I wouldn’t be in this bloody closet.”

He thrust one thick finger inside her warm heat, then two, barely catching Viola’s gasp with his mouth. At his urging, she found herself riding his hand, her palms cupped around his cheeks, her mouth sealed tight to his.

“Tell me, Lady Caitlin, what are you doing here?” Mr. Marlowe asked.

“Doing here?”

“You don’t belong in the vicarage,” he said bluntly. “Young ladies of fashion appear in church only on Sunday, wearing their very best new gowns. Yet you are teaching a class to the orphans, you are a member of the sewing circle, and you have entered into the parish’s fundraising efforts, to the extent of staging a drunken biblical character.”

Fire was spreading through Viola’s limbs, and keeping silent was torture.

Devin was fumbling at the fall of his breeches and at last, to her exquisite relief, he eased her down onto something broad, hot, thick . . . His cock.

She kissed him fiercely as she slowly, slowly, took him in. All of him, from the peppermint on his breath, to the fierce heat as they came together, to the embarrassment of actually hearing how aroused she was.

“When I was growing up, we took an active part in our parish,” Caitlin said. “My mother taught the local Bible class. A week after my mother died, my father sent me away to school. I felt like an orphan. I have a special affection for those children.”

“Bloody hell,” Devin said in a near-soundless growl. “I can’t . . .” He tilted his hips and pushed home the last inch.

“You feel marvelous,” Viola whispered. She was kissing him frantically, letting her lips do what her eyes would, had she been able to clearly see the angles of his face. Caress him, love him. She rose up on her knees and then pushed back down.

“It is commendable that your mother was active in her parish,” Mr. Marlowe said.

“I find it hard to believe that you would dissuade ladies from participating in parish affairs, Mr. Marlowe,” Caitlin said. “Are only bakers’ wives allowed to teach Bible classes?”

“No!”

“He’s making a mess of it,” Devin muttered. His voice was raw with desire. His hands had slid around her hips and his fingers bit into her flesh, pulling her sharply down.

“I’m in charge,” Viola whispered, wiggling.

Lightning was darting through her limbs; her toes were curling in her slippers. A few more rough strokes and she’d be lost.

“We can’t,” she whispered in his ear.

“We already are.” Devin braced himself against the ground, moving his hips in short, sharp thrusts.

“Wait,” Viola breathed.

“You know that there are many married women active in this parish,” Mr. Marlowe was saying. “I am grateful for them. Young ladies are supposed to be busy with other things.”

“I should be sitting at home embroidering a sampler, is that it?” Caitlin’s voice was controlled, but even a child could hear her rage.