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“Sore?” he murmured.

Viola felt herself turning pink. She nodded.

He tipped her chin up and kissed her. “This is my first day as a married man.” His hand slid down her spine and over the curve of her bottom, tightening.

Viola stopped feeling embarrassed and pressed closer to him, her plump breasts flattening against his chest.

Long minutes later he raised his head from her lips and asked hoarsely, “Do you think you might feel better after a bath?”

Viola had a hand wrapped around his erection. She’d thrown back the sheets and she was exploring how this unfamiliar body part worked. When she tightened her grip, Devin’s breath caught in his throat. When she twisted her wrist, he groaned aloud.

“I like this,” she said, grinning at him. “It’s fun.”

“‘Fun’,” he repeated, sounding dazed. “I have to—”

Viola stroked him again, adding a little twist at the top. “You resemble a mushroom.”

Devin caught her wrist with his long fingers. “You’re ravishing me, Viola. If you keep going . . .”

“You’ll spend?” she asked. Ignoring his grasp, she slid her hand up and down again, loving the burning heat of his . . . “What do you call this?”

“My cock,” Devin said.

She tried the shape of the word without giving it sound. It was too improper to say aloud.

“Last night I couldn’t see what was happening.” A giggled escaped her. “This is so immodest, first thing in the morning.” She paused, her eyes widening. “Is this why married women have breakfast in bed?”

“Modesty has no place between husband and wife,” Devin said hoarsely. He took her mouth, his tongue tangling with hers, sending shivering bolts of heat through her limbs.

“Am I doing this correctly?” Viola whispered. His response wasn’t intelligible.

Her mind blurred when his fingers wrapped about hers and tightened. When Devin’s breath roughened and his body went rigid, one hand tightening around her arse, she pulled back just enough to watch—but as his breath came faster, she forgot to look down. Instead her gaze caught on her husband’s face.

In the grip of desire, Devin looked younger, his face filled with an uncomplicated pleasure. That’s it, she thought. That’s what she wanted for her marriage. Oh, not marital intercourse alone, but that look on Devin’s face. He didn’t look austere or ducal. His eyes stayed with hers the whole time, as their hands moved in unison.

He came with a deep, broken groan, and Viola watched with fascination. A minute later he drew in a long breath and pulled the sheet over himself, wiping his chest. “Curiosity satisfied?” Devin asked, his voice a lazy growl.

“Yes,” Viola said. She had a lifetime to learn how to give her husband pleasure. She wanted more: She wanted to be a pair, the way her mother and stepfather were. She wanted a union in which she . . .

“You’re gone again,” Devin said, laughter in his voice.

She shook her head. “I’m here!”

She had to break through his solitary nature somehow. Not by pushing him, or forcing him to act. But somehow opening a door that he would walk through and realize how much he was loved by Otis and Hazel. By Sir Reginald.

The idea fluttered in her chest.

She realized suddenly that she hadn’t cared a jot for Mr. Marlowe; it had been vain of her to think to rescue a man the way one might save a baby crow or a calf.

Devin finished rubbing his chest, flung the sheet to the side, disentangled her limbs from his, and helped her put his shirt back on. He rang for her maid and escorted Viola to the bathing room. She accompanied him silently, thinking hard.

Her husband was himself again, his jaw firm, eyes cool, face ducal.

Yet his eyes softened when she gasped at the magnificence of the ducal bathing chamber, which featured a copper bathtub, softly glowing in the light streaming in the window. “I’ve never seen such a large bathtub,” she gasped.

Devin smiled. “Large enough for two.” He tipped up her head and brushed a kiss on her lips. “Done thinking?”

“Is anyone ever done thinking?”