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Viola wound her arms around him and put her cheek against his chest. “I am sorry.”

“I don’t want you to marry me out of sympathy or pity, Viola. I’m not Barty. Or Mr. Marlowe.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You are very emotional. Luckily for you, I’m used to drama from growing up with the Wildes.”

He physically recoiled. “I am not dramatic. Or emotional.”

Viola smiled. “As for treating you like a wounded bird, why would I? You’re a duke. You’re the highest in the land, exquisitely dressed, wealthy, powerful, and self-sufficient. I don’t feel sorry for you in the slightest. After all, your father didn’t challenge you to a duel, and Sir Reginald obviously loves you, as do Otis and Hazel.”

There was an arrested look on Devin’s face that Viola tucked away in her mind to think about later.

He smiled, not the vivid smile that changed his features, but a sleek, satisfied smile, like a predator who had rounded up just the right supper. “You’re right,” he said, his voice purring. “Let’s go back to where we were before. You’re marrying me because of this.” He caught her against him.

Viola gasped with surprise and instantly succumbed, her thoughts blurred by a kiss that was carnal—and possessive.

“You are worried,” he said sometime later, his voice a throaty growl, “that we’re marrying for the wrong reasons. But this is the best reason I can think of, Viola. I don’t care that you’re a duke’s daughter, or that you’re incredibly beautiful, or that you make me laugh.”

He stopped.

“You don’t want to marry me for those reasons,” Viola said, treasuring the fact he thought she was beautiful. “But?”

“I care about kissing you,” he said. “I’d like to do it again. Often.”

Her heart bounded and she smiled at him. “I’d like to kiss you often too.”

“And more,” he said, watching her closely. “I want to make love to you, Viola. Every night and probably mornings as well. I want to see you over the breakfast table, sweep off the dishes, and make love to you there. And in the dining room,” he added. “On every table in the house.”

There was a brisk knock on the door.

Devin held Viola’s gaze for a long second, turned his head, and said, “Enter.”

Ophelia bustled in. “That is the extent of time that your father will allow the two of you to be alone,” she announced. “And here you are, standing at a proper distance from each other.”

Viola managed a wobbly smile at that patent fib, got to her feet, and walked toward her mother. “Of course we are.”

Her mother’s eyes swept over Devin, undoubtedly registering the smoldering look in his eyes, even though he stood easily, like a man whose conduct is never questioned.

“Your hair,” she said to Viola, nodding toward the mirror on one wall. “Your father will be here in three minutes.”

Viola ran to the glass.

“If you don’t mind, Duke, I’ll straighten your cravat. Viola is the most tenderhearted of my children, and if you hurt her, I’ll eviscerate you,” her mother told him, all in precisely the same charming tone.

Viola tucked an errant curl back into her coiffure, listening as hard as she could.

“I will do my best,” Devin said. “No one can promise another person a happy life. But I will do everything in my power to make certain that Viola is safe and joyful.”

“Good enough,” the duchess said.

Viola turned and started back toward them.

This was happening. It was truly happening.

She walked to Devin’s side, swallowing back her smile. She said, “Mother, I’ve decided to marry the Duke of Wynter by special license.”

Next to her, she felt the faint tremor that went through Devin’s body, even though his expression didn’t change.

Chapter Nineteen