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“At any rate, I lost my temper and shouted at the duke about Barty’s wings and swore that I would go live in the forest before I would allow Barty to be exiled there alone.”

“And?”

Viola grinned. “He burst out laughing, because I am afraid of the dark, and I dislike being in the woods by myself, and I don’t even go to the stables because I’m wary of horses—but here I was, announcing that I was moving to a forest to take care of a baby crow?”

Devin knew what “wonder” was. It was what you felt when you saw a rainbow, or a huge waterfall, or the Thames frozen over.

Or Viola.

“Barty’s wings don’t work properly,” she said, obviously having no idea that he was in the grip of . . . something. “My stepfather didn’t understand that, but I managed to explain it and ever since, Barty has lived with us, of course.”

Who knew that wonder could flood one’s body the way rage did? Or desire, for that matter?

But now, looking at a woman to whom he’d somehow managed to get himself betrothed, who was willing to live in a dark forest to nurture a small, defenseless creature?

This—this was the luckiest thing that ever happened to him in his life, including the moment he was born into a world that considered him a duke.

Chapter Eighteen

When they reached the Lindow townhouse, Viola was startled to hear from the butler that the Duke of Lindow was waiting for them in his study. Prism had a serious look, even as he murmured congratulations to Devin.

Viola was only just beginning to get her head around what had happened.

Thanks to Miss Pettigrew, she would be a duchess?

Inconceivable.

She had thought her stepfather would want to talk to Devin alone. She had thought . . . What had she thought? This situation—marriage—had blown up in her face. It wasn’t unlike the moment when Barty fell from a pine tree, landed on her shoulder, bounced off, and lay on the ground at her feet, dazed and blinking at her.

One minute you were alone—and the next you weren’t.

When they walked into the room, Devin’s hand was warm in the middle of her back. Her stepfather was at his desk and, unusually for him, he was scowling down at his papers.

Not just “papers,” it turned out after they got through greetings, because her stepfather reached down and grabbed a broadside.

All the Wildes knew exactly what a print looked like. This one was larger than most, Viola registered with a thump of her heart.

“You opened my daughter to invidious commentary,” the duke said to Devin, in the clipped voice that was the closest he ever came to sounding enraged. “The stationer apparently received this sketch and rushed it into print an hour later. Tell me why I should trust you with my daughter!”

Devin was staring down at the sheet, his jaw clenched. Viola tucked her hand into his and gave him a squeeze.

“Which stationer?” Devin said, the words sounding like quiet gunshots.

Her father waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter who printed it. You made an exhibition of my daughter in a public street, and this is the result!”

“I was there too,” Viola said, deciding that she had to see it herself, even though her stomach was clenching. It must be terrible, or her stepfather wouldn’t be furious.

It was terrible.

The print showed Viola hitched up against Devin with her legs around his waist, in exactly the position that the lady had been all those years ago, at the ball. Viola was kissing Devin, her bonnet askew.

She looked . . . dissolute. That was a polite word for it. Her lips were pursed and she seemed to be attacking the duke.

She was still staring when Devin took the print, crumpled it, and dropped it. “I would be grateful for the name of the stationer.”

“What does it say at the bottom?” Viola asked. Her stomach was churning. She’d been stupid, so stupid. She knew that reporters didn’t respect her the way they did the Wildes.

They wouldn’t have dared make this sketch of Betsy.