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He was enjoying a heady bout of lust that a gentleman was never supposed to experience for a lady.

And he hadn’t, even during that appalling affaire he’d had a few years ago. Now, looking at Viola’s shining eyes, he couldn’t imagine what he’d been thinking. A man couldn’t be forced to marry a widow, of course. But Annabel had known perfectly well that as a man of honor, he wouldn’t have allowed her reputation to be ruined. What if he had married her, and then met Viola?

The thought gave him a sense of what Viola must feel like when she described being “seasick.”

Annabel had begun an affaire with him, presenting herself as a widow with no wish for a husband. But she’d entrapped him—or tried to—and after that he had even less desire to go into society than he’d had before.

“What are you thinking about?” Viola asked. “That was a fearsome scowl.”

“A bad memory,” he said.

“Where did it take place?”

“At a ball.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Funny, my worst memory took place at a ball too. Well . . . not the worst. Worst would be the memorial service for my oldest stepbrother, Horatius.”

“I’m sorry. I remember meeting him.”

“You probably didn’t like him,” she said, resigned. “He was somewhat pompous. But he was lovely to all of us in the nursery. He would come up to play pirates, with costumes and an eye patch.”

That was definitely the best thing Devin had ever heard about the stuffy heir to the Lindow duchy. “In that case, I’m doubly sorry that he passed away,” he said.

“What happened to you at a ball?”

“I would prefer to hear what happened to you.”

“You can guess,” she said. “I threw up. Are you sure you want to be friends with me? I have a perilous habit of losing my breakfast.”

“Yes, I am sure,” he said.

Viola had powdered her hair, of course, but just around her face he could see little wisps of golden-brown curls. “You have freckles,” he said.

“A few,” she said, shrugging. “I know you’re supposed to hate them, but I don’t.”

Devin discovered that he didn’t hate them either.

Chapter Twelve

Viola ought to be back in the drawing room, whispering Wilde Child to herself under her breath. But it was relaxing to be with Devin.

“Now what kind of wife should we find you?” she asked, beaming at him. “I have to tell you that there aren’t many dukes’ daughters in England, let alone unmarried and attending the Season. Are you prepared to stoop to the offspring of an earl?”

He was lounging against the balustrade, looking at her from heavy-lidded eyes.

She gave him a poke. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“Looking at me like that. Joan would call those lascivious eyes,” she said with certainty. “In your case, it probably means that you aren’t horrendously bored, but you need to practice another gaze.”

The edge of his mouth eased upward. “Like this?”

He gave her a look of foolish adoration.

“At least that’s more respectful,” she said, hooting with laughter. “Although if you give Caitlin that look, she’ll take it as encouragement.”

The duke grimaced. “Is she obsessed by cats, or was that just my impression?”