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She glanced up at him apologetically. “It’s a failing of mine. I always seem to be thinking of three things at the same time.”

“You truly aren’t a candidate for a duchess,” he observed.

“No, I’m not.” Viola shook her head.

“Not for a vicar’s wife either,” he said in a low voice.

Her brows drew together.

“Parishioners? Endless meetings with the ladies who sew sheets for the poor, and the ladies who put flowers in the nave, and the ladies who do needlework renditions of Noah’s ark? Even longer conversations with irritated ladies offended by the dramatic version of Noah’s ark performed for the most virtuous of reasons?”

Sir Reginald’s butler was at the door; they all rose. Mr. Marlowe hurried away to escort the Pettigrews.

Devin held out his arm and Viola took it. They led the way into dinner, as Devin had the highest rank in the room.

The very idea should have sent Viola’s stomach into knots.

It didn’t.

Chapter Fourteen

The following day

Otis, Devin, Mr. Marlowe, and the Pettigrews had been invited for tea before the visit to the vicarage, since St. Wilfrid’s was a few blocks from the Lindow townhouse.

“Do you ever consider how odd it is that life revolves around tea?” Joan asked, as she and Viola walked into the drawing room. “Why not turnips?” She threw her hand dramatically in the air and announced, “The duchess will be receiving at three for a collation of cabbage.”

“Polite society is organized around meals,” Viola said. “I felt it acutely after I stopped being able to eat among strangers.”

Joan paused and gave her a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

“You were a tremendous help,” Viola said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You and your silly Wilde Child.”

“Did you keep it in mind yesterday while you were walking into dinner on the duke’s arm?” Joan asked curiously. “You looked very calm. Ducal, even. Wilde, to be precise.”

“Devin wishes to marry a woman from the nobility,” Viola reminded her. “My mother married into the nobility, but my father was from the gentry.”

Joan broke into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Aunt Knowe called from the settee.

“Silliness,” Viola said, leaving Joan behind and walking over to her aunt.

“I adore that walking dress,” her aunt exclaimed, looking at Viola from head to foot. “You look particularly delectable this afternoon.”

Viola glanced down. It was the third gown she had tried on, if she were honest. She had chosen it because it made her feel important. More than merely a shy woman, a wallflower with a habit of hiding behind the drapes.

The lavender bodice was closely fitted with three large buttons, and the sleeves and neck were trimmed in silver braid. The slight military air made her look powerfully feminine. She wore her hair unpowdered, loose curls pinned around her head with the spangle-topped pins that Barty loved.

“Excellent choice,” Aunt Knowe confirmed. She dipped her hand into the voluminous pocket of her robe à la française and pulled out a little tin. “I have a gift for you, Viola. I bought it in Soho yesterday.”

“It’s adorable,” Viola said, taking the enameled tin. “Is it perfume?”

“Lip color,” Aunt Knowe said, showing her how to flick open the top. Inside was a rosy pink salve. “Joan, do try it. If you like it, I’ll send my maid to fetch another for you.”

“Excellent!” Joan cried, rubbing her finger against the salve and darting over to the mirror over the fireplace.

Their headmistress’s admonishments about the unladylike nature of face paint darted through Viola’s mind.