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He had watched his uncle and aunt turn to each other, once even kissing under the mistletoe, and decided that their vulnerability to each other equated with lack of self-respect.

But what was the use of being a duke if one didn’t do exactly as one pleased?

Viola was on her tiptoes, one arm around his neck, kissing him back. Her other hand was pressed against his chest in a caress that he wished wasn’t impeded by clothing.

What had begun as a simple press of lips was something else entirely now. He could taste jasmine tea, lemon tart, and under that something far better and sweeter: Viola.

Finally, even the still logical part of his brain fell silent and lost the ability to think, one hand holding her tightly to him, the other palm still cupping her cheek. Desire was like a torch burning in his gut, spiraling through his limbs.

It wasn’t until Viola made an aching little sound in the back of her throat that he remembered that he was kissing her in broad daylight.

He pulled back and looked down at her. Her flawless skin was flushed pink and her breath was shaky.

“I didn’t mean to woo you like this,” Devin said, realizing with a queer jolt that his voice had deepened. He sounded like an old goat, rough and growly.

If goats were possessive, that is.

“Oh, my goodness,” Viola whispered.

She shook her head. “Your kiss—your kiss was somewhat persuasive, Your Grace.” Then she giggled.

Giggled!

He’d never liked giggles. They were childish, he’d thought. Naïve.

But now he realized that giggles were fragments of laughter. The way “joy” is shorter and sharper than the word “happiness.” Giggles came when a woman was out of breath, and he loved the reason Viola was out of breath.

“We should catch up with everyone before we are missed,” she said. “Is my hat straight?”

Such a simple question.

And yet his body flooded with emotion. This beautiful woman looking up at him, asking about her headgear . . . He might have her next to him, asking that question every morning.

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. He took another look. “Actually, no.” She was wearing a delightful little blue hat with a high crown, tied all around with striped ribbons and adorned with a bow and a sprig of flowers. “Should it be worn directly on top of your head?”

“Yes,” she said. “Would you mind straightening it for me? It’s hard to do without a mirror. I shouldn’t want anyone to know that we were . . . canoodling in the street!”

He pulled her little hat to the top of her head. A few wisps of hair had fallen free, but he had no idea how to tuck them back into her coiffure. He held out his elbow. “My lady?”

“That kiss does not mean that I accept your—your courtship,” Viola said. “My plan is to be an old maid.”

He thought her plan had been to marry the vicar, but he didn’t want to remind her.

“It would be more amusing to be a duchess,” he said.

“Amusing?” She looked up at him with an impish smile, and he realized with a jolt that he adored her bonnet. It was precisely the blue that brought out the green in her eyes.

He couldn’t kiss her in the street again. He planned to woo her, not make a scandal.

“Yes, amusing,” he said firmly, banishing thoughts of just how much amusement a shared bedchamber would afford. “I have several estates. We can travel around the world, if you wish. Climb mountains. Explore the Nile.” What else did Wildes do? “Explore that bog outside the castle. Bring home an elephant to put in the cowshed.”

It was only because he was looking closely that he saw her face fall. “Is that what you wish to do?”

His mind boggled. He’d never had to consider what someone else wanted to do—and for the first time in his life, he actually wanted to consider her wishes. He wanted his wife to come first.

“I want to do whatever you want to do,” he stated.

“I don’t think you know me well enough to be kissing me in the street,” Viola said, walking a little faster. “That is, we don’t know each other well enough.”