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Chapter Twenty-five

Viola woke as twilight was darkening the room. Purple shadows gathered in the corners of the huge bedchamber; she blinked, wondering where she was. The shelves lining the wall came into focus. Chamber pots. She was in the duke’s bedchamber.

Her duke’s bedchamber.

One could even say that those were her chamber pots. Her mind boggled, thinking of where such a collection could find a home, but the sound of deep breathing jolted her from that housewifely thought.

She turned stealthily, remembered pleasure echoing in small aches and twinges.

Devin was lying on his stomach, head resting on his arms, face turned away from her. His shoulders bunched with muscle, covered with smooth skin that still appeared gilded, even in the waning light. It was curious to her: She would have assumed that his skin would be as creamy as hers, untouched by sun.

She had heard that her stepbrothers threw off their shirts when they were breaking horses, but since she shunned the stables, she had never seen it herself.

Another embarrassment to chalk up to her shyness: Had she visited the stables more often, she might have realized that men were adorned with useless nipples.

Last rays of sun were slanting low, gleaming on his round arse. She’d never given the faintest thought to men’s posteriors. And yet . . .

And yet.

Devin’s was surely the finest of its kind. In fact, she decided in a rush, his entire body was the finest of its kind.

Without a word, he opened his eyes, rolled to the side, and ran a hand over her shoulder. And over her breast. His hand curled and he let out a low male sound of appreciation.

“You sound like me drinking hot chocolate!”

His thumb gave her nipple a lazy caress, making Viola shiver. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. How can your hair look elegant after a nap and . . . everything else?” she said, almost crossly. He appeared to have just emerged from the hands of his valet, whereas she didn’t need a mirror to know that her hair had erupted around her head in wild curls.

“You look well ravished,” Devin said, a smile curling his mouth.

Viola pushed up to sit and began patting her hair. “Embarrassing,” she muttered.

In one swift movement Devin pounced on her. “Unless you’re ravenous, I suggest—” Whatever he meant to suggest was lost because his lips closed on hers and he pulled her under him.

It wasn’t until the room was truly dark and Devin had lit the fire in the fireplace, then the lamps, that they finally made their way to the table in the corner, Devin clad in a dressing gown, and Viola in one of his exquisitely pressed shirts, the wrist bands turned over many times until she had thick wads of fabric at each elbow.

Binsey had left them a light meal covered with silver domes.

“I’ll ring for fresh food,” Devin said, lifting a dome to reveal plated chicken.

“Nonsense, let’s eat it,” Viola said. “That chicken looks excellent. Do you have a good cook?”

“I think so,” Devin replied. “I don’t pay much attention to food.”

“I do,” Viola said cheerfully.

“I have a French cook at the Northamptonshire estate,” Devin said, uncovering cooked vegetables.

Suddenly Viola thought—for the first time in quite a while—of that awful ball years ago and the gentleman’s threat that his wife would have to live in the country. Despite herself, a shiver went through her.

“What are you thinking about?” her husband asked instantly. She didn’t know why she ever thought Devin’s eyes were cold. Now he looked at her with the same warmth with which he regarded Otis.

Which was sensible, she reminded herself. For all Devin claimed to have no friends, Otis was clearly as dear to him as Joan was to her.

“I was thinking about a bad man whom I met,” she said lightly.

His eyes darkened. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”