Page 37

Normally the idea would have filled Devin with horror. Today it—didn’t.

“I will attend,” he said.

“I still think you’re up to something.” Sir Reginald peered at him.

“Very likely,” Devin agreed. “Do you think that perhaps you need spectacles, Uncle? You seem to be squinting.”

“I see perfectly well,” his uncle reported. “One simply has to take a closer look at you than at most men. It’s not that I can’t trust you, but I don’t always understand you.” He gave a crack of laughter. “Not that I’m complaining. The family estates were trickling down the drain, paying off your father’s more absurd peccadilloes, and now we’re thriving.”

“Hmm,” Devin said. He knew quite well the amounts that the estate had to pay out, on a continuing basis, to widows and children orphaned as a result of his father’s violent temper.

“I’ll make my way to the butler’s pantry and see how Binsey is doing with preparations for Hazel’s ball.”

Devin walked with his uncle to the door. “Didn’t you just speak to him about it yesterday?”

“Binsey and I don’t always see eye to eye,” Uncle Reggie said, in a magnificent understatement. “I have to rehearse our plans on a daily basis to make certain that he doesn’t undermine me. It’s not easy turning a house this size into a fairy garden, but that is what Hazel wants.”

Devin stopped himself from groaning, but it was a near thing.

“Lilac trees lined up all around the ballroom, draped in all manner of flowers and candles as well. And a flowery arch leading to the dining room. I have to check every detail. Do you know that Binsey thought to serve collared eels for the supper!”

Devin steered his uncle through the door.

“I told him that we’ll have fowls, lambs, lobster, and various meats. No fish and certainly no eels.” He disappeared into the nether regions of the house in pursuit of Binsey, squaring his shoulders to take on the battle.

Devin went back to his chair with one idea foremost in his mind: He’d take a clear-eyed look at Viola Astley tomorrow. She was likely not worth the trouble.

All London knew her as a mouse, after all.

The very idea of an upset stomach was off-putting.

Then he thought about the way her eyes sparkled when she scolded him. It was an outlandish thing to find attractive.

There was plenty else to admire. She was just the size and shape that he would most prefer for his duchess, not that he’d given it much thought before.

But now that he had, his wife would definitely have to have a deep bosom. In fact, it was a requirement. And she had to be petite, with lush lips and thick lashes. It was hard to tell, given the fashion for panniers, but he had the idea that Viola’s hips were round instead of lean, like those of taller women.

Joan Wilde was beautiful, like Venus or Helen of Troy.

But Viola was like a treasure box, hiding her sensuality and her intelligence and her sense of humor.

He had the feeling she shared it only with family.

Right. He’d always preferred a challenge. A woman who didn’t share her thoughts? Who had no particular interest in going into society?

She was made for him.

All he had to do was get rid of the pretty vicar.

And somehow convince Viola that he was just as pretty—which he wasn’t.

Ditto, as virtuous as Marlowe. Paying for orphans’ maintenance didn’t feel virtuous when one’s father was responsible for their destitution.

Oh, and as malleable as Marlowe—no. He couldn’t see himself obeying orders, even those handed out by a wife.

He shrugged.

Likely he would see Viola at the tea party, making eyes at the vicar, and realize that he’d suffered a bout of temporary insanity.