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But she wasn’t entirely sure.

“We wouldn’t suit,” she said more firmly. “Hazel agrees.”

It was a warmish evening, and the first thing Viola saw was that Sir Reginald had opened the doors that led to the gardens. Outside was a line of tall torches, apparently warding off any evening chill. The fire danced against the darkening sky, making the garden look more intimate than the drawing room itself.

Viola was wearing one of Lavinia’s designs, a gown made from pale rose silk with cream lace that wrapped around her bosom. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Miss Pettigrew’s lips pursed, and her eyes seemed to fasten on Viola’s chest as they greeted each other.

Were vicars’ wives required to wear black, a version of a female cassock? Miss Pettigrew hadn’t a hint of skin showing below her collarbone. She turned away with a final, condemning glance at Viola’s bodice.

Joan dropped a curtsy and trotted over to Otis on the other side of the room, sitting in a group of young people that included Caitlin, but Sir Reginald caught Viola’s arm and steered her, the Pettigrews, and Mr. Marlowe to a group of chairs, calling, “Nephew, come with us and talk to Mr. Marlowe about that idea of yours.”

Sir Reginald’s matchmaking attempts were not subtle. Even if Viola hadn’t overheard him urging his nephew to court the mouse, she could have guessed his intent from the way he bade Wynter be seated while pointing directly to the cushion beside Viola.

Aunt Knowe rolled her eyes and strolled off to join Joan.

The duke obeyed, sitting down next to Viola on the sofa, so close that their shoulders touched. “How are you, Miss Astley?” he asked.

“I am very well, thank you,” she said, rearranging her skirts. It was surely imagination that led her to feel the warmth of his body next to her.

The butler appeared with a glass of sherry for Viola. “Would you like another glass, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I would,” Wynter said. “Good evening, Miss Pettigrew. I believe I’ve met your father, the bishop, recently.”

“My father counts among his acquaintances the highest in the land,” said Miss Pettigrew, giving the duke a lavish smile with little relation to the pinched greeting she gave Viola. She sipped her sherry, frowned, and put it down.

“The Bishop of London is an excellent connection for you, Mr. Marlowe,” Sir Reginald said. “My nephew tells me that you spent a few years as curate at St. Wilfrid’s.”

Viola had a strong feeling from the way Sir Reginald was eyeing Mr. Marlowe’s golden hair that he felt a vicar ought to powder his hair, if not wear a wig. But Mr. Marlowe had once shared his equally strong feeling that flour that could feed the poor shouldn’t be wasted to fabricate wig powder.

As Miss Pettigrew took it upon herself to confirm both her parentage and Mr. Marlowe’s previous position, Viola turned to the duke.

“Shoo,” she whispered. “Take yourself off, if you please.”

“And allow you to make a cake of yourself ogling the vicar? Better you look at me, even if you are scowling at the moment.”

“You are drawing attention,” Viola explained.

Wynter glanced about, and Joan and her friends instantly looked elsewhere. A perfect storm of chatter rose.

“You see?” Viola asked. “Now they’re talking of us.”

“Why do you care?”

“Don’t ask such a foolish question.”

“I truly desire to know.”

“They may come to the conclusion that you are courting me,” Viola whispered. “We both know that isn’t the case. Please don’t encourage their attention. And while we’re on the subject, why on earth did you send me flowers?”

“Let them talk,” Wynter said, his lip curling in a truly ducal fashion. “I shall send you or any other woman in London flowers every day if I wish to.”

“You should be across the room searching for a bride. I am not a real Wilde, as you yourself said,” Viola reminded him.

“I was not in possession of essential information when I said that,” the duke said. “Besides, I need to speak to Marlowe. I have a proposition for him.”

A proposition?

Before she could ask what he meant, Sir Reginald pulled them into a conversation about the art of growing rhododendrons, a topic on which Miss Pettigrew seemed to have a great deal of information. Since Sir Reginald fancied himself an expert—said expertise gained by hiring the best gardeners—the conversation quickly grew animated.