Page 72

“You said you threw up,” he prompted, remembering. “That must have been a harrowing experience.”

“Humiliating,” Viola said, glancing up at him and then looking back at his coat.

Devin was having trouble keeping his mind fixed on what she was saying because she hadn’t been injured, and that meant his mind reverted to the languid way that she was stroking the rough frieze of his coat.

Which could be his chest. Her slim fingers touching him was the most erotic image he’d—

“I accidentally interrupted a private moment between a couple. The gentleman was furious. He was bellowing at . . . at his wife. He said horrible things.” She swallowed hard. “I was terrified. I can’t explain it; his words felt like blows, not directed at me, but still terrible.”

Devin froze. It couldn’t be. Of course, that scene years ago did happen in Lindow Castle.

No: Viola said wife. And the couple were arguing, not having sex.

Not him . . . but still terrible.

Perhaps he should question her more closely, but that might lead to a discussion of what he himself had done. Anyone might come across an arguing couple; his parents had likely shocked any number of people.

“It seems stupid now,” she went on. “You must think me a perfect ninny. All I can say is that the rage in his voice did something to me. I was dreadfully nervous anyway, and on the verge of throwing up. After that . . . after that I couldn’t imagine how I would ever trust a man not to erupt at me.”

Devin was scarcely breathing. Her description spoke to an ancient, raw part of his soul, the part that had learned at the age of two not to visibly cower—which was his earliest memory of his father’s bellow.

“My father was often enraged,” he said. “I know exactly how you felt.”

Viola came up on her toes and kissed his chin. “You gave Miss Pettigrew a furious look, but you didn’t say anything.”

“I do not speak when I’m angry,” he said. “Because of that.”

She blinked.

“What you described.”

He had never been very good with words, perhaps because such a flood of words had bombarded the walls of his house: bouncing between his parents, flung with impunity at guests, servants, strangers. And always, in his father’s voice, was the threat of violence and death.

“My father never challenged me to a duel,” he said, stumbling into an explanation. “But he wanted to.”

Viola looked astonished. “A man can’t duel his own son!”

“The only reason why he never did it. I’m just saying that I understand what happened to you and I’m sorry that you experienced it.”

“I never imagined this,” Viola said. “I feel safe with you. I suppose that is the one promise that I would like before we marry: that you would never shout at me with such livid rage.”

He cleared his throat. “As I said, I don’t like to lose my temper.”

“I don’t either.” She beamed at him.

“But I have lost my temper a few times in my life,” he confessed. “On occasion, when pressed. Particularly, when surprised.”

“As have I. I shouted at my stepfather once. No, twice.”

Devin’s eyebrow shot up, despite himself. “You shouted at the Duke of Lindow?”

She nodded cheerfully. “Completely lost my head. He said that Barty had to go back into the forest, that he should grow up and be a wild bird.”

“Barty is your crow?”

“Yes, I have to introduce you. Barty is a very good judge of character. He’ll like you immediately.”

Devin wasn’t sure of that. He hadn’t had a dog when he was a boy, because future dukes didn’t have pets, according to his father. But also, Devin had decided on observation, because dogs tended to growl and back away, even when his father was in a good mood.