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“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 could 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.