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Without warning, a protective surge came over him, so strong that he clenched his jaw.
“See?” Otis said. “The duke isn’t going to give his daughter away to any suitor who comes along, you ass. You’re going to have to win Miss Astley’s hand, and the only way you’re going to be able to do that is if you listen to me.”
“Listen to you?” Devin was reeling inwardly. He didn’t listen to his younger cousin, or his uncle, for that matter.
But more importantly . . .
What the hell?
He’d only known the woman for five minutes. Perhaps a half hour.
“I don’t want to marry Miss Astley,” he said curtly. “It’s merely that the ball was extremely crowded, and she was the only lady with whom I spent significant time.”
Otis snorted. “Clearly you found time to chat with Lady Caitlin Paget, because at the club last night they were taking bets on the two of you. I leapt at the odds against, at one hundred to one, because I met her last year at one of my mother’s afternoon parties. I wouldn’t let that happen to you.”
Devin raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t let that happen?”
“Not even if I was still in the vicarage,” Otis reassured him. “I’ve met Lady Caitlin at St. Wilfrid’s any number of times, since she runs the Sunday school. The girl’s potty about animals. Always talking about how adorable kittens are. I wouldn’t let you make a mistake like that.”
Devin had always thought—on the rare occasion that he considered the matter—that he was lucky to have been an only child. There was no one to say with a scowl, as Viola had said of Joan, I won’t allow you to marry her.
It seemed he was wrong.
Otis threw back his second glass and got himself to his feet again. “I’d better take off. I have to go back to the vicarage and bathe before my man packs up my trunks.”
“More than one trunk? How much clothing do you have?”
“My friends used to jest about me being a ‘man of the cloth,’” Otis said. He was on his way to the door when he paused. “You’ll need to put out a call for another vicar right away.”
“I have someone in mind, but I’d prefer that you followed up with the man,” Devin said. “Offer him an excellent salary.”
Otis blinked at him. “Did I miss the moment when you turned into a churchgoing parishioner?”
“I’m not opposed to churchgoing.”
“But you rarely do.”
“I went to your ordination.”
“Where in heaven’s name did you meet a vicar?” Otis asked, abandoning the question of Devin’s ecclesiastical attendance.
“His name’s Marlowe, and he was a curate at St. Wilfrid’s for two years,” Devin said. “He left shortly before you moved in. I want him back. He’s a good man.”
He was.
Marlowe wasn’t the right man for Viola, and he needed to leave the Lindow townhouse, where he was on tap to offer consolation for everything from a stubbed toe to an upset stomach.
Otis shook his head. “Here I thought you left the business of duking to your underlings, and all this time, you’ve been worrying about your parishioners. I underestimated you, cuz. I’ll say as much to Father.”
Devin thought for a moment about accepting the praise, but it didn’t sit well with him. “Marlowe is currently living in the household of the Duke of Lindow,” he said instead. “He’s attached to the Mobberley living, but they brought him with them from the country.”
Otis blinked. “I see?”
“He’s . . . pretty.”
“Your competition is a vicar?”
This was no bark of laughter; Otis was practically convulsing. “How the mighty are fallen!” he managed to say between paroxysms. That and a stream of disconnected words. “Pretty.” And repeatedly: “A vicar!”
