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She ignored the compliment. “Being afraid is exhausting.”

Devin considered her point and realized she was right. Some part of him had wound tight in childhood and spent years vibrating in a high wind. He nodded.

She leaned forward and put wet hands on his cheeks. “There’s nothing to be afraid of now.”

She was wrong.

Was it possible to be terrified of losing love one has only known for a short period of time? He knew the answer. It was yes.

“Are you afraid that you might become your father?” Viola’s eyes searched his and she gave him another sweet kiss.

“If I lose my temper, I might turn into him,” he said, forcing the words out of his mouth. “I might hear his shouts emerging from my mouth. I might become him.”

Viola sat back on her heels. A few strands of wet hair slid around her right breast. He was instantly hard. She shook her head. “You won’t become him.”

Her voice held complete certainty.

“Devin,” she said, crinkling her brow. She stood up and got out of the tub, paying no attention to the water that came with her. She stood in front of him, an exquisite, very wet water nymph.

Then she knelt in front of him. “Devin,” she said again, and opened her arms.

The look in her eyes was intolerable. Pity. He loathed pity. His male pride snapped around him like the suit of armor up in the attic, the one that had belonged to his great-great-grandfather.

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Viola.” He stood, catching one of her hands and bringing her to her feet. He turned and caught up a sheet of toweling, wrapping her in it until her back was to him and she couldn’t see his face.

What in the bloody hell was happening to him?

Chapter Thirty-three

Viola walked into the cloister on Devin’s arm that evening, her heart beating quickly with excitement. She was tired—the day had been nothing if not emotional—but also thrilled. She had first had the idea of putting on a cycle play when they studied them in school, years ago.

And now . . . here it was.

Not that she could take credit for it. Otis and Joan had managed casting and rehearsals; Lavinia and a crew of seamstresses had created the costumes. Caitlin had overseen the sets, painted by the children in the Sunday school and orphanage. Erik would prompt the actors.

Still, it had been Viola’s idea.

The cloister was crammed with elegantly dressed aristocrats. Every chair was occupied, and gentlemen stood along the back and sides of the room.

“Our seats are reserved in the second row,” she reminded Devin. “It will go well, won’t it?”

He looked down at her, heavy-lidded eyes calm and confident. “If the play is boring and the ark falls over and the flood doesn’t work, the orphans won’t care. They’ll just be happy to be warm and fed and off the streets. It has already gone well.”

She took in a deep breath. “Caitlin said the children are wildly excited to see the performance tomorrow. They painted the sets, you know. Every single one of them had a hand in the ark.”

“I could tell,” Devin said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

That smile was so beautiful that her mind fogged. By the time she pulled herself back together, they had reached the front of the cloister, and Devin was bowing before Bishop Pettigrew and his flock of soberly dressed clerics.

Miss Pettigrew had made a special effort this evening; she was wearing a ruby-colored dress trimmed with orange satin leaves around the bosom. The color suited her dark hair and coloring, Viola thought, determined to be kind.

“The Duke and Duchess of Wynter,” Miss Pettigrew said. “My father, Bishop Pettigrew. And my father’s archdeacon, Mr. Bell.”

Mr. Bell was a splendidly bearded man who appeared to great advantage in clerical garb. He looked like a plausible bishop, in fact.

“We are somewhat concerned about this entertainment,” the bishop said ponderously. “I gather this is your idea, Duchess. The cause is an excellent one, though I feel compelled to point out that the Anglican Church has frowned upon the cycle plays since the days of Good Queen Bess.”

“I believe the Elizabethans felt that the appearance of our Heavenly Creator on stage was particularly abhorrent,” Mr. Bell remarked, leaving no doubt about where his own feelings lay.