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Having no interest in shrubs, Devin sat silently beside Viola. He kept an eye on her to see if she was gawking at the vicar, but she was lost in thought. She was the sort of person who didn’t have to be entertained at all times.
She appeared to be listening intently, for instance, but anyone who knew her could tell that she was far away, thinking of something else.
Rather more disturbing, to his mind, was the fact that Mr. Marlowe’s eyes kept straying to Viola’s gentle face, inspecting her thickly fringed eyes—at least, he did until Devin caught his attention and gave him a direct look.
“Wynter, you are not listening,” his uncle complained.
“Please forgive me.”
“Miss Pettigrew was remarking on my rhododendrons, which Miss Astley has never seen in bloom. You must escort Miss Astley to see them.”
“They are remarkable, even at this time of year,” Miss Pettigrew allowed.
“It’s dark outside,” Viola observed.
“My torches throw off more than enough light,” Devin’s uncle said proudly. “You should examine them, my dear. The pedestals are brass and highly ornate, made from my own design, I don’t mind saying.”
Viola had given Devin a few commanding glances in the time since he’d met her, but Miss Pettigrew’s stare was extraordinary. She would be a natural governess for a royal nursery. No matter how entitled the children, she’d keep them in order.
She couldn’t have said more clearly that Devin was to take the irritating young lady away with him. Apparently, Miss Pettigrew had noticed that Viola was offering some competition.
“Of course,” Devin said, coming to his feet and holding out his hand to Viola. “May I escort you to the window, Miss Astley?”
“Oh, not the window,” his uncle said. “Take her outside, Wynter. That’s why I left the doors open to the garden. The torches are lit, as you can see, and there are wraps out there as well. As long as you don’t leave the terrace, we’ll consider you chaperoned.” He airily waved his hand in that direction.
Viola put her sherry down and Devin took her hand, helping her to rise. He walked her past all the other guests. Viola was mumbling words under her breath, and Devin had the feeling they might be phrases considered improper for a young lady.
An unusual wish to laugh rose in his chest.
“We were as good as a circus exhibit, given the ogling we inspired,” he said, once they neared the open doors leading to the garden. “Yet you don’t appear to have turned green from the stress of entertaining an audience. Should nausea overtake you, we could duck behind a bush.”
She darted a look at him. “Believe it or not, I am too irritated for nausea.”
They walked out onto the terrace and she stopped. “Why, it’s warmer outside than in!”
At even intervals down the terrace, tall brass oil torches warmed the air.
“My uncle saw these in India years ago, and had his own version fashioned here.”
He led her around to the left, out of view of the occupants of the drawing room.
Viola peered over the marble balustrade at the shrubs below. “Are those rhododendrons?”
“One has to assume,” Devin said. He leaned against the balustrade, which came to his lower hip, crossed his arms, and looked at Viola. He was very aware of how much he liked to look at her, especially in a gown that allowed a great deal of her to be admired.
“Are you chilled?” he asked, thinking that he ought to be more gentlemanly.
“Not at all. Now everyone is speculating about us,” Viola burst out, in clear frustration. “I wouldn’t have obeyed your uncle, except . . .”
“Miss Pettigrew,” Devin said. “The lady does not appreciate your admiration of her fiancé. Or perhaps his of you.”
She gave him a cool look. “That is an improper subject for conversation. Speaking of which, I want to apologize for my impoliteness the night of the ball. I was provoked, but I shouldn’t have lost my temper. You didn’t know I was eavesdropping, after all, and you have a right to your opinion about my parentage.”
“I was mistaken,” Devin said. “You are clearly a real Wilde.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because no one else would have dared rebuke me,” he said frankly.
