“Yes, yes. We know all about your wicked pursuits,” Viola said. “You only go out at night to drown in decadence and Scotch whisky. But your sisters expect you to accompany them to the opera this evening. You must be shaved, dressed, and ready to pretend to be scandal-free for a few brief hours.”

“Any other orders, General Bonaparte?”

“No more public announcements about assignations with gin bottles. No drinking, no gambling, enlist the help of your less disreputable friends as escorts for your sisters, be seen in daylight.”

“What about kissing?”

“Forbidden. Until you’re courting that one special lady.”

“Are we going to talk about that kiss?” he asked.

“It never happened.”

“If you say so.” He remembered it all too vividly. And he’d better not think about it for too much longer.

“Turn around, Viola.”

“Pardon?”

“Turn around while I put on this dressing gown. Or don’t. Your choice.”

She turned her back on him swiftly.

He swung out of bed, put on the robe, and knotted the sash. “You can look now. Or did you already have a peek while I was sleeping?”

“I would never!” was the outraged response. She was blushing a bright pink color.

“I’m only teasing, Viola.” He handed her the shawl. “And I promise you, and my sisters, that I’ll begin my campaign of reform this very day.”

She nodded curtly. “See that you do, Your Grace.”

When she was gone, he sat on the edge of the bed and slid his feet into his slippers, chuckling at the memory of the way she’d opened his curtains.

She really was the most extraordinary woman. He liked the way she wasn’t too intimidated by him and delighted in putting him in his place.

He was still chuckling as Sebastian gave him a shave. He didn’t trust his new valet, Welker, to the task.

“If you don’t stop laughing, Your Grace, I’m liable to nick your cheek,” Sebastian said, holding the razor and frowning at him.

“I’ll stop. I’m sorry.” One last guffaw escaped his lips and then he schooled his features into placidity.

“What’s so very funny if I might ask? Your heiress has eloped and we’re in a financial quagmire once again.”

“I’m just remembering something funny someone said to me.”

“Might that someone be Miss Beaton, by chance?”

“How did you know?”

“Because she inspires mirth and joy.”

She did that. Among other more lusty, earthy emotions.

“Miss Beaton is made of strong moral fiber,” said Sebastian, lathering soap across West’s throat. “She’s not put off by your general air of degeneracy and depravity. Though you’d do well to be careful around her. I don’t want you giving her false expectations. She could never become your duchess and I won’t have you ruin the girl. I like her too much.”