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Squire Pretner’s three young daughters would be lined up in the front pew after they caught a glimpse of Mr. Marlowe’s profile. He was as startlingly handsome as an actor on the London stage. A lock of honey-colored hair fell over his bright blue eyes. He wasn’t wearing a wig, nor had he powdered his hair.

She was so entranced that she forgot to look away when he sat down. When he smiled at her, she felt the shock to the tips of her fingers. His eyes were warm and caring. One knew instinctively that he would be kind to everyone, from a crotchety elder to a colicky baby.

He turned away to respond to Aunt Knowe’s offer of tea, and Viola barely managed to keep her mouth shut. Her whole body was caught in a delicious, yearning warmth.

Joan, who always knew what Viola was thinking, planted a sharp elbow in her side. “He’s betrothed,” she hissed into Viola’s ear. “And short.”

“So am I,” Viola breathed.

“I’m sorry about the untidy state of this room,” Aunt Knowe was saying. “We’ve spent the last few hours making bouquets of paper flowers.”

“Decorations for our little sister’s birthday,” Joan explained.

Miss Pettigrew brushed a paper scrap onto the floor before she seated herself opposite Viola and Joan. “A charming notion.” Her expression suggested she would expect nothing less from indolent aristocrats.

“I could send a bunch of paper peonies to the vicarage, if you’d like,” Aunt Knowe offered.

“I do not care for decorations that collect dust,” Miss Pettigrew announced. Viola suspected that all her statements were announcements. “A tidy bouquet of fresh flowers is an acceptable adornment.”

“I see,” Aunt Knowe said.

Joan put her arm around Viola’s waist and gave her a little pinch, signaling either delight or horror. Probably both, since Miss Pettigrew was proving to be a character, and thus likely to entertain the family at dinner, in absentia, of course. Joan loved to act out the foibles of more outrageous visitors to the castle.

Mrs. Pettigrew smoothed her skirts. “We just came from Mobberley. The vicarage needs complete refurbishing. I gather it suffered a fire a decade ago?”

Aunt Knowe nodded. “An unfortunate accident.”

“We considered accepting His Grace’s offer to stay in the castle while the building is being reconstructed to my specifications.”

Aunt Knowe’s eyelids didn’t flicker at this news; not for nothing was she born and bred into the peerage. But Viola could tell that her stepfather would have an earful later.

“That will take some months. Upon consideration, I think it best that I return to London once I deem the building plans acceptable,” Mrs. Pettigrew continued. “Bishop Pettigrew cannot do without me. Obviously, it would be unseemly for my daughter to remain in the castle with Mr. Marlowe, since they have not yet taken vows.”

“Of course,” Aunt Knowe said.

“Mr. Marlowe may remain here,” Mrs. Pettigrew allowed.

Mr. Marlowe leaned forward. “I shan’t be underfoot,” he assured Aunt Knowe. “There is a great deal to be done in the parish, since Father Duddleston died some weeks ago.”

“The parish is as disorganized as the vicarage,” Miss Pettigrew put in. “Mr. Marlowe will need to catalogue the parish unfortunates.”

Viola’s mind was whirling.

Mr. Marlowe was . . . He was the man she had never dared to imagine. She hadn’t the slightest hint of nausea in his presence. She had no wish to flee to the cowshed. Instead, she wanted nothing more than to listen and contribute to his plans.

Yet . . . he was betrothed. A daring and heretofore undiscovered part of her mind pointed out that betrothal was not the same as marriage.

She glanced back at Mr. Marlowe. The curve of his lower lip was remarkably appealing for a man. His form was slender. He would likely dance extremely gracefully. But no: Vicars don’t dance, she reminded herself.

Joan elbowed her. “Stop ogling him,” she hissed.

Viola looked down at her plate and discovered to her surprise that she’d finished her shortbread. She never ate among strangers and yet . . .

Her stomach felt entirely peaceful.

This must be love, she thought wonderingly.

Love.