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He was rubbing his finger on the gilded sides of that silly chamber pot she kept on her desk. They’d ended up in her chamber last night because she had to change into a nightdress, and he didn’t want to separate.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I have several things to confess.” His voice was toneless.

Her heart skipped a beat, or several beats. “Could you please come here?” She was wearing one of Lavinia’s frivolous nightdresses made of silk and lace. She felt at a terrible disadvantage, faced by an aristocrat wearing a formal suit, not to mention a snowy wig.

“No.” Devin’s gaze was entirely impersonal. “I think it’s best I stay here. After telling you, I will leave, Viola. If you’d like me to return, you could send me a message. Or you could go to the country by yourself, or to your parents, and I would accept that.”

“What are you talking about?” Viola asked. Her voice rose from anxiety. “Why? Why would you leave?” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you have that disease, what’s it called?” She raked her brain. “The pox?”

“No. I am not ill. Obviously, I hope you won’t leave, but it is within your purview,” Devin said politely. He looked completely indifferent.

Viola had the sudden thought that perhaps she was still asleep. But no. The sun was coming in the window. The ribbon on her nightdress was tangled, and there was a muscle ticking in Devin’s jaw.

This was real.

“Right,” she said, her voice emerging in an irritating squeak. “Please tell me whatever you wish.” She paused and added, “It won’t make any difference to how I feel about you, Devin. I won’t leave you.”

“Please do me the courtesy of not referring to my mother,” he said. “I am no longer a child. In fact, I haven’t been a child for longer than you have been alive.”

That was a low blow. It was true that there was a decade between them, but Viola never considered it a problem. Apparently, he did, since she was about to be lectured like a child.

“Right,” she said, swinging her legs out of bed. “I will listen to your confession later. First I shall take a bath and dress.”

For the first time, she saw a flash of emotion in his eyes. Devin wanted to get it over with, whatever it was. He didn’t say anything, though, just watched as she walked across the room and pulled the bell cord for her maid.

When he opened his mouth, she held up her hand. “No.”

“Viola.” Temper growled under the word, but he had himself well in hand.

Viola couldn’t say the same for herself. “I woke from sleep, expecting to leave for the country with my affectionate, loving husband. Instead he’s decided that he must inform me of some vague sin this very moment.”

He nodded. “Before we leave for the country.”

“I am resistant to dramatic statements before eggs and tea,” she told him, pulling on her dressing gown and tying it tightly around her waist. “I am also extremely resistant to being held hostage by my husband’s penchant for drama.”

He looked shocked, even horrified. “Penchant for drama?”

“Exactly. Apparently you woke in a foul mood and decided, for whatever reason, to share a secret you’d been nurturing. You can save that secret until I feel ready to hear it. Which will not be until I’ve had breakfast and at least a pot of tea, and likely two.”

Devin was giving her a look that might have sent chills down the back of a constable, but Viola was unmoved. He loved her. He was overlooking that fact at the moment, too caught up in glaring at her to remember.

He loved her.

This sort of thing would probably happen every now and again in their marriage, she decided, given his unhappy childhood.

Her maid opened the door and curtsied. “Your Graces.”

“The duke is just leaving,” Viola said, not looking at him. “I wish to dress. His Grace will wait for me and we shall breakfast together. I shall put on a traveling gown, obviously, since we are leaving for the country after the meal.”

She flicked a glance at Devin’s shoes, meant for London and not for travel.

Her husband walked out with his icy veneer intact, which probably made him feel more comfortable. Her maid retired into her dressing room and began gathering her garments.

Viola’s eyes rested on the chamber pot, gently glowing in the morning sunshine.

She walked over and plucked off the top. Inside was a crumpled sheet of paper. “Crickets!” she exclaimed.