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“I’d be honored,” Aunt Knowe said. “Do share with us the secrets of achieving this desirable state?”

“One begins by knowing one’s place in the world,” Miss Pettigrew said.

“I have always insisted on that point,” her mother agreed.

“I agree that lack of ambition is a partner to happiness,” Aunt Knowe said, nodding.

“You misunderstand me,” Miss Pettigrew said. “If one does not strive, life has no meaning. As Mr. Marlowe will regularly profess in his sermons, one must constantly practice a life of purity.”

Caitlin’s brows drew together. “It almost sounds as if you will be intimately acquainted with the content of Mr. Marlowe’s sermons.”

“My mother has always written my father’s sermons,” Miss Pettigrew said. “I will take the onerous task from Mr. Marlowe’s hands. I have been trained by the best in the land. He can spend his time succoring the poor and ill, while I will tend to the moral garden, as it were, pruning weeds as they arise.”

Viola watched as Caitlin glanced at Mr. Marlowe’s back. He was still talking to the duke, but she had the idea that Caitlin agreed with her: Mr. Marlowe had no idea that he would be handing over responsibility for his sermons on his wedding day.

“Pruning weeds,” Aunt Knowe said, with obvious fascination. “Mr. Marlowe will be in charge of discovering sins, and you will provide admonishments.”

“I will be the scribe for his inmost thoughts,” Miss Pettigrew said, dodging the question. “I will exert my powers to phrase the thoughts of his heart and mind, just as my mother has done for my father.”

“Bishop Pettigrew has preached before the king himself,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, a proud smile playing around her mouth.

“I must congratulate you,” Aunt Knowe said, after a stark moment of silence. “If I understand your daughter correctly, in essence you preached before the king.”

“One might take it so,” Mrs. Pettigrew agreed, smoothing the black gloves that lay across her lap. “One mustn’t congratulate oneself for such things. To be a cleric’s wife, one needs a gift for rhetoric, such as my daughter possesses. But the only measure of any woman is whether she is a true lady.”

A fleeting but grim stare left Viola in no doubt about Mrs. Pettigrew’s opinion of lip salve.

Before she could formulate a response, Devin materialized at Viola’s back, curled a strong, warm hand over her shoulder, and said, “If the ladies are agreeable, perhaps we could make our way to the vicarage?”

“Tick, tock, everyone!” Aunt Knowe cried, leaping to her feet in a way that suggested that the next time Mrs. Pettigrew visited, she too would have an attack of the vapors. “The weather is perfect for a short walk.”

When they reached the entry, Devin took Viola’s pelisse from the footman and helped her put it on. When his hands touched her shoulders, she felt a flash of heat that made her breath stop. Her heart sped up, which was absurd.

In short order, the group put on outer wear and traipsed down the front steps of the Lindow townhouse. Somehow, Viola didn’t know quite how, it seemed there was no question but that Devin would be at her side.

He strode beside her silently, which she appreciated. Joan talked constantly, which gave her time to think. But Devin’s companionable silence did as well.

The problem was that the only thing she could think about was him.

She’d grown up around handsome men, but she found it easy to dismiss the Wildes’ sculpted features from her mind. And Mr. Marlowe with his finely knit cheekbones.

A sultry, angular face with a rough voice couldn’t compare. Especially when you added the solitary pride that was almost visible around his shoulders.

Still.

Chapter Fifteen

Devin walked slowly, until Lady Knowe, who was leading the group, disappeared around the corner ahead of him.

He came to a halt.

Viola glanced up at him inquiringly. She looked so enticing that he was having a hard time not kissing her in public.

He had glanced at her while talking to the vicar and instantly lost his train of thought. That old harridan must have said something unkind to her, and the expression on her face had lit an errant, fiercely protective fire in his chest.

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said.

She looked startled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”