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“Are you?”

“My point is that you don’t know. Perhaps I desire tomatoes plucked under a full moon, or cabbage only on Tuesdays.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“One of my mother’s cousins won’t eat a nightshade vegetable unless it was picked under a full moon.”

Devin reached the next floor without showing the faintest sign of being out of breath, and turned left. “You regularly sit around in a cowshed. You have a pet crow who toilets in the corner of your bedroom, albeit in a cage. You are not persnickety.” He paused in front of double mahogany doors presumably leading to his bedchamber. “Do you remember my father’s collections?”

Viola was enjoying the sensation of leaning against his chest. “Yes,” she said, a little dreamily.

“There is a collection in this room,” he said apologetically. “Hell, there’s a collection in most every room. If there had been time before our wedding, I would have had the house completely refurbished.”

“Butterflies?” She wriggled. “Let me down if there are pinned butterflies in the room, Devin. We’ll have to go somewhere else. The duchess’s chambers will do.”

“No, the butterflies are in the country.” He tightened his arms, turned his shoulder, and bumped open the door. He pivoted to face the room and set Viola on her feet.

His bedchamber was large and well-proportioned, with light pouring from two mullioned windows hung with gauzy curtains. The bed commanded most of the space. It was surprisingly feminine, with flowers inlaid in ebony twining about the headboard and wreathing the bedposts.

“I was born in this bed,” Devin commented.

Something in his dry tone made her twist to look up at him. “And?”

“This was my mother’s bed, but she had it moved here in recognition of the fact that she had done her duty by producing an heir. The duke was not welcome to knock on her door again. There was no question of a spare.”

Viola would have said something about the fractious nature of his parents’ relationship—though what there was to say, she didn’t know—but her eyes had landed on the opposite wall and before she could stop herself, her mouth fell open.

“Chamber pots!”

“Indeed,” Devin said, his voice completely emotionless.

Row upon row of chamber pots adorned the far wall, mounted on walnut shelves. They ranged from a blue ceramic pot, trimmed in gilt and adorned with delicate paintings of ladies, to a simple tin pot, to—

“Is this made of gold?” Viola asked, rounding the bed. A gleaming pot reflected back the muted glow of sunshine.

“Gilded bronze,” Devin said, remaining where he was, arms crossed over his chest. “Supposedly once used by King Henry VIII.”

“There must be fifty pots here,” Viola said, astonished. Some had tops and others small legs. Now that she’d rounded the bed, she saw that another row of pots was arranged along the floor.

“Seventy-two in all. Would you like me to have them removed immediately? I could call Binsey. I didn’t think of it; I apologize.”

Viola turned around. Because his arms were crossed over his chest, Devin’s blue frock coat strained over his shoulders. His eyes were dark and intent, watching her without a smile. Somehow the room shrank to the intimate shape of the bed between them.

She felt as if she was breathing honeyed air, as if carnal possibilities danced in the sunshine like the best wine. She let the corners of her mouth curl into an invitation that sang in her heart. “I don’t need to use a chamber pot. They needn’t be removed.”

“I didn’t ask if you would like to refresh yourself in the duchess’s chambers.” He looked unapologetic, and she had the sense that his graceful strength was taut, waiting for her to move first.

“Chamber pots are only useless as a collection. We could use them for other purposes,” she said. “The gold one, for example. You could put it on your desk and use it for . . . for quills.”

“It’s too large for quills,” her husband said, amusement running through his voice. “I’ll have it sent to your chamber.”

“I’m sure I can find some use, besides the obvious,” Viola said, coloring again. “I’ll put letters in it, or embroidery yarns.”

They stood across from each other, the bed between them. How could she possibly have considered marrying a slender man of God? What she wanted was a medieval warrior, sturdy and principled, ready to put on a suit of armor to protect his wife and family.

Viola put her hands on her stomach, realizing that her untidy breathing was mirrored in her trembling knees. “I would prefer to get this over with,” she said, the words tumbling from her mouth. “I am telling myself—I am trying to be—” She couldn’t say it. I’m afraid that you’ll be bored. That I will fail as a lover. That you’ll regret this impulsive marriage.

Devin made his way around the bed to her, unhurried, his eyes focused on her face. “You needn’t try to be anyone other than yourself, Viola.”