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The sentence broke off.

“Finally kissing her,” Devin growled.

“You—we mustn’t,” Caitlin cried. “I shall attend the performance of the Noah play tomorrow night. But I will not bother you again.”

“That’s sad,” Viola gasped.

Devin pushed back the curls he’d disarranged and kissed her cheek. “I’ll solve it for you, Viola. If they would just leave the bloody room.”

“I can be silent,” Viola said, hoping she was right. She couldn’t hold back much longer.

“You see,” Caitlin said clearly, “my deadly sin is envy. I cannot stay here and watch Miss Harriet Pettigrew take what I want most in the world.” Her aching words fell softly into the room.

“Caitlin.” Mr. Marlowe’s voice was unsteady. “If your sin is envy, mine must be lust. For I want you more than anything I have wanted in my life.”

“Damn, he came through in the end,” Devin muttered.

Caitlin did not answer.

There was the sound of swift footsteps, and the door opened and shut. A moment of silence, and the vicar—Mr. Marlowe, who never raised his voice!—snarled, “Bloody hell,” and the door slammed behind him.

“Thank God,” Devin grunted.

He thrust up at the same moment that Viola ground down on him, a cry escaping her lips.

“Not too loud,” Devin said, thrusting again and again.

“I can’t be still,” Viola gasped, just as he sealed his mouth over hers. Fire washed over her and he took her cry. Kissed her hard and let himself go, with such a powerful thrust that she felt his entire body shudder.

For long minutes afterward, she lay against his chest, his shaft still thick within her, his heart still pounding against her cheek, his harsh breathing telling her of his pleasure.

At length, she said, drowsily, “I think that if I stand up, there might be a mess. On my legs, I mean.”

“There will be,” Devin said. “I’ve never come so hard in my life.”

Viola didn’t answer, storing up his words to think about later.

Strong hands gripped her hips and lifted her carefully up and away from him.

She sucked in a breath: She was a little tender, but mostly her body tingled with remembered pleasure.

“I’d like a bath,” she murmured.

Devin handed her a snowy white handkerchief, embroidered with the ducal crest. “For the mess,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.

Viola busied herself with doing what was necessary, but she couldn’t stop herself from giggling.

“What is funny, Duchess?” her husband asked, coming nimbly to his feet and holding out a hand to her. “Let’s go home. I have plans that involve a bed.”

“A bath,” Viola said firmly, as he eased open the door. Light streamed into the closet. “Just look at my skirts.” They had been pale yellow, but now they were streaked with brown dust.

Her husband’s mouth curled. “Agreed.” He began walking toward the door, but Viola caught his hand and pulled him to a halt.

She pointed to the back of a sturdy chair. He popped her on it, seeming to love picking her up as much as she adored his hands around her waist. She slung her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

Her love for him felt as if it was simmering under the surface. “You said that you have an estate in the country,” she said.

He nodded.