by Eloisa James
He physically recoiled. “I am not dramatic. Or emotional.”
Viola smiled. “As for treating you like a wounded bird, why would I? You’re a duke. You’re the highest in the land, exquisitely dressed, wealthy, powerful, and self-sufficient. I don’t feel sorry for you in the slightest. After all, your father didn’t challenge you to a duel, and Sir Reginald obviously loves you, as do Otis and Hazel.”
There was an arrested look on Devin’s face that Viola tucked away in her mind to think about later.
He smiled, not the vivid smile that changed his features, but a sleek, satisfied smile, like a predator who had rounded up just the right supper. “You’re right,” he said, his voice purring. “Let’s go back to where we were before. You’re marrying me because of this.” He caught her against him.
Viola gasped with surprise and instantly succumbed, her thoughts blurred by a kiss that was carnal—and possessive.
“You are worried,” he said sometime later, his voice a throaty growl, “that we’re marrying for the wrong reasons. But this is the best reason I can think of, Viola. I don’t care that you’re a duke’s daughter, or that you’re incredibly beautiful, or that you make me laugh.”
He stopped.
“You don’t want to marry me for those reasons,” Viola said, treasuring the fact he thought she was beautiful. “But?”
“I care about kissing you,” he said. “I’d like to do it again. Often.”
Her heart bounded and she smiled at him. “I’d like to kiss you often too.”
“And more,” he said, watching her closely. “I want to make love to you, Viola. Every night and probably mornings as well. I want to see you over the breakfast table, sweep off the dishes, and make love to you there. And in the dining room,” he added. “On every table in the house.”
There was a brisk knock on the door.
Devin held Viola’s gaze for a long second, turned his head, and said, “Enter.”
Ophelia bustled in. “That is the extent of time that your father will allow the two of you to be alone,” she announced. “And here you are, standing at a proper distance from each other.”
Viola managed a wobbly smile at that patent fib, got to her feet, and walked toward her mother. “Of course we are.”
Her mother’s eyes swept over Devin, undoubtedly registering the smoldering look in his eyes, even though he stood easily, like a man whose conduct is never questioned.
“Your hair,” she said to Viola, nodding toward the mirror on one wall. “Your father will be here in three minutes.”
Viola ran to the glass.
“If you don’t mind, Duke, I’ll straighten your cravat. Viola is the most tenderhearted of my children, and if you hurt her, I’ll eviscerate you,” her mother told him, all in precisely the same charming tone.
Viola tucked an errant curl back into her coiffure, listening as hard as she could.
“I will do my best,” Devin said. “No one can promise another person a happy life. But I will do everything in my power to make certain that Viola is safe and joyful.”
“Good enough,” the duchess said.
Viola turned and started back toward them.
This was happening. It was truly happening.
She walked to Devin’s side, swallowing back her smile. She said, “Mother, I’ve decided to marry the Duke of Wynter by special license.”
Next to her, she felt the faint tremor that went through Devin’s body, even though his expression didn’t change.
Chapter Nineteen
Viola watched as her stepfather entered the room, went straight to his desk, and plucked up another copy of the offensive print.
For a man who’d sired ten children and raised twelve, he didn’t look old. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he stood as tall as he must have forty years ago.
“I spend money and time destroying prints that I find offensive,” the Duke of Lindow said, by way of greeting.
“This will be your task now,” Ophelia said. Viola’s mother was watching Devin closely; he might not have realized it, but the comment was a test.
Devin wasn’t a conventionally handsome man. He didn’t have celestial blue eyes or a slim figure or a graceful gait. He didn’t carry a cane. He danced with abrupt finesse, going through the figures of a dance with precision. You could trust him to turn in precisely the right direction, at precisely the right moment.
You could not trust him to look like a graceful willow, which was how the Wilde dancing master had described gentlemen on the dance floor.
That suggestion had never worked with her stepbrothers either.
But if Devin didn’t have the tools that marked a gentleman as not merely civilized, but intrinsically aristocratic . . .
He did have one asset, one that he used rarely.
He gave Ophelia his blinding smile, the one that transformed a rough-hewn set of features to a gloriously beautiful face.
At least as she saw it.
Her mother drew in a swift breath, and Viola had to choke back a giggle.
“I meant to ask for Viola’s hand in marriage as soon as I could speak to the duke. From the moment I met her at the Wilde ball, as a matter of fact.”
“I don’t know when you met Viola at the ball,” the duchess said, her tone still guarded. He hadn’t quite won her over. “What I remember is that you asked for an introduction to my daughter Joan, but inexplicably didn’t mention Viola.”
“I had thought to marry Joan,” Devin said. “We would not have suited.”
A snort from her stepfather seconded that assessment.
“I met Viola, and realized that I didn’t want to marry a duke’s daughter—which my father on his deathbed had instructed me to do.”
Her father rocked forward on his toes, his jaw set. “Viola is a duke’s daughter.”
“Oh, I know.” This smile was a wry one, a small version of Devin’s most potent weapon. “But I don’t want to marry a duke’s daughter. I want to marry the young lady I found hiding behind the curtains, who proceeded to chastise me for arrogance and lack of consideration, and all the time looked at me with those eyes—”
He stopped. “Viola is beautiful, of course, but that isn’t it. That wasn’t why I meant to ask you for her hand in marriage. It wasn’t her beauty, nor her parentage. It was simply her.”
Viola could feel happiness filling her like a cup under running water. Devin wasn’t trying to convince her parents. He was just telling the truth as it was self-evident to him.
Her stepfather liked it too. His jaw eased.
Ophelia was still looking at him closely. “My daughter is the most tenderhearted of our children,” she repeated.
“I am ready to build any number of cowsheds,” the duke said promptly. His eyes gleamed with amusement and perhaps even a hint of pride. “I have committed to building an orphanage attached to St. Wilfrid’s.”
“I wasn’t speaking merely of Viola’s compassion,” her mother said. “I meant that she is tender spirited. She will not thrive if you are peremptory with her.”
“I’m in the room,” Viola said, feeling indignant.
“Viola is a strong woman,” Devin said, his hand curling around hers. “But I do not plan to be peremptory with my wife.”
Her mother didn’t look entirely convinced.
“I wouldn’t thrive in a garret on bread and water,” Viola said impatiently, “but I will be fine in other circumstances.”
Devin looked taken aback. “I assure you that I would never imprison anyone, especially my wife.” There was a touch of offense in his voice.
“That was just an example,” Viola said.
“If any of my daughters are mistreated by a husband, I have instructed them to return to our house,” Ophelia said, fixing her eyes on Devin.
“I cannot imagine why—” Devin was beginning to look truly affronted.
“Because of your father,” Viola’s stepfather said, intervening. “I’m afraid there are few people in p
olite society who didn’t witness scathing battles between your father and mother.”
“I have a different constitution from my father,” Devin said. “In his defense, he regularly shouted but was never truly threatening; my parents would trade heated words until my mother lost patience and moved away, for months at a time.”
Viola shifted their hands to squeeze Devin’s hand. His face was inscrutable, but his profile looked even harsher than usual.
“Stop it, both of you,” she ordered, giving her parents a direct look. “I have chosen to accept Devin’s hand in marriage. He is not like his parents at all. He never raises his voice. But more to the point, this is my decision, not yours.” She looked pointedly at the duke. “You have always told us that we could choose our own spouses.”
“This isn’t a customary betrothal,” His Grace said. “There hasn’t been time to come to know him. We haven’t shared more than a meal or two. Have you discussed practicalities, such as where you’ll spend most of your time?”
“I don’t care,” Viola said, looking up at Devin. Her head scarcely reached his shoulder, so it was a long way up. “We’ll probably live quietly, perhaps in the country.” She paused. “If you wish?”
Devin looked down at her and suddenly she knew exactly what that expression was: hunger.
“I will live wherever you are,” he said. The truth in his voice rang in the room, and she saw her mother relax.
“To return to your original point,” Devin said to the duchess, “no one is going to print execrable trash about my wife and be open the next day to print even a Psalm. I shall make certain the printers understand that Viola is not to feature in any print, as it might result in damage to a printing press.”
“I’ll admit that never in these years of battling prints did I consider violence,” the duke said thoughtfully.
“You had no need,” his wife pointed out. “The boys shrugged off the broadsides. Alaric actually considered framing the one pairing him with Empress Catherine until Willa objected. Alaric is the duke’s oldest living son and Willa is his wife,” she explained to Devin.
“I don’t think of it as violence,” Devin said. “I will protect my family by any means possible, and the printers might as well learn that now. But in the end, it’s up to Viola.”
Viola looked in surprise as all three of them looked to her. “Me?”
“You,” Devin said. “I would like to avenge this insult, but I watched my father make decisions for his wife too many times, and you are the one insulted.”
Viola’s mouth shaped the word “oh,” but no sound emerged. Her mother was chuckling and even the duke had stopped looking surly.
“I vote for a warning,” Viola said.
“One warning,” Devin said.
She nodded.
“Can’t believe I didn’t think of destroying the printing press,” her stepfather mumbled, coming over and wrapping an arm around his wife. “All those prints about North.”
“North didn’t care,” Ophelia said, “even when they were comparing him to a Shakespearean villain.”
“North didn’t mind,” Viola agreed. She swallowed. “I do. I don’t want any prints of me sold, even if they’re nicer than . . . than that. I just don’t like the idea of it.”
Devin nodded. She had a feeling that the printing press—perhaps all the printing presses of London—were shortly to find themselves being given a ferocious warning, but she decided not to worry about it.
“Wynter, you and I need to talk about how to present your betrothal to polite society,” the duke said. “Or rather, your marriage, if you use the special license.”
Viola’s stomach was clenching again. She literally could not imagine walking into a ballroom. “The Season is over for me,” she stated.
Silence.
She looked at her mother apologetically. “I can’t do it. Knowing what they all will be saying about me, how fascinating everyone will find Devin’s choice . . . I just can’t.”
Devin took her hand. “If you will excuse us, Your Grace, I’d like to speak to Viola in private again. We won’t be long.” He had that trick of asking a question but assuming the answer.
Viola was unsurprised when her father nodded.
The Duke of Lindow was a man who generally got his way, but he wasn’t a fool either. He’d met his match in the Duke of Wynter, and never mind the fact that his future son-in-law was much younger than he.
Viola found herself grinning from ear to ear.
Her mother caught her in a hug. “You were my shy baby, so I always imagined you married to someone sweet and retiring.”
Viola looked over her shoulder and knew that Devin was listening. His eyes had a distinctly wild glint. He was not sweet.
She had a strange feeling that she knew who was in his thoughts: Mr. Marlowe. The vicar was sweet.
“Viola needs someone to protect her,” the Duke of Lindow said. “You might as well suggest that she marry Marlowe!”
Viola held back a smile.
Thank goodness, she hadn’t truly been in love with the vicar. Of course, she would have had her way eventually—if Mr. Marlowe had wanted to marry her and if Miss Pettigrew weren’t standing in the way—but it would have been a battle royal.
The duke was now giving Devin the sort of look that he gave his sons: one of pride and respect.
“I’ll walk into that ballroom next to you, Viola, and believe me, no one will say a word about my choice of duchess,” Devin said.
Viola did believe him, or rather, she believed that he meant it. You couldn’t say he was arrogant: It was more that he was a force of nature. A rock or a mountain.
A rock who didn’t understand the nature of gossip.
“You may have ten minutes alone,” Ophelia announced.
Viola glanced at her mother and discovered that she was smiling. Apparently she too recognized that Viola would be better off with a mountain than a gentle vicar.
Chapter Twenty
As her parents left, Viola allowed Devin to draw her down to sit beside him.
“I want to make certain that you don’t have dreams of a wedding like your stepsister Betsy’s,” Devin said. “I don’t want you to feel forced. I will wait if you would prefer. I will court you, and be damned with gossip.”
People had lined the streets to see Betsy and shout congratulations to the bride. The very idea made Viola shudder.
“I don’t have any wish for a big wedding, but I never imagined that my husband would be forced to marry me either,” she said.
“If you wish to wait, we’ll wait. I am a duke and no one under the monarch can make me do something if I don’t wish it.” His eyes were intent on hers. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but—”
She put a hand on his arm, and he stopped. “I do know you, Devin. You’re kind and considerate. While you were angry with Miss Pettigrew, you didn’t dismiss Mr. Marlowe because I asked you not to. When you considered destroying the printing press, you asked me for my opinion first. You are everything I like in a man.”
“I’m not as kind as the vicar. To be completely honest, I’m not really interested in orphanages, though I have no objection to building one and supporting it.”
“We don’t have to be interested in the same things,” she said, a smile growing in her heart. “I don’t expect you to spend time with me in the cowshed.”
He leaned toward her, eyes hungry. “Actually . . .”
Viola was suddenly breathless.
“I like the sound of a cowshed,” he said, his lips close to hers. “Fresh hay . . .” The sentence drifted off because she opened her lips, greedy to see if kissing him was as powerful every time.
It was.
Viola stroked his tongue with hers, and unable to stop herself, reached out to clutch his coat and pull him closer.
“You’re little but fierce,” Devin murmured.
“Not a mouse?” Viola asked.
He didn’t answer, but only because his
arms were around her and somehow he’d managed to pull her into his lap. Surrounded by his strength and warmth, she could feel desperation coursing through him. For her!
She started kissing him as fiercely as she knew how, letting her body tell him all the incoherent things she felt, things that had nothing to do with the virtuous Mr. Marlowe or, indeed, virtue at all. She felt overheated and wild, every bit of her attuned to his body: to the catch in his throat, the hoarse, helpless sound when she rocked against him, the way his hands were trembling.
She didn’t even notice Joan was in the room until Devin pulled back. Viola was staring at him, trying to reconcile her normally demure self with a new version of herself that saw nothing wrong with ripping off her fiancé’s neck cloth and licking his neck.
Not that she had, of course, but she had imagined it.
Joan was standing not far away, an arm melodramatically cast over her eyes. “Mother sent me to fetch you, Viola. Your Grace, my father is waiting for you in the library and I wouldn’t be tardy, were I you.”
“Devin,” Viola breathed. “I . . .”
“I as well,” he said, his penetrating gaze hungry. The roughness in his voice made her squirm in his lap. His eyelids drooped and he stood, bringing Viola to her feet. “All right?”
Viola was turning pink. She almost—almost—blurted out that she “needed” him. The only explanation was that she had temporarily lost her mind.
Devin took a deep breath and shook his head. “Whatever just came into your head, don’t say it until we’re in private, Viola.”
“I don’t want to know what’s in either of your heads,” Joan remarked.
Viola pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to stop thumping.
“Lady Joan, I will be honored to call you sister-in-law,” Devin said.
“I don’t know that it’s such an honor,” Joan said, laughing. “You picked the better Wilde sister by far. Now come along!” She turned and marched toward the door.
Viola caught Devin’s arm as he turned to follow Joan.
“That was—” The right words didn’t come to mind. Improper? Marvelous? Terrible? Bad? Good? Wrong? Words tumbled through her mind like dried weeds.
