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Viola watched as her stepfather entered the room, went straight to his desk, and plucked up another copy of the offensive print.

For a man who’d sired ten children and raised twelve, he didn’t look old. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he stood as tall as he must have forty years ago.

“I spend money and time destroying prints that I find offensive,” the Duke of Lindow said, by way of greeting.

“This will be your task now,” Ophelia said. Viola’s mother was watching Devin closely; he might not have realized it, but the comment was a test.

Devin wasn’t a conventionally handsome man. He didn’t have celestial blue eyes or a slim figure or a graceful gait. He didn’t carry a cane. He danced with abrupt finesse, going through the figures of a dance with precision. You could trust him to turn in precisely the right direction, at precisely the right moment.

You could not trust him to look like a graceful willow, which was how the Wilde dancing master had described gentlemen on the dance floor.

That suggestion had never worked with her stepbrothers either.

But if Devin didn’t have the tools that marked a gentleman as not merely civilized, but intrinsically aristocratic . . .

He did have one asset, one that he used rarely.

He gave Ophelia his blinding smile, the one that transformed a rough-hewn set of features to a gloriously beautiful face.

At least as she saw it.

Her mother drew in a swift breath, and Viola had to choke back a giggle.

“I meant to ask for Viola’s hand in marriage as soon as I could speak to the duke. From the moment I met her at the Wilde ball, as a matter of fact.”

“I don’t know when you met Viola at the ball,” the duchess said, her tone still guarded. He hadn’t quite won her over. “What I remember is that you asked for an introduction to my daughter Joan, but inexplicably didn’t mention Viola.”

“I had thought to marry Joan,” Devin said. “We would not have suited.”

A snort from her stepfather seconded that assessment.

“I met Viola, and realized that I didn’t want to marry a duke’s daughter—which my father on his deathbed had instructed me to do.”

Her father rocked forward on his toes, his jaw set. “Viola is a duke’s daughter.”

“Oh, I know.” This smile was a wry one, a small version of Devin’s most potent weapon. “But I don’t want to marry a duke’s daughter. I want to marry the young lady I found hiding behind the curtains, who proceeded to chastise me for arrogance and lack of consideration, and all the time looked at me with those eyes—”

He stopped. “Viola is beautiful, of course, but that isn’t it. That wasn’t why I meant to ask you for her hand in marriage. It wasn’t her beauty, nor her parentage. It was simply her.”

Viola could feel happiness filling her like a cup under running water. Devin wasn’t trying to convince her parents. He was just telling the truth as it was self-evident to him.

Her stepfather liked it too. His jaw eased.

Ophelia was still looking at him closely. “My daughter is the most tenderhearted of our children,” she repeated.

“I am ready to build any number of cowsheds,” the duke said promptly. His eyes gleamed with amusement and perhaps even a hint of pride. “I have committed to building an orphanage attached to St. Wilfrid’s.”

“I wasn’t speaking merely of Viola’s compassion,” her mother said. “I meant that she is tender spirited. She will not thrive if you are peremptory with her.”

“I’m in the room,” Viola said, feeling indignant.

“Viola is a strong woman,” Devin said, his hand curling around hers. “But I do not plan to be peremptory with my wife.”

Her mother didn’t look entirely convinced.

“I wouldn’t thrive in a garret on bread and water,” Viola said impatiently, “but I will be fine in other circumstances.”

Devin looked taken aback. “I assure you that I would never imprison anyone, especially my wife.” There was a touch of offense in his voice.