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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.