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She smiled at that, and Devin had a queer feeling, as if he’d had a gulp of champagne straight out of the bottle.

“We can forge a friendship,” she suggested. “After all, we both fled my debut ball, albeit for different reasons.”

“Hmm,” Devin said.

“There’s something very reassuring about you,” Viola said. “Have your friends remarked on your calm?”

“I have few friends,” Devin said bluntly. “I was schooled at home, and I was already a duke by the time most men went to university. I hadn’t the time to join them.”

“No friends?” She looked appalled.

“I have cousins,” he said, not liking the sympathy in her eyes. He patted the flat marble that topped the balustrade. “Otis and I used to sit here and play jackstones for hours.” That would be when Devin had been dispatched to his uncle’s house because his father was in a fit of homicidal rage, though he hadn’t understood that as a child.

“I shall be your friend,” Viola said, her voice so warm that he blinked at her. “I’m very good at friendship, although you’ll have to try to be less haughty. For example, when I arrived here for tea a few days ago, Miss Belluce had a desperate expression and you looked bored.”

“She had been talking about a baby monkey for at least fifteen minutes,” he said flatly. “I was bored.”

“You may feel that way, but you can’t show it. It’s impolite. I don’t mean to lecture you as if I haven’t personal failings,” she added. “I am trying to better myself, but I am prone to jealousy, for example.”

“Of the Wildes?”

“Well, yes. This is an odd conversation, isn’t it? Were you jealous of your cousins since they had each other, and you are, I gather, an only child?”

Devin didn’t care to think about his childhood; he said nothing.

“I wasn’t jealous until I realized that I didn’t belong in the family,” Viola said, wrinkling her nose.

“You do belong.” He didn’t know why he was certain, but he was. “I suppose we could be friends.”

He knew damned well that he didn’t want to be merely friends with her. Not when lust coursed through him every time their eyes met.

She positively beamed at him. “I shall help you find a wife!”

“I can find my own wife.”

“Now, there’s an example,” Viola said, poking him in the shoulder.

“Of what?”

“You almost looked human before you raised your eyebrow again.”

“Eyebrow raising is not a sin,” he said.

“It’s lazy,” she said, surprising him. “Easily done. Bred into the bloodline of dukes and the like. It’s much harder to actually put into words what you are feeling. I gather you don’t want me to choose your wife, and I understand your reservations. After all, your uncle knows you far better than I, and he made an obvious error.”

Or not.

It was shocking, but Devin realized that his uncle—the closest thing he had to a true father—had known precisely whom to choose for his bride. “I may not know much about friendship, but I believe it involves propinquity.”

“What?”

“Closeness. Conversing on a regular basis. Rides in Hyde Park and a dance now and again. In short, people may conclude that I am courting you, and you seem to dislike that idea,” he pointed out. “I called on you twice, and you pretended not to be home.”

“How did you know I was pretending?”

He grinned at her. “Joan told me you were in hiding.”

Viola turned a little pink. “We would have to disabuse people of the notion that your morning calls reflect more than friendship. You must find a lady to woo without further ado. The Season is only a few months long.”