Page 19

“Good evening, Miss Astley,” Mr. Marlowe said, bowing as Viola reached his side. She dropped into a curtsy and beamed at him. She couldn’t wait until they could greet each other the way her mother greeted her stepfather: with a kiss.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the duke hadn’t responded to her name.

Mr. Marlowe looked from her to Wynter and visibly registered that they hadn’t greeted each other. “Please allow me to introduce you,” he said with a little gasp.

She’d have to teach him to be less nervous around the peerage. They were just people like anyone else, after all.

“Your Grace, may I present Miss Astley, the Duke of Lindow’s stepdaughter? Miss Astley, this is the most noble Duke of Wynter.”

A case in point: Mr. Marlowe should have presented the gentleman to the lady, not the reverse, because although Wynter was a duke, he wasn’t an aged or particularly important duke. She nodded and dropped into a curtsy, giving the duke a wry smile that didn’t hide either her amusement or her dislike.

“Your Grace,” she said. “What a pleasure to meet a man who has such original ideas about courtship, not to mention the animal kingdom.”

His face appeared completely indifferent, so much so that for a moment she thought perhaps he hadn’t put her name together with the “mouse” his uncle had told him to marry.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said, bowing. “A young lady of enterprise with such unexpected habits. My uncle would be astonished.”

No, he had definitely caught her name.

Mr. Marlowe looked puzzled.

Viola patted his arm, and on better thought, tucked her hand into his elbow. Of course, he was not wearing a cassock—he only did that when he was actually in the chapel—but a lovely hint of incense hung about his coat.

The black fabric brought out his eyes, whereas the duke’s ostentatious garb merely increased his satanic air.

In her opinion.

The duke’s eyes rested for a moment on Viola’s hand. In response she curled her fingers a little tighter and widened her smile. “Mr. Marlowe, did I understand that you used to be attached to one of the Duke of Wynter’s livings as a curate?”

“St. Wilfrid’s was my first posting after my ordination,” Mr. Marlowe said, nodding. “A most pleasant parish.”

“Yes, I agree,” the duke said, his voice still unfriendly. “What I still don’t understand is what you are doing here in the middle of the night.”

“I came to offer support to Miss Astley,” Mr. Marlowe said. “A debut is a taxing event for a young lady with delicate nerves.”

“I requested that he meet me,” Viola clarified, making it clear with a stare borrowed from Aunt Knowe that further commentary would be unwelcome.

Wynter treated her to a raised eyebrow—single, of course!—and proceeded to ignore her silent command.

“I suppose any young lady might be unnerved by a ball thrown in her honor. Though I’m not certain how that translates to a need for ecclesiastical counsel,” the duke said, with the distinct air of someone who was about to insist that vicars ought not to offer said consolation, at least not in the middle of the night.

Viola felt dislike prickling all over her skin. She rushed into speech before he could elaborate on his opinion.

“It is more difficult to enjoy a debut ball when some guests seem to believe that it is not thrown in one’s honor,” she said. “In fact, some people act as if my presence here is not only unnecessary but somehow fraudulent.”

The duke nodded, apparently feeling no need to apologize. As if he were simply agreeing with her.

Fine.

Viola might not have learned to wield an eyebrow in the nursery, but as Joan often pointed out, she had her own ways of defending herself.

“Like myself, His Grace is discomfited by ballrooms,” she said to Mr. Marlowe, putting on a sympathetic expression. “He retreated to the library because his nerves couldn’t take the excitement. You might want to offer prayers that he grows more courageous, Mr. Marlowe. His Grace will never be able to find a wife while hiding in the library.”

Wynter’s eyebrow arched again, but she had stopped being intimidated by that particular weapon years ago. “I have learned to overcome my nerves,” she said, pitching her voice to treacly comfort. “I’m certain if you put your mind to it, Your Grace, you’ll be able to dance more than one measure without running to hide.”

Mr. Marlowe patted Viola’s hand encouragingly. “I assured Miss Astley that if she trusted in Providence, all would be well.” He paused. “And it has been, has it not?”

“One gentleman uttered absurdities as could turn my stomach, but I managed to contain myself.” She couldn’t resist glancing at the duke to make certain he understood that he was the author of those absurdities.