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“I found myself wondering whether the conversation between myself and my uncle at your debut ball might have convinced you that you are not well-suited to being a duchess.”

“I already knew that,” Viola said, her mouth turning up in a wry smile. “I detailed for you the list of my shortcomings, though the one you pointed to—an inability to keep my attention during a conversation—may be the most persuasive of all.”

“That’s your greatest failing?” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Bloody hell, he never smiled.

“No,” Viola said, cocking her head to look at him, and apparently taking his question seriously. “I have others, but they aren’t related to being a duchess. If that is what is being discussed.”

She ducked her head, and Devin had to take a breath because she was so damned sweet that he wanted nothing more than to snatch her into his arms and kiss her. Later, he told his instincts. Later.

“Perhaps not the normal sort of duchess,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “Yet I am not a normal duke.”

“Are you still trying to prove that you aren’t like the rest of mankind? Or at least the species known as noble males?”

“I don’t have to prove anything,” Devin said flatly. “I’m a duke. I can do exactly as I wish. I spend days in my library working on mathematical problems. If I wished, I could do that in a cowshed.”

A delightful smile trembled on her mouth. “A preposterous idea.”

“I thought I needed a duchess able to attend social gatherings on her own. Now I realize that I may well accompany my wife if she asked me. In fact,” he added thoughtfully, “it may be that I will be constitutionally prone to agreeing with virtually every request she might make.”

“‘Constitutionally prone’?” Viola smiled at him. “I think your wife will be happy to find that you are prepared to listen to her requests. Too many men think that their word and their ideas are the end of the matter.”

Devin had thought that for years—not necessarily when it came to relations between men and women, but between dukes and the rest of humanity.

He hired good men to present all possibilities in any given situation, after which he made up his mind—and took responsibility for what followed, for good or ill.

“My father and mother could barely tolerate each other,” he said abruptly.

Viola’s eyes were warmly compassionate, and Devin realized that he didn’t care if she married him out of pity. He would use every tool at his disposal. “My mother died when I was young.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Viola didn’t instantly melt into a puddle of sympathy. Instead her eyes searched his and she gave him a rueful smile. “Sometimes what one most misses is the idea of the person rather than the one who is lost.”

Devin felt a jolt down his backbone. It was true that he had occasionally missed his mother, but never the mother whom he had known. Instead, he missed the mother whom he had imagined, the one who would have protected him from his father’s blustery rages.

“My point is that a duchess can do and be whatever she wishes,” he said, pushing the thought away. “My mother and father’s marriage was arranged while they were in their cradles. It was eminently appropriate in every respect.”

“I see,” Viola said, nodding. “I’m sorry.”

“No one would have arranged a marriage between us as babies, which I think is to our benefit. And I think you would be a marvelous duchess.” Her eyes were shocked, so Devin added firmly, “I am going to woo you.”

“I only agreed to be friends,” Viola said.

But he could see in her eyes that she was protesting not his decision—which she had surely guessed—but her suitability.

Someone had convinced her that there was something wrong with her, probably the non-Wilde part of her. And yet Devin was absolutely sure that he would treasure every bit of her, the Wilde and non-Wilde parts.

“Otis tells me that I must woo you in order to win your hand, and I’m merely informing you of my intentions. I shall ask for a meeting with your father.”

“My stepfather,” Viola corrected him.

He took in her sweet face, earnest eyes, soft curls, and could imagine a small version of her with ease. “His Grace feels he is your father,” he said with utter conviction. “He raised you.”

A smile curled Viola’s lips. “He does.”

“I shall ask your father for permission to court you.”

“Because your uncle told you to?” Viola asked. “I appreciate your fondness for Sir Reginald, but you shouldn’t take his advice too seriously.”

Devin took a moment to enjoy the fact that not only was Miss Viola Astley indifferent to his title, he was having to persuade her even to give him a chance.