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With a hollow pang, Devin realized that he had wronged his former mistress as well: In his fury, he assumed that Viola was a witness, but in fact, Annabel’s claims of innocence were just. He had launched his fury at two innocent women, one whose only crime was to make love with him in a quiet corridor.

But Viola was looking at him, so he summoned up words, though not the right words. “My father used to threaten my mother with life in the country regularly,” he said numbly.

That wasn’t it, of course.

The threat had come out of his mouth. He had no memory of saying it at all. He searched his memory, and what came back to him was blinding fury at being betrayed.

Not the actual threat, spoken by him.

The very same threat that echoed through the halls of this house and made his childhood hellish and sent his mother fleeing to live far away.

No memory of Viola either, a very young Viola, terrorized by his violence.

“I’m sorry,” Viola said now. “It’s a terrible thing for a spouse to say and for a young boy to hear.”

“The late duke used to hurl insults and threats but for the most part—unless you were foolish enough to take up his offer of a duel—he limited himself to dismissing servants and throwing the odd vase.” It was no justification.

None.

“Is that why your mother would flee the house?”

That dark coiling fear had its talons in him now. Viola would leave him, if she knew. She would be right to leave. He nodded, struggling to shape words, and finally forced himself to speak. “She came and went throughout my childhood. For the most part, she lived elsewhere. She would come home for a time, until there was another battle, at which point her trunks would be packed and she’d be gone again.”

“She must have hated leaving you behind,” Viola said, her eyes a warm hazel.

“No,” he said, before he thought better. “I don’t believe she cared either way. She certainly never considered taking me with her.”

Viola got up and came around the table. He looked up at her. “Push back,” she said, in a tone that implied he was dreadfully slow. She settled onto his lap, tucking her head against his chest, catching up one of his hands and bringing it to her lips.

He looked down at the lush sweep of her lashes, her lips, cherry-colored and swollen from kisses, her pointed chin, and felt another wave of inexplicable emotion.

Love—and fear.

With a sudden deep pang, he realized that no matter how indifferent he pretended to be to his mother’s departures, the memory of an entryway full of trunks and a brittle, furious duchess poised to slam out the door was deeply ingrained in his memory.

He could see down the gaping neckline of his linen shirt to the swell of Viola’s breasts, creamy curves just visible through the fine fabric. With the arm that wasn’t cradling her, he reached out for his glass of wine. “Drink,” he said, touching her bottom lip with the rim of the glass.

Viola tilted her head back, and bronzy-brown silken hair fell over his arm in disarray. Smiling at him, she opened her mouth. He tipped the glass, watching the ruby liquid meet her tongue, and the sensuous ripple of her throat as she swallowed.

“Now you.”

Obediently he lifted the glass and took a swallow.

“What do you taste?”

“Wine.”

She poked him. “My mother trained us to know ales and wines. I taste currants and plum, and a very fine plum at that.”

Devin glanced at the wine bottle. “French.” He brought the glass to her lips again and then adjusted her carefully to kiss her afterward. “It tastes like red wine, which is not as sweet as you.”

“This may be the best wine I’ve ever tasted,” she said sometime later, with that beguiling giggle.

“I think you’ve enchanted me,” he said, giving her another sip.

“Imagine me raising an eyebrow. You don’t appear enchanted.” Her eyes ranged over his shoulders. “Perhaps enchanting.”

“Would you ever leave me?” he asked, the words leaping from his mouth without permission. An ache in the pit of his stomach told him that he should tell her the truth. He should confess.