“And we’re back on the subject of brides. Hand me that brandy bottle if you please.”

“West, you’re not taking this seriously.”

He placed his teacup on a table and rose to stand before the fire, so she couldn’t see his face.

She could, however, see his backside. And that was a very enjoyable view, indeed. When had he removed his coat?

She gulped the remainder of the brandy in her teacup.

She’d always felt that the fashion for men’s breeches was too tight, and not flattering to the average gentleman.

West was no average gentleman.

He was made for skintight breeches. They displayed his sculpted, well-defined buttocks, muscular thighs, and long legs to perfection.

Oh, Viola, she thought sadly. When will you learn to ignore the view?

“Do you want to know the real reason I object to Lady Winifred?” His voice held a challenge. He almost sounded angry, or some other strong emotion colored his words.

“I do. Because she’s the most unobjectionable woman in London. She’ll make the ideal duchess.”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with her.” He turned toward her, and the anguished look on his face nearly startled her into dropping her teacup. She set it down and folded her hands primly in her lap.

He advanced, his eyes dark and stormy, his blond hair aglow with firelight.

“She’s not you, Viola.” His gaze captured her, fixing her to the carpet. “She’s not you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous . . . I’m not right for—”

The rest of her protestation was swallowed by a kiss.

Chapter Twenty-Two

All West knew was that he had to kiss Viola so well that she’d stop trying to make him propose to other women. A kiss to make her see how much he wanted her.

Viola. And no one else.

The best kiss he’d ever given. A searing, unmistakably passionate and possessive statement that he was claiming her for his own.

She was his. The only woman he wanted to kiss.

She twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, offering her lips trustingly, sweetly.

Walking through the park side by side was all well and good, and she’d looked so gorgeous by sunlight, but this was what his body had been screaming for.

He didn’t know whether it was right or wrong. He barely knew his own name. He only knew that he had to taste her lips. Make her his.

He slammed the door shut with his boot and lifted her into his arms, carrying her from the sitting room into the bedchamber.

There was evidence of Viola all over her room. Parchment paper filled with scrawled musical notation. A novel open beside the bed. The yellow shawl she’d come to his bedchamber to retrieve.