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Otis’s mouth flopped open like a Scottish trout on the riverbank. “What?”

“What?” Devin was feeling disconcerted.

“He can’t have her?”

“No,” Devin said, committing to something that he hadn’t even articulated to himself.

“I’m so glad I’m moving here, the better to enjoy every moment,” Otis chortled. “A vicarage embellished with blue velvet is no competition.”

“Are you comparing my future wife to upholstery?”

Otis’s grin covered his whole face. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!”

“I foresee no entertainment,” Devin said in a quelling tone.

“I would be very surprised were that true,” Otis said gleefully. “You did just say that Greywick wasn’t allowed to ‘have Viola,’ otherwise known as Miss Astley?”

Devin frowned. “I didn’t phrase that very well. I know Greywick. Look how he’s decided Lady Joan won’t do, merely because of the possibility that her mother was unfaithful. He’s a decent fellow, but a prude at heart. He would trample Viola.”

“A shrinking violet in the shade, is she?”

“No.” Devin stopped, unable to express himself. Viola wasn’t meek, though she was clearly retiring. She was funny and sweet. Brave.

In love with the vicar.

“Duke or no, young ladies are not yours for the having or taking,” Otis said, his voice unexpectedly firm. “Any woman who marries you simply because of your title is not a woman with whom you should spend fifty years.”

Devin thought about pointing out that matrimony was a matter of convenience and exchange of property—at least, that was clearly the kind of arrangement his parents had made—and decided against it. His uncle Reggie and aunt Margaret had had a very different union. The Murgatroyd family did not fit the mold.

“You’re going to have to woo her,” his cousin said, displaying a romantic streak that probably stemmed from his parents’ unusual marriage.

“Dukes don’t woo,” Devin informed him. “We . . . don’t.”

“You haven’t a chance of winning one of the Duke of Lindow’s daughters without wooing her,” Otis retorted. “Don’t you know anything about the family, Dev?”

Devin gave it a moment’s thought. “The duke has had three duchesses and an untold number of children. I met Horatius, the duke’s eldest, before he drowned. I didn’t like him. There was that ridiculous play, Wilde in Love. I heard about it, but never attended. I remember my father ranting that Lindow ought to horsewhip the second duchess for adultery, but Father died before the lady fled the country and Lindow was granted a divorce.”

In short, just the sort of disorganized family structure that he most disliked. Lindow couldn’t have anticipated his first wife’s death, of course, but his second wife was an object lesson in choosing a duchess who understood the obligations that came with the title: to wit, marital fidelity.

Binsey nipped into the room with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Otis accepted a glass and knocked it back as if he were dying of thirst. Devin took his and put it to the side. He didn’t find that mathematics and wine were good companions, and hopefully at some point he’d get back to the equation he had been working on.

“The Duke of Lindow adores every single one of his daughters, including his stepdaughter,” Otis said, getting up and pouring himself another glass. “He married for the third time specifically in order to give his children a mother. Of course, he had three more with the current duchess, but the fact remains that he puts family above anything else. He’s famous for it.”

“I am an excellent marital prospect,” Devin pointed out, starting to feel somewhat testy.

“Next you’re going to offer to show me your excellent teeth,” Otis said, leaning back in his chair and balancing his champagne glass on his stomach. “What about when you have daughters, Dev?”

“What about it?”

“What if you managed to convince Miss Astley to take you, and the two of you had a daughter?”

“That’s an absurd thought. I scarcely know the woman, and expressing concern about the fact that she wouldn’t be an appropriate match for Greywick does not mean that I necessarily want her myself.”

“You can delude yourself all you want,” his cousin said. “Just do me the favor of imagining a daughter as shy as Miss Astley—not that I’ve met her, but that’s her reputation.”

Viola’s child would have masses of hair, and beautiful hazel eyes. He could picture her anxiety at the idea of a debut ball. Perhaps a feeling that would curdle her stomach and lead her to hide behind curtains.

Viola seemed to be very familiar with the library curtains.