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And yet . . .
Perhaps she was a good candidate to be the Duke of Wynter’s wife.
Behind his back, Joan’s face was alight with laughter.
“It’s time to tour the vicarage, I believe,” Viola said, feeling distinctly awkward.
Devin bent and said in her ear, “As long as you are not planning a future here.” His voice rasped.
She gave him a saucy smile, certain on that point, if not on the question of being a duchess. “I’m certain that Mr. Marlowe would welcome my advice as regards renovation.”
“No renovation necessary,” he growled.
For the first time in Viola’s life, she looked up at a man from under her lashes, the kind of look that Joan had given every male under the age of eighty since she was five.
Devin swallowed hard; she saw his throat move.
Viola let her smile widen before she turned and walked out of the room, following her aunt, aware that she was having one of the best days of her entire life.
“Have you thought about what I said?” Devin asked her as they climbed a set of narrow wooden stairs. He was behind her—every lady climbed alone as the steps were too narrow for fashionably wide gowns—and his voice tickled the back of her neck.
“Thought about what?”
“My decision to woo you?”
She reached the top of the steps and shook out her skirts as Devin stepped onto the landing. He wasn’t handsome, the way Mr. Marlowe was. Her eyes moved to the vicar—
Devin grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me.”
Was it wrong to feel thrilled by the intensity in his eyes? Yes, it probably was. Still, it felt that for the first time in her life, someone had chosen her. Her family loved her, but they hadn’t chosen her. Barty, Cleo, and Daisy loved her, but she had saved their lives.
The duke was attracted to her, but he didn’t love her.
How could he? They scarcely knew each other.
All the same, he had chosen her, even though she didn’t fit any of his preconceptions about whom he wanted as his wife.
She pushed open the door of the room closest to her and walked inside. It was a small sitting room, likely designed for the mistress of the house.
Devin followed her. And pushed the door shut behind them, which was thoroughly improper.
“Are you trying to compromise me, so that I have to marry you?” she asked, not believing it for a moment.
He scowled. “I would never do that to anyone.”
“You should open the door,” she pointed out.
He wrenched open the door. The corridor was empty; she could hear Mrs. Pettigrew exclaiming from some other room about the presence of more celestial blue velvet.
Devin strode toward her, his eyes intent on hers. Viola leaned against the back of a high-backed sofa. “I’m not entirely certain what courtship entails,” she said.
“Courtship is made up of stolen moments,” he said. “In which we come to know each other better. For example, after our conversation yesterday, I am now fairly certain that you have no interest in bringing home an elephant to join Cleo and Daisy.”
“You remembered their names!” Viola exclaimed and colored. “Why did you suggest an elephant?”
“One of my closest friends lives in India, and I’d like to visit him someday. He is a mathematician, and in one letter he described a herd of elephants wandering across the garden before his window.”
“All I know is that they have long trunks,” Viola confessed.
