“Tell me more about the bathtub?” she asked brightly, resolving to keep her mind on domestic matters. “Did your father acquire it in Italy?”
With that, Devin burst out laughing and kissed her again. “You don’t care about the bathtub, Viola.”
“I could care about the bathtub,” she argued. “You needn’t worry that I can’t manage the household, because my mother has made certain that I can.”
“You are my absentminded duchess,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “I have a housekeeper already.”
“And you are my duke,” she countered.
She couldn’t read the expression on his face, but she had the feeling that Devin didn’t care to be anyone’s possession. Never mind. He was hers now. It was up to her—not to rescue him, but to . . .
To love him?
That was it.
She had to love him. And be an excellent duchess. An indispensable duchess, so that if he grew irritated with her shyness and tendency to become distracted, it would be too late for him not to value her.
She had conquered her shyness and she could focus her attention as well. Three hours later, she was reviewing the linen closet with the housekeeper. Every time she started to think about something other than sheets or quilts or guest chambers, she pulled her attention back to the task at hand.
When Devin walked into the housekeeper’s parlor, the lady leapt backward and dropped into a curtsy. “Your Grace!” she cried. “I never—welcome—may I be of service?”
“I came to say hello to my wife,” Devin said. He was entirely the duke once again, Viola noticed with disappointment. His costume was black and scarcely relieved by the simple knot of his neck cloth. His eyes were cool.
“Good afternoon!” Viola said cheerfully.
His expression darkened. “I don’t want to be greeted that way.”
“Oh, crickets!” Viola said, but she managed to keep the words from being audible. She dropped into a deep curtsy. Of course, he would adhere to the trappings of dukedom. Her family’s informality was most unusual among the peerage.
The housekeeper had apparently decided that Devin didn’t need her, because she edged past the cupboard and fled out the door.
“Good afternoon,” Viola said, straightening.
Strong hands caught her shoulders. “Not that either. This.” Devin took her mouth in a hot, hungry kiss.
“Oh, goodness,” Viola said, sometime later. “I can’t greet you with kisses!”
“Yes, you can,” he told her. Then he added, “In our house, at least.” He had lifted her to the back of a sturdy armchair, so her eyes were level with his. “I came to invite you to my study, to introduce you to all the statues before I have them hauled away. The keeper of the Ashmolean Museum has agreed to take them off my hands.”
“Mrs. Ulrich hasn’t finished showing me the household,” Viola said. Even she could hear the longing in her voice. “Perhaps you could take me back to the bedchamber and we could . . . count the chamber pots, Devin,” she said, the words coming out in a hurried whisper. Her cheeks were burning at the immodesty of that question.
He shook his head. “You’re sore.” His hand ran down her curves, and even through her corset she could feel his hunger. “For the first few days, you’ll sleep in the duchess’s bedchamber.”
Viola decided she didn’t have to voice her opposition at the moment; he’d find out soon enough.
“Did Mrs. Ulrich show you your bedchamber?” Devin asked.
Viola nodded. “I’ve seen everything except for the duchess’s sitting room. She did tell me most of the collections are going to that museum in Oxford, even the chamber pots, though I told her I might keep one or two.”
“You haven’t seen my mother’s sitting room yet?” Devin asked.
Viola shook her head.
“It’s next to the duchess’s bedchamber,” Devin said, taking her hand and drawing her out the door and toward the stairs.
“I thought you were hard at work on a mathematical theorem,” she said.
“I found myself thinking of other things,” her husband replied, a thread of amusement running through his voice.
On the third floor, he pushed open a door to a large chamber, wallpapered with tangled vines that curled from the floor to ceiling in pleasant abandon. A small desk stood before the window, and one comfortable armchair had been placed before a fireplace tiled in blue ceramic.
“How charming,” Viola said, walking in.
“I think it’s sad,” Devin responded.
She looked at him inquiringly.
“My mother used to retire here, gustily weeping. If that sounds unkind, I don’t mean it to be. My father was impossible to live with, and she did her best.”
“I can imagine it must have been very difficult,” Viola said. “What did you do when your mother was in such distress?”
“I hid in my nursery or my bedchamber,” he said. “Depending on my age, of course. To comfort her would be to draw my father’s wrath. They would scream at each other until her nerves broke and she started weeping; he would be ashamed, and the tumult would pass.” There was a harsh inflection in his voice, a weary acceptance.
Viola tucked herself under his arm. She didn’t say anything and neither did he, for a moment.
“Shall we have this wallpaper changed?” Devin asked.
She actually liked the vines, but one could be a novice at marriage and still realize the wallpaper had to go. She wrapped her arms around his waist and began walking backward, drawing him with her.
“Let’s sit down.”
He raised an eyebrow but followed and sat when Viola gestured toward the chair.
“I would be very happy to become accustomed to this,” he said, sometime later.
His arms were around her, and his chin was resting on her hair. Viola smiled to herself. Devin might think that marriage was nothing more than a social contract—or however he’d put that nonsense—but he liked touching her. And being touched by her.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Three weeks into his marriage, Devin found himself awake in the middle of the night; not being one to lie to himself, he realized he was happy.
“Happy” wasn’t a strong enough word.
Viola was in and out of his study all day. In years past, the slightest interruption would have irritated him, but now he didn’t mind at all. Viola always slipped over to him and gave him a kiss before she shared whatever thought she’d had, whether it was to do with the house or the church or—increasingly—The Play of Noah.
Devin found he didn’t even mind hearing about Mr. Marlowe, as long as the mention of the vicar’s name was preceded by a hungry kiss.
He was almost certain that he’d managed to supplant Mr. Marlowe in Viola’s affections. She talked about the vicar in a matter-of-fact manner and showed no signs of pining for blue eyes.
All the same, Devin realized something had bothered him enough to wake him in the deep of night. Plans for Noah were in full swing, and from the sound of it, Otis was there every day. Tradesmen had been selected to play the parts, and they were already rehearsing, even though the stage wasn’t finished.
He narrowed his eyes, staring into the dark. Viola hadn’t said anything about Miss Pettigrew lately. In fact, searching his memory, he couldn’t remember a single mention of her in a week. Yet Viola had just told him again that she had to consult with the vicar about some aspect of the play.
He’d be damned if Mr. Marlowe had a chance to charm his wife. Not that he thought the man would ever be adulterous—Marlowe was a man of God, if there ever was one—but because of Viola.
Because of Viola’s infatuation with Marlowe.
Devin rolled on his side and looked at his sleeping wife. She was everything he wanted in life. Even if she never felt the same way about him as she had about Mr. Marlowe, he would take what he could get.
Chestnut hair tangled around Viola’s face as she slept, her hands tucked under one cheek. He co
uld see the slope of one rosy cheek, long eyelashes, a glimpse of her chin. He took a long, slow breath, pushing down emotion that threatened to erupt in an uncomfortable way.
He was being absurd.
Correction: He was feeling absurd things. It was likely only because she was his wife, and he’d never had such a possession before.
Not that a wife was a possession.
No person could be possessed . . .
But at that point his thoughts tangled again, because of the mere idea of Mr. Marlowe, for example, thinking that he could give Viola counsel. If she wanted counsel, he, Devin could counsel her.
Though not if he was buried in his study.
He needed to be on the spot, watching the stage go up, helping with the rehearsals. Every day these inconvenient feelings grew stronger, even as he assured himself that they were inconsequential.
Viola would leave for the vicarage in the morning, and he would find himself unable to work on his theorem, even—shockingly—slightly bored by it. Yesterday he had given his secretary more time than normal and found himself listening to a lengthy report about an ongoing trial, set in motion by the government to vanquish radical movements. It had already resulted in one acquittal by a British jury, with a few more hopefully to come.
“I could give you some writing about the philosophy of human rights,” his secretary had said earnestly.
Consequently, Devin’s bedside table was stacked with books that he thought were probably radical tracts; nothing called Justice for the People was likely to be cheerful reading for a duke.
Moreover, Viola was challenging many of his beliefs. He had thought that a duke must marry a woman of noble blood.
Now he knew that was absurd.
As he watched her sleep, she gave a sudden start and rolled onto her back. She frowned and said, quite clearly, “No, Barty, no!”
Devin choked back a laugh. Barty had proved to be a naughty houseguest, though a very affectionate one. The Wynter livery was adorned with gilt buttons, and slowly but surely the footmen were losing their buttons. Barty was an expert at waiting, hidden, and then darting out or taking a short flight, prying off a button with his sharp beak, and absconding with it.
With a sigh, Viola turned again, reaching in his direction. Eyes still closed, she curled against him, flinging a slender leg over his.
Devin’s cock was already stiff but impossibly it swelled even more. He held his breath. He wouldn’t wake her. They’d already made love three times. He wouldn’t . . .
Viola made a sleepy noise and opened her eyes. “There you are,” she whispered.
“I am.” His voice was hoarse with longing.
“I was dreaming something about Barty, and you came into the breakfast room . . .” Even in the dim light, he could see her face reddening.
“What happened?” he asked, putting a hand on her hip.
“You once told me that—” She stopped again.
“I’d sweep all the dishes off the table and put you on it,” Devin said. His hand slid down her hip and under her nightdress.
“In my dream, you didn’t ask me,” she whispered. “You just ravished me.”
“As you wish,” Devin said, not even bothering to hold back a grin.
Chapter Twenty-nine
A few weeks later, Viola and Devin were having luncheon before Viola left for the vicarage.
“How is the play?” Devin asked, managing to look truly interested, even though she suspected he was thoroughly bored by the topic.
Viola hesitated, and decided to tell him the truth. “The play itself is well in motion, but there is tension in the vicarage.”
He raised an eyebrow and she didn’t even bother to correct it. “Otis and Joan keep coming up with impossible schemes; the latest was that they wanted to borrow a lion from the Royal Menagerie. Miss Pettigrew never cares for anything they suggest,” she said, with a sigh. “Joan doesn’t like Mr. Marlowe. Caitlin doesn’t like Miss Pettigrew.”
“You are not to go anywhere near a lion.”
“In a cage,” she added.
Devin wore his most ducal expression, the one he reserved for public moments. “Cage or not, I forbid it.”
Viola had argued against the lion, but she didn’t care to be ordered about either. “You must not forbid me to approach a lion,” she stated.
Her husband gave her an astonished look. “Viola, you’re afraid of horses. Why would you want to become acquainted with a lion?”
“I don’t, but that’s not the point. You could ask me to stay away from lions, but you can’t order me to do so. I’m your wife, but I’m not chattel, nor a child who can be told what to do.”
Devin sighed. “Viola, have I ordered you to stay away from the vicarage?”
“No.”
“In that case, you can assume that I understand the limitations of my authority.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that if I had my way, you’d have nothing to do with Mr. Marlowe.”
“Why not?” She put down her fork. “You can’t think that I . . . that I would be unfaithful to you with Mr. Marlowe!”
He gave her a haughty look. “No duchess would do such a thing.”
“Poppycock!” Viola said, starting to get irritated. “You forget that I know perfectly well that duchesses are as liable to commit adultery as any other person in the world. I grew up knowing that Joan’s yellow hair was the result of her mother’s infidelity. Even if we had wanted to avoid the unpleasant truth as children—and we did!—someone was always informing her.”
“Are you informing me that you would be unfaithful, given the inclination?” Devin’s voice was frigid now.
“No,” Viola snapped. “But I wouldn’t ask your permission either. You could ask me, rather than ordering it.”
Devin stared at her and shook his head. “Please don’t be unfaithful to me, Viola.”
“I would never be unfaithful to you, Devin.”
“Why not?”
Because I love you, she thought.
“Because it would be unethical and immoral,” she said instead. “I said vows in the church in front of man and God, and I will keep them.”
Something eased in his face.
“You really thought that I would do such an awful thing?” Viola asked, her throat burning.
He leaned across the table. “I did not.” He hesitated. “I don’t like hearing about Mr. Marlowe and his unfortunate betrothal.”
“Miss Pettigrew’s father arranged the match.”
“Such arrangements are not uncommon,” Devin pointed out.
Something about his expression made Viola feel nervous, which was absurd. Her husband was as gentle as a lamb. No, that wasn’t quite right. But he was always in control of his temper. Even when a housemaid dropped one of the antique chamber pots when they were being packed for transfer to the museum, he hadn’t become in the least riled.
In fact, she didn’t know what would provoke his temper.
“That is true,” Viola admitted. She could feel heat creeping into her cheeks. “But some ladies seem to feel that Mr. Marlowe would be happier with a different wife. Or fiancée.”
Devin put down his toast and didn’t speak for a moment.
“I am not one of them!” she said hurriedly.
“You feel that Mr. Marlowe will be happy with Miss Pettigrew?”
“No!” Now she was really turning red. “Well, no one could truly think that,” she said awkwardly.
Devin glanced at the footman who stood against the wall, and the man scurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“Not long ago, you wanted to marry him yourself.”
“Not really,” Viola said, floundering.
“Do you remember that I met you in the library, waiting for Mr. Marlowe? No young lady would secretly meet in a room where she was very likely to be caught, unless she wished to be compromised.” His voice was matter-of-fact.
Viola s
wallowed hard.
“We married not long after that incident, and under similar circumstances,” Devin said. “I do not expect more than marital affection, Viola, but I would be very displeased to think that you were pining after another man.”
“I’m not pining!”
He leveled a glance at her. “I hope not.”
“My feelings for the vicar were inconsequential,” she added. What she felt for Mr. Marlowe was nothing compared to what she now felt for Devin.
“We both know that,” Devin said flatly. “No one falls in love based on such a brief acquaintance.” His expression suggested that no one loved at all.
“I suppose that’s the problem with Mr. Marlowe and Miss Pettigrew,” Viola said, pushing away the feeling that she was withering inside. Of course he didn’t love her.
“I shall accompany you to the vicarage today,” Devin said.
Viola was surprised. “You will?”
Her husband looked at her calmly across the luncheon table. “Of course.”
“But I thought you were—your theorem?”
“I finished my current letter and sent it off.” He put down his soup spoon. “It may be that I have done everything possible with the number 27.”
Viola couldn’t pretend to know what he was talking about. “So . . . number 28?”
“No.”
When she frowned, he added, “Mathematics doesn’t work like that.”
“I’m so glad that you’re coming to see the progress on the play!” Viola said, abandoning the question of mathematics.
Devin got up deliberately and walked around the table. “We just had our first marital disagreement.”
Viola smiled up at him. She felt slightly bruised, but it wasn’t important. He didn’t mean to imply that she might be adulterous. He was just—
Before she could finish that thought, he drew her to her feet. “We must celebrate.”
Her mouth fell open. “Celebrate?”
He nodded. “We didn’t shout at each other.”
“Of course not!”
His kiss might have begun as a celebration, but before long it turned to a devouring kiss, a possessive, wicked kiss. Sometime after that, Devin turned the latch on the door. And pushed the dishes to the side.
Say Yes to the Duke EPB Page 24
