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“You may kiss the bride,” the dean remarked, scarcely making himself heard over the joyous shouting of the Wildes, who had taken the lack of fellow guests as a sign that they could be themselves.

There it was.

They were married, not just in sickness and in health, but till death do us part.

Devin’s mouth quirked as he looked down at her. “My duchess.”

“My duke,” Viola returned.

He bent his head and kissed her until the dean coughed. Devin lifted his head and caught her against him when she lost her balance and teetered on her heels.

They walked back down the long aisle of St. Margaret’s like that, Devin’s arm wrapped around Viola’s waist, her body tucked against his.

Ophelia was crying; the Duke of Lindow was laughing. Aunt Knowe seemed to be having an amiable argument with Sir Reginald. Otis was elbowing Joan; Erik was smirking; Parth had forgotten all rules about public decency and was kissing Lavinia passionately. In fact, when the Wildes and Murgatroyds filed out of the pews and followed the bride and groom, the families left those two behind, everyone crowding about to watch Devin and Viola sign the register of the parish.

The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of champagne and joyous toasts, along with all matter of delicacies created by the Duke of Lindow’s French cook.

Until it was time to leave.

Feeling dazed but happy, Viola climbed into the Wynter carriage, clutching handfuls of silken gauze from the beautiful gown that Lavinia had appropriated from one of the modistes who enjoyed her patronage. Behind her, the duke—her husband!—said a last word to Sir Reginald, nodded to the duchess, and swung himself into the carriage to sit opposite her.

As the vehicle lurched into motion, Viola forced herself to look straight at Devin. No more sideways glances just to make sure that he was still in the church, and hadn’t changed his mind.

His eyes were possessive . . . desirous . . . cautious.

“I think that went well,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

“The breakfast or the ceremony? I liked the moment when Barty responded to the dean’s question,” Devin said.

“If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now, or else forever hold your peace,” Viola said ruefully. “He was silent until that moment!”

“He squawked loudly enough that everyone knew his opinion on the matter,” Devin said, grinning.

“He’s not usually noisy,” Viola said, trying to get her mind around the idea that she was going to be living with a stranger. A virtual stranger. Not a complete stranger. Anxiety began to press on the back of her throat. “He won’t bother you,” she said. “Usually he sleeps in my room, but of course that needn’t happen. I mean . . .”

She stopped, realizing that she had absolutely no idea if they would share a room. Her parents did, but that was unusual. Scarlet heat swept up her chest into her cheeks.

Devin leaned forward. “Our marriage happened quite quickly,” he said. “My butler, Binsey, has prepared the duchess’s suite for you, naturally.”

Viola nodded.

“It’s on a different floor from my chambers,” he added.

Her eyes widened.

“My mother preferred to be out of earshot.”

Viola didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“Luckily, the townhouse is large enough that she didn’t have to move to the servants’ quarters,” Devin said, looking completely unmoved by the memory.

“You won’t hear Barty squawking!” she exclaimed, realizing why he had told her about the duchess’s suite. Even more embarrassing thoughts crowded her mind. Did that mean that they wouldn’t be consummating the marriage?

Her mother’s instructions regarding marital intimacy had been profoundly different from her headmistress’s. Ophelia seemed to think that bedding one’s husband was one of the most pleasant things in the world.

“I won’t hear Barty squawking,” Devin confirmed. “Unless I tempt you into sleeping in my chambers, of course.”

The carriage jolted, and Viola reached out to grab the hanging strap.