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It had been nagging at him, the memory of that print with its rompish, dissolute view of one of the most treasured moments of his life.

In an odd way, the pure vulgarity of it reminded him of his former mistress, Annabel.

His affaire with the widow had begun well enough, until she’d confessed to a wish to make love in public, which turned out to be a plot to lure him into marriage. She apparently intended to threaten him with her ruination if he didn’t marry her.

It was ironic that a vulgar print had led to his marriage, since the earlier incident had hardened his heart against any sort of breach of privacy. He had turned on his heel, left her, and never saw her again—not difficult since he rarely went to society events.

“I understand,” Viola said. “I grew up with the knowledge that most of England was interested in the Wildes, remember? If prints are made, it will not be your fault.”

A footman swung open the door and Devin stepped down, noting that Binsey was ushering the household into ranks before the house. Clearly, they had been waiting.

He turned to give his hand to his bride, feeling a surge of pride. He had no doubt but that he had won a treasure. Viola would be the best Duchess of Wynter in the history of the title.

She took his hand and put one delicate, silk-clad foot onto the box his footman had placed before the door and smiled brilliantly at all those clustered on the steps and sidewalk. “Good morning!” she called. She began to gather her skirts, but Devin stepped forward and picked her up in his arms.

Viola laughed, startled, even though they had just discussed it.

Looking down at her face, he felt a swell of emotion that made him uncomfortable. He lifted his head and announced, “I am honored to present my wife.”

The household responded with applause, which surprised him. He considered himself a fair employer, and he paid well because it made economic sense to retain excellent servants instead of hiring and training new ones. But he didn’t have any illusions that he was a beloved master.

Viola’s smile strengthened and she waved.

He strode forward and the servants fell to the sides.

Chapter Twenty-two

Viola kept a bright smile on her face. It was her brave mask, donned for public occasions. Devin had a large household, of course. His townhouse was a mansion, set back from the street, fronted by a sweeping circle for carriages. Made of white stone, it shone in the sun with the palatial gleam of a well-maintained ducal residence.

He climbed steadily up wide marble steps that led to a fan-vaulted entry door with Corinthian pillars on either side, like stolid guards.

At the door he turned back to face all those gathered, Viola’s skirts sweeping around his feet. “The Duchess of Wynter. My duchess, and yours.” He gave the group his rare smile, and Viola listened to their applause grow to cheers.

Devin held himself with the air of a man who had no interest or need in others. He acted as if he were unloved.

But she’d seen how much his cousins adored him, and now, looking around at the open, happy faces of his servants, she had the sudden idea that he simply didn’t know what love looked like. Or what friendship and admiration looked like. Loyalty.

His butler waited for them in the entry, garbed in impeccable livery that looked more like a gentleman’s coat than butler’s attire. He swept into a bow.

“Binsey, my duchess,” Devin said, but by the time the butler straightened, Devin had strode past him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Binsey,” Viola cried over Devin’s shoulder.

“Good afternoon, Your Graces,” the butler said, trotting after them.

“Everything prepared, Binsey?” Devin said.

“A light luncheon has been prepared. If Her Grace desires anything in particular, I can have a different meal prepared immediately.”

Viola felt pinpricks of embarrassment at the idea that Binsey was watching Devin head toward his bedchamber. Her cheeks were burning. Everyone knew where they were going and for what reason.

But that was true of every newly married couple, she told herself. No need to whisper Wilde Child, because being a Wilde couldn’t help her in this situation.

Besides, under the embarrassment, desire was rioting through her veins. Devin’s arms surrounded her, and she had a sense of the fluid strength behind the elegant muscles she’d only seen clad in wools and silks. There was an intensity to his face and walk that made her tremble.

“Viola is not persnickety,” Devin said to Binsey, not turning his head.

He began climbing the stairs, leaving the butler behind. Viola’s silk gown swept the marble with a soft whoosh. She leaned her head against his arm and gave him a little poke in the chest. “What if I am persnickety?”