Page 89

“I may be inadequate,” she said, putting her cards on the table, as Aunt Knowe would say.

His smile began in his eyes, a sensual amusement that warmed her cheeks to another blush as it spread across his face, his expression changing from taut observation to lazy erotic happiness.

He put a finger on her cheek and ran it downward. “I thought that my wedding night would be a matter of formalities in a dark room. A question of carefully oiled body parts meeting with polite disinterest.”

Viola managed a smile. His finger wandered lower, drawing a sleek line down her throat, softly caressing the line of her collarbone.

“Instead, I have been given a bedchamber smelling of strawberries and a bride more beautiful than I could have imagined. Did you notice that Binsey has set the table over there with champagne and more?”

Deep inside, Viola’s body was still quaking, but perhaps it was from desire rather than fear. “Your butler knows you,” she managed.

“My heart is pounding,” Devin said. He pulled off his coat and tossed it toward the end of the bed. “Feel.” He picked up her hand and placed it on his chest.

Under her fingers an urgent rhythm thumped. Viola swallowed hard. He watched her, eyes gleaming under heavy lids.

“The last thing I want to do is claim conjugal rights before you are ready, Viola. We can eat our lunch and nap together like the octogenarians I hope we will be someday.”

A stifled giggle escaped her. “The whole house thinks we are . . . are doing otherwise.”

“We can surprise them.” A smile lurked in his slumberous eyes. “We have a lifetime to make love to one another.”

She stared at him in fascination, feeling the thumps of her heart. “That is true, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Would it be acceptable to you, my lady, if I removed my shoes?”

“Yes, of course.” She fluttered her hands. “Of course!”

He took them off. “My wig and my neck cloth?”

“Certainly.”

She watched as his corded neck emerged from the high-necked wrap of starched linen that had been shaped into the flounces that signaled a gentleman. Devin’s neck cloth was far simpler than those of men with lesser titles. Dark curls emerged from his wig flattened, and he ran his fingers through them with unmistakable relief.

“You don’t like wearing wigs?” she asked.

“Loathe them,” Devin said. “I give you fair warning, Duchess, that I don’t wear them in the house, and outside only when I must. I gather a wig would be more comfortable if I shaved my head.”

“Don’t do that!” she cried involuntarily.

His smile ravished her, making her legs liquid. “I won’t. May I remove my stockings?”

He was wearing a shirt of thin lawn that ended in graceful cuffs covering his hands to the knuckles. Narrow pleats sewn on the shoulders did nothing to hide their breadth and made her long to see what he looked like naked.

Not graceful, not slender, not porcelain white.

“Shirt?” she suggested daringly, after his white silk stockings had landed on a chair.

His eyes were shining. “If you insist.”

“I do insist,” she said, coloring again.

“I shall attempt to obey my lady’s every command,” Devin responded, his voice oddly serious.

“Even if I instructed you to do something absurd?” she asked.

“Such as?” He was nimbly undoing the simple tie that closed his shirt in front.

“Use all those chamber pots.”