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“You are beautiful, kindhearted, and funny,” he said evenly. “I would like you to be my wife.”

“You—really?”

“As I said, my parents did not have a happy marriage,” he said, threading his fingers through hers. “Yet since my uncle was merely a second son—a spare for the heir, as the saying goes—he was allowed to marry whom he wished. My uncle and aunt were very happy together. I know what such a marriage looks like. I had never imagined the possibility for myself, but now I can.”

“You can?”

Viola looked down at their linked hands.

“Nay, don’t be afraid,” he said, his voice deep and sure. “Don’t ever be afraid to look at me, Viola.”

“It wasn’t that,” she said faintly, tightening her fingers on his.

He was watching her closely, determined to catch her reaction. Confidence was intrinsic to his very being, but for the first time in his life, he realized that if he saw fear or disgust in Viola’s eyes, he would not pursue her. There was the vicar. Perhaps she still wanted to marry Mr. Marlowe.

The smile disappeared from his face, and he forced his features to be expressionless even as his heart thumped heavily in his chest.

He knew Viola now.

She didn’t want to be a duchess, unlike every other young lady at the party. Even Lady Caitlin, if he bowed before her, would turn away from the vicar and accept his courtship.

But would Viola?

For the first time in a very long time, he felt uncertain. And yet . . .

He had seen shock in her eyes but not horror. Surprise, but not revulsion.

“You’re going to woo me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Even though I’m unsuited to be a duchess.”

“I don’t care. I want you, not a duchess.”

“But you scarcely know me!”

“Not true. I do know you, and you are exactly the sort of woman with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. My uncle was right.”

Her face fell. “Because I’m a mouse?”

“No!” His gut clenched at the expression in her eyes. “Because of this.” The party had turned the corner ahead of them, and only Miss Pettigrew and Mr. Marlowe were still within view. He cupped her face and brushed her lips with his, and again.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Her lips slowly slid open, and her eyes drifted shut.

Devin’s breath hitched, and he took her invitation. She tasted like mint and honey as his tongue slid over hers. He who never stopped thinking found himself in the grip of temporary madness.

At least, he dimly hoped it was temporary. He definitely shouldn’t be kissing Viola on a public street, where anyone might see them.

But he couldn’t stop. Her tongue danced around his. Their kiss was deep and searching, as if they were speaking without words. He felt unsteady, aware of the street around them, but even more aware of her hand against his chest, fingers spread as if to feel his heart beating through his greatcoat.

She pulled back, and he let her go, of course. Her eyelashes swept open and in her eyes he saw the same startled recognition he felt in his heart.

“We shouldn’t,” she breathed, but as if she felt the madness the way he did, she tilted her head and her lips parted—

And they were kissing again, deep, searching kisses that weren’t a language but music, he decided dimly, with the part of his mind that couldn’t stop thinking. The part of his mind that was expressing shock and noting that he hadn’t the faintest inclination to surrender to an emotion like this.