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Devin had done this for her.

He had realized the difficulty of having one’s husband dependent on one’s father. He was showing extraordinary thoughtfulness and kindness. In fact, she felt a little weak at the knees realizing just what a good friend he was.

“While I am honored by Your Grace’s faith in me,” Mr. Marlowe said, catching her attention. “I too have some conditions.”

Devin’s eyebrow swept into the air but with a glance at Viola, he replaced that expression with one of respectful interest. “I should be happy to consider them.”

He overdid it a trifle, but Viola couldn’t help whispering, “Bravo!”

“Hair powder is an affront to hungry people who cannot afford flour,” Mr. Marlowe stated. “I shall never wear it, and I would hope that the patron of my living would support this decision.” He didn’t glance at the Duke of Wynter’s snowy wig. “I have no expectations that he or other parishioners would follow my practice.”

“Of course,” the duke said. “I fully support your right not to powder your hair, nor wear a wig.”

“I learned during my two years as curate that St. Wilfrid’s is a very wealthy parish,” Mr. Marlowe said.

“Mayfair is home to most of England’s noblemen,” Aunt Knowe contributed.

She was looking reluctantly impressed. Viola could have told her that Mr. Marlowe wasn’t merely handsome; he was genuinely good. Genuinely concerned about the welfare of his parishioners.

“The parish can support an orphanage,” Mr. Marlowe stated. “Were I to become its vicar, I would institute an orphanage to raise and educate abandoned children.”

“I’m not sure there are many such children in Mayfair,” Devin said, “but I will support it.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Marlowe said, with a touch of impatience. “The orphanage will not help only those unfortunates who happen to be born within the environs of Mayfair. We must look to the world outside our gilded gates. London is in desperate need of a foundling hospital, but we can start with an orphanage.”

A moment of silence followed, during which Viola bit back a smile.

Devin cast her a glance that she couldn’t read and said, “I understand, Mr. Marlowe, and I agree.”

Viola realized that she’d never before heard the duke address the vicar as “Mr. Marlowe” rather than “Marlowe.”

“As do I,” Lady Knowe said. “My brother and I will support the orphanage. Moreover, if you put on a biblical play as my niece has suggested, we will guarantee an audience that will establish the building’s charitable foundation.”

Viola blinked. Had she just been given permission to marry a vicar?

If so, she knew why.

It was not because of Mr. Marlowe’s virtue, per se, but because he had stood up to the Duke of Wynter. Because he had ethical standards and he stuck to them.

In short, the only thing standing in the way of her union with Mr. Marlowe was—

Well, Miss Pettigrew.

And Mr. Marlowe. She had to admit that he showed no signs of falling in love with her, even given his kindness in supporting her during her debut ball.

Her eyes went across the room to Miss Pettigrew, sitting extremely upright. Viola knew how difficult it was to sit among exquisite people feeling less attractive.

Perhaps it was immoral to pine for Mr. Marlowe, even if his marriage was likely to be unhappy.

An elbow gently bumped her in the side. “We are planning a visit to the vicarage tomorrow afternoon,” Devin informed her. “Otis has been extolling the blue velvet upholstery in the drawing room.”

“Of course,” Viola said, pulling herself together.

“Lady Knowe would like to investigate whether it would be possible to build an orphanage on the church grounds, and Otis thinks that the cloister could house a temporary stage.”

Viola nodded.

“Do you often lose track of conversations?” Devin asked, clearly amused.