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“No. But you think more deeply than anyone I know.”

Viola hesitated. “Does it annoy you? Joan finds my absentmindedness frightfully irritating.” She hurried to add, “I can try very hard not to think, that is, not to think of other things when I ought to be participating in a conversation. Even my mother says that I test her patience.”

He shook his head.

“Tell me more about the bathtub?” she asked brightly, resolving to keep her mind on domestic matters. “Did your father acquire it in Italy?”

With that, Devin burst out laughing and kissed her again. “You don’t care about the bathtub, Viola.”

“I could care about the bathtub,” she argued. “You needn’t worry that I can’t manage the household, because my mother has made certain that I can.”

“You are my absentminded duchess,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. “I have a housekeeper already.”

“And you are my duke,” she countered.

She couldn’t read the expression on his face, but she had the feeling that Devin didn’t care to be anyone’s possession. Never mind. He was hers now. It was up to her—not to rescue him, but to . . .

To love him?

That was it.

She had to love him. And be an excellent duchess. An indispensable duchess, so that if he grew irritated with her shyness and tendency to become distracted, it would be too late for him not to value her.

She had conquered her shyness and she could focus her attention as well. Three hours later, she was reviewing the linen closet with the housekeeper. Every time she started to think about something other than sheets or quilts or guest chambers, she pulled her attention back to the task at hand.

When Devin walked into the housekeeper’s parlor, the lady leapt backward and dropped into a curtsy. “Your Grace!” she cried. “I never—welcome—may I be of service?”

“I came to say hello to my wife,” Devin said. He was entirely the duke once again, Viola noticed with disappointment. His costume was black and scarcely relieved by the simple knot of his neck cloth. His eyes were cool.

“Good afternoon!” Viola said cheerfully.

His expression darkened. “I don’t want to be greeted that way.”

“Oh, crickets!” Viola said, but she managed to keep the words from being audible. She dropped into a deep curtsy. Of course, he would adhere to the trappings of dukedom. Her family’s informality was most unusual among the peerage.

The housekeeper had apparently decided that Devin didn’t need her, because she edged past the cupboard and fled out the door.

“Good afternoon,” Viola said, straightening.

Strong hands caught her shoulders. “Not that either. This.” Devin took her mouth in a hot, hungry kiss.

“Oh, goodness,” Viola said, sometime later. “I can’t greet you with kisses!”

“Yes, you can,” he told her. Then he added, “In our house, at least.” He had lifted her to the back of a sturdy armchair, so her eyes were level with his. “I came to invite you to my study, to introduce you to all the statues before I have them hauled away. The keeper of the Ashmolean Museum has agreed to take them off my hands.”

“Mrs. Ulrich hasn’t finished showing me the household,” Viola said. Even she could hear the longing in her voice. “Perhaps you could take me back to the bedchamber and we could . . . count the chamber pots, Devin,” she said, the words coming out in a hurried whisper. Her cheeks were burning at the immodesty of that question.

He shook his head. “You’re sore.” His hand ran down her curves, and even through her corset she could feel his hunger. “For the first few days, you’ll sleep in the duchess’s bedchamber.”

Viola decided she didn’t have to voice her opposition at the moment; he’d find out soon enough.

“Did Mrs. Ulrich show you your bedchamber?” Devin asked.

Viola nodded. “I’ve seen everything except for the duchess’s sitting room. She did tell me most of the collections are going to that museum in Oxford, even the chamber pots, though I told her I might keep one or two.”

“You haven’t seen my mother’s sitting room yet?” Devin asked.

Viola shook her head.