by Eloisa James
“Oh.” She said it softly and he couldn’t tell what she thought. “Oh” wasn’t “no.” “Won’t your household think—”
“Ours is not the usual wedding, planned for eight months and celebrated with four priests and a hundred guests. My household knows—nay, all of London knows—that I want you for my wife so much that I cannot wait. I will not wait.”
He could see a smile in her eyes. “As far as London and polite society is concerned, ours is a story of irresistible love.”
Viola took a deep breath. “All right.”
Just as well, because they were about to round the corner to Devin’s townhouse. “My butler is idiosyncratic, but excellent in many respects. He has a room prepared for your maid, and after consultation with your father’s butler, a birdcage has been placed in the corner of every room in the house, positioned on the floor, door open.”
“Barty can’t fly well, you see,” Viola said apologetically. “He is very good about retiring to a birdcage.”
“My father and his friends used to duck behind a screen, and we would continue talking to the sound of urine hitting a chamber pot,” Devin said.
“My mother had all the chamber pots removed from the dining areas of the castle, but my understanding is that the practice used to be widespread.”
“You’re not offended by mention of chamber pots, are you?”
Viola smiled. “My mother considers bodily functions to be private, but not shameful.”
“I see,” Devin said, guessing that unlike most ladies, Viola would have a thorough understanding of what was entailed by the wedding night.
Her eyes met his, clear and untroubled. “We haven’t known each other long, but I have learned some things about you, Devin.”
“The fact I am very possessive?”
That wasn’t polite, as it carried the implication that his wife might be unfaithful, but Viola didn’t seem to mind. She reached out and clasped one of his hands. “You solve problems.”
“I what?”
“You solve problems. When Otis felt trapped in the priesthood, he came to you. When Sir Reginald was afraid that Otis would move to Spain, he came to you. I haven’t found out what else you’ve done, but I’m absolutely certain that you are the pivotal person in the Murgatroyd family.”
“Only due to birth,” Devin said.
She shook her head. “Your father was born to the same role, and he was your opposite.”
The carriage was drawing to a stop, and he truly didn’t want to discuss his father.
“I can’t solve every problem,” he said. “I’m not certain that I can stop all the printing presses in London from creating images of you.”
It had been nagging at him, the memory of that print with its rompish, dissolute view of one of the most treasured moments of his life.
In an odd way, the pure vulgarity of it reminded him of his former mistress, Annabel.
His affaire with the widow had begun well enough, until she’d confessed to a wish to make love in public, which turned out to be a plot to lure him into marriage. She apparently intended to threaten him with her ruination if he didn’t marry her.
It was ironic that a vulgar print had led to his marriage, since the earlier incident had hardened his heart against any sort of breach of privacy. He had turned on his heel, left her, and never saw her again—not difficult since he rarely went to society events.
“I understand,” Viola said. “I grew up with the knowledge that most of England was interested in the Wildes, remember? If prints are made, it will not be your fault.”
A footman swung open the door and Devin stepped down, noting that Binsey was ushering the household into ranks before the house. Clearly, they had been waiting.
He turned to give his hand to his bride, feeling a surge of pride. He had no doubt but that he had won a treasure. Viola would be the best Duchess of Wynter in the history of the title.
She took his hand and put one delicate, silk-clad foot onto the box his footman had placed before the door and smiled brilliantly at all those clustered on the steps and sidewalk. “Good morning!” she called. She began to gather her skirts, but Devin stepped forward and picked her up in his arms.
Viola laughed, startled, even though they had just discussed it.
Looking down at her face, he felt a swell of emotion that made him uncomfortable. He lifted his head and announced, “I am honored to present my wife.”
The household responded with applause, which surprised him. He considered himself a fair employer, and he paid well because it made economic sense to retain excellent servants instead of hiring and training new ones. But he didn’t have any illusions that he was a beloved master.
Viola’s smile strengthened and she waved.
He strode forward and the servants fell to the sides.
Chapter Twenty-two
Viola kept a bright smile on her face. It was her brave mask, donned for public occasions. Devin had a large household, of course. His townhouse was a mansion, set back from the street, fronted by a sweeping circle for carriages. Made of white stone, it shone in the sun with the palatial gleam of a well-maintained ducal residence.
He climbed steadily up wide marble steps that led to a fan-vaulted entry door with Corinthian pillars on either side, like stolid guards.
At the door he turned back to face all those gathered, Viola’s skirts sweeping around his feet. “The Duchess of Wynter. My duchess, and yours.” He gave the group his rare smile, and Viola listened to their applause grow to cheers.
Devin held himself with the air of a man who had no interest or need in others. He acted as if he were unloved.
But she’d seen how much his cousins adored him, and now, looking around at the open, happy faces of his servants, she had the sudden idea that he simply didn’t know what love looked like. Or what friendship and admiration looked like. Loyalty.
His butler waited for them in the entry, garbed in impeccable livery that looked more like a gentleman’s coat than butler’s attire. He swept into a bow.
“Binsey, my duchess,” Devin said, but by the time the butler straightened, Devin had strode past him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Binsey,” Viola cried over Devin’s shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Your Graces,” the butler said, trotting after them.
“Everything prepared, Binsey?” Devin said.
“A light luncheon has been prepared. If Her Grace desires anything in particular, I can have a different meal prepared immediately.”
Viola felt pinpricks of embarrassment at the idea that Binsey was watching Devin head toward his bedchamber. Her cheeks were burning. Everyone knew where they were going and for what reason.
But that was true of every newly married couple, she told herself. No need to whisper Wilde Child, because being a Wilde couldn’t help her in this situation.
Besides, under the embarrassment, desire was rioting through her veins. Devin’s arms surrounded her, and she had a sense of the fluid strength behind the elegant muscles she’d only seen clad in wools and silks. There was an intensity to his face and walk that made her tremble.
“Viola is not persnickety,” Devin said to Binsey, not turning his head.
He began climbing the stairs, leaving the butler behind. Viola’s silk gown swept the marble with a soft whoosh. She leaned her head against his arm and gave him a little poke in the chest. “What if I am persnickety?”
“Are you?”
“My point is that you don’t know. Perhaps I desire tomatoes plucked under a full moon, or cabbage only on Tuesdays.”
“Is that a possibility?”
“One of my mother’s cousins won’t eat a nightshade vegetable unless it was picked under a full moon.”
Devin reached the next floor without showing the faintest sign of being out of breath, and turned left. “You regularly sit around in a cowshed. You have a pet crow who toilets in the corner of your bedroom, albeit in a cage. You are not persnickety.” He p
aused in front of double mahogany doors presumably leading to his bedchamber. “Do you remember my father’s collections?”
Viola was enjoying the sensation of leaning against his chest. “Yes,” she said, a little dreamily.
“There is a collection in this room,” he said apologetically. “Hell, there’s a collection in most every room. If there had been time before our wedding, I would have had the house completely refurbished.”
“Butterflies?” She wriggled. “Let me down if there are pinned butterflies in the room, Devin. We’ll have to go somewhere else. The duchess’s chambers will do.”
“No, the butterflies are in the country.” He tightened his arms, turned his shoulder, and bumped open the door. He pivoted to face the room and set Viola on her feet.
His bedchamber was large and well-proportioned, with light pouring from two mullioned windows hung with gauzy curtains. The bed commanded most of the space. It was surprisingly feminine, with flowers inlaid in ebony twining about the headboard and wreathing the bedposts.
“I was born in this bed,” Devin commented.
Something in his dry tone made her twist to look up at him. “And?”
“This was my mother’s bed, but she had it moved here in recognition of the fact that she had done her duty by producing an heir. The duke was not welcome to knock on her door again. There was no question of a spare.”
Viola would have said something about the fractious nature of his parents’ relationship—though what there was to say, she didn’t know—but her eyes had landed on the opposite wall and before she could stop herself, her mouth fell open.
“Chamber pots!”
“Indeed,” Devin said, his voice completely emotionless.
Row upon row of chamber pots adorned the far wall, mounted on walnut shelves. They ranged from a blue ceramic pot, trimmed in gilt and adorned with delicate paintings of ladies, to a simple tin pot, to—
“Is this made of gold?” Viola asked, rounding the bed. A gleaming pot reflected back the muted glow of sunshine.
“Gilded bronze,” Devin said, remaining where he was, arms crossed over his chest. “Supposedly once used by King Henry VIII.”
“There must be fifty pots here,” Viola said, astonished. Some had tops and others small legs. Now that she’d rounded the bed, she saw that another row of pots was arranged along the floor.
“Seventy-two in all. Would you like me to have them removed immediately? I could call Binsey. I didn’t think of it; I apologize.”
Viola turned around. Because his arms were crossed over his chest, Devin’s blue frock coat strained over his shoulders. His eyes were dark and intent, watching her without a smile. Somehow the room shrank to the intimate shape of the bed between them.
She felt as if she was breathing honeyed air, as if carnal possibilities danced in the sunshine like the best wine. She let the corners of her mouth curl into an invitation that sang in her heart. “I don’t need to use a chamber pot. They needn’t be removed.”
“I didn’t ask if you would like to refresh yourself in the duchess’s chambers.” He looked unapologetic, and she had the sense that his graceful strength was taut, waiting for her to move first.
“Chamber pots are only useless as a collection. We could use them for other purposes,” she said. “The gold one, for example. You could put it on your desk and use it for . . . for quills.”
“It’s too large for quills,” her husband said, amusement running through his voice. “I’ll have it sent to your chamber.”
“I’m sure I can find some use, besides the obvious,” Viola said, coloring again. “I’ll put letters in it, or embroidery yarns.”
They stood across from each other, the bed between them. How could she possibly have considered marrying a slender man of God? What she wanted was a medieval warrior, sturdy and principled, ready to put on a suit of armor to protect his wife and family.
Viola put her hands on her stomach, realizing that her untidy breathing was mirrored in her trembling knees. “I would prefer to get this over with,” she said, the words tumbling from her mouth. “I am telling myself—I am trying to be—” She couldn’t say it. I’m afraid that you’ll be bored. That I will fail as a lover. That you’ll regret this impulsive marriage.
Devin made his way around the bed to her, unhurried, his eyes focused on her face. “You needn’t try to be anyone other than yourself, Viola.”
“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.”
His laughter rang out from under the shirt. “I
n one night? ’Tis beyond my power, even if my duchess commands.”
The shirt came up and flew to the side, but Viola was too distracted to track its flight. Fascinated by golden skin and a taut shape that made her stomach curl, she took a step toward Devin.
And stopped, finding that her hands were hovering. She tipped back her head and looked up. “May I?”
“As you wish,” Devin said, his voice thick with desire.
Anxiety and desire clenched her throat, so she just nodded and put her palms on his warm skin. Beneath her hands was potent masculine strength, her fingertips teased by short golden hairs, hardly visible except where the sun struck them.
“Why is your body hair golden and the hair on your head dark?” she asked, trying to steady her voice because her knees were shaking.
He shrugged, which moved the finely chiseled muscles marching down to his waistband. She slid her hands down, loving the way the muscles bunched to meet her palms. He made a sound in the back of his throat, like a small growl.
“I didn’t know that men have nipples,” Viola said, looking back up at his eyes. “Unnecessary, don’t you think?”
“They can be a source of pleasure,” Devin said, his voice velvety with desire.
She felt herself coloring again. She took her hands down and fell back a step. “This is embarrassing.”
Devin turned and she watched him walk toward the small table on the other side of the room, set with a blue cloth and matching dishes. He poured glasses of champagne and returned, seeming not to notice that she was frozen in place, like a silly rabbit in the snow.
“Let’s drink to our marriage, shall we? Are you hungry?”
“No.” She took the glass. Her fingers brushed his and she felt the shock of it down her legs. Instinctively she met his eyes and knew that he felt the same.
He raised his glass with a lopsided smile. “Do you know how lucky we are? Many couples feel nothing but trepidation, whereas I feel the opposite.” He took a swallow. “Would you like me—or a maid—to help you out of your gown, Viola?”
“Yes,” Viola said, firming her mouth. “You, please.”
He didn’t say anything, but she saw his eyes lighten with naked desire. That, more than anything, steadied her nerves. He wasn’t entirely composed either.