Ophelia couldn’t think of a single duke with whom she would want to share more than a minuet, but she was reconciled to her own shortcomings. The rest of the world experienced fiery passion, but she didn’t. Thankfully, she and Peter had been alike in that.
“I would probably follow him to Paris after a mere nod,” Maddie said dreamily.
“Which duke?” Ophelia asked, but Maddie didn’t hear because she was gawking across the room like a pig herder seeing St. Paul’s for the first time. Ophelia snapped shut her fan, thinking that she probably shouldn’t compare a beddable duke to a cathedral. It seemed vaguely blasphemous.
Maddie blinked and came out of her desirous haze. “Are you going to the retiring room? I shall join you. I didn’t see that darling bag earlier. Oh! It matches your gloves!”
Ophelia smiled. Both her gloves and bag were made of thin, butter-soft leather, sewn with small spangles. The gloves glittered above her wrists, and her bag sparkled from every angle as it moved with her. “Thank you! A gift from my mother-in-law.”
“You’re so lucky,” Maddie began, and broke off the sentence. “He’s just over there!”
“Who?” Ophelia turned her head, but all she saw was a ballroom crowded with people she’d known her entire life.
“The Duke of Lindow, of course,” Maddie said triumphantly, plucking Ophelia’s sleeve and nodding toward the door. “Tell me you wouldn’t have an affaire with him.”
Ophelia wrinkled her nose. “I’ve heard of him, but we’ve never met.” She didn’t bother to look again, because she had no interest in that particular duke, given his unsavory reputation.
Not that it was his fault that his wife ran away with a Prussian.
Maddie was on her toes, peeking over the crowd. “He’s just so beautiful,” she breathed. “It’s cruel what happened to him.”
“Darling, I’m not going to the retiring room; I’m going to leave,” Ophelia said, making up her mind. “Otherwise I’ll be trapped in the supper dance and I shan’t return home for ages. Viola wakes up at five in the morning and—”
“You are so unnatural,” her cousin interrupted, momentarily startled out of her examination of the infamous duke. “You mean to tell me that you actually rise with that child?”
“She comes to fetch me,” Ophelia said apologetically. The truth was that she was often awake before the patter of unsteady feet came down the corridor. She lay in bed, smiling at the ceiling, waiting for Viola to burst through the door.
Viola babbled incomprehensibly all the way from the nursery, but as soon as she came through the door, she would cry, “Mama!” She knew only a few words, but “Mama” and “no” were her favorites, and she shouted them both with great enthusiasm.
“I’m going home,” Ophelia said, wondering why she had come. True, she had put aside her half-mourning attire for the first time, and was wearing a lovely new gown, but that didn’t mean she actually wished to join society again.
It would have been much more fun to stay home with Viola.
“I don’t want to be caught in a snowstorm,” she added.
“Oh, nonsense,” Maddie said. “My coachman was grumbling about the same thing. If traffic snarls up, it might take a wee bit longer to get home, but we’re not in the wilds of Lincolnshire! One scarcely notices snow in London.”
Ophelia wouldn’t have cared if Peter were still alive and traveling in the coach with her on the way home. She was more cautious now, or perhaps less adventurous.
“Oh, very well, I’ll walk you to the entrance,” Maddie said, taking her arm as they began to make their way through the crowd. She lowered her voice. “His Grace is standing just to the right side of it.”
Ophelia sighed. If Maddie started something with a duke whose wife had fled to the Continent—divorced or not—all society would talk feverishly about it for months, or even a year. Her husband would be furious.
Lord Penshallow would not forget, even when society moved on to the next scandal. Maddie’s husband might not want his wife himself, but Ophelia was certain he didn’t want another man in his bed. Men weren’t rational about that sort of thing.
“Maddie,” she said, striving for a tactful tone, “I believe you ought to rethink the idea of an affaire with Lindow.”
“For goodness’ sake, lower your voice,” her cousin whispered. “Do you see him now? He’s straight in front of us.”
Ophelia looked and froze, which made her stumble. It was mortifying, not helped by the fact that Maddie burst out laughing.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” she demanded.
No.
Maddie hadn’t “told.” She hadn’t said what the Duke of Lindow looked like. He had a square chin, high cheekbones, and a straight nose that somehow came together in a way that made a woman instinctively draw in a breath.
It wasn’t just that he was handsome, or broad-shouldered and tall. He was indefinably masculine in a way few of the gentlemen in the room were. He was wearing a magnificent peruke, befitting a duke, and a rose-colored coat that by rights should look effeminate.
It didn’t.
That square chin looked stubbornly male. Her husband had never been able to grow a beard, try as he might, but the duke’s chin was shadowed, though his man had undoubtedly shaved him a few hours ago.
Next to her, Maddie was still giggling. “I told you so.”
Rather than respond, Ophelia kept looking. His Grace was clearly bored. He was paying no attention to the two ladies chattering beside him.
Ophelia flipped open her fan. “Why is he here?” she asked Maddie from behind its shelter. “I thought he was uninterested in society, and he certainly looks it.”
The last two years she’d been in mourning, but before that, she and Peter had attended virtually every ball held in London. Peter had loved to dance.
“Keep walking,” Maddie hissed. “My husband is one of His Grace’s acquaintances, so I shall greet him. As for why he’s here, I expect he’s looking for another wife. Or should I say, broodmare.”
“What?”
“Phee, don’t you pay attention to anything? The duchess, the one he divorced, left four young children behind. That’s why the private act passed so quickly. Everyone knows that he needs to marry again; apparently the discussion in Parliament circled around that issue.”
“Four children,” she echoed, wondering how the former duchess could have left her babies behind. She could no more leave Viola than she could cut off her own arm.
“There are more children than those four, because if I remember correctly, he had four or five with his first wife as well, though they must be nearly grown. If we don’t hurry, he’ll move away from the door and I’ll miss my chance.”
“More children than four?” Ophelia kept her fan up as they arrowed through the crowd. “How old is he?”
“Not as old as you’d think. Late thirties, I believe.”
They weren’t the only ones heading in the Duke of Lindow’s direction. There was an unmistakable drift in the room, as if the tide were coming in, and he was the shore.
“The three or four from his first wife,” Maddie said over her shoulder, “are all boys.”
“Slow down,” Ophelia hissed, tugging back. “You’re making a spectacle out of us.”
They were close enough now that she could see the duke’s eyes were dark green. His face was all hard planes and angles. He was standing with one leg bent in front of him, a silver-hilted sword on his left hip.
She felt heat rising in her cheeks just from glancing at his stance. His thigh was pure muscle, and anyone could tell that his calves were not enhanced by horsehair pads. His was an aggressive leg, not a graceful one. She’d put a pretty chunk of her jointure on a bet that he didn’t care to dance.
That sword? It wasn’t just for show.
He wasn’t the sort of man who would ever interest her. “I truly must leave,” she said, with sudden resolution. “You may stop and talk to His Grace, but I am going home to Viola.”
“All right,” her cousin said, not listening.
Ophelia thought about pointing out that a man intent on courting a mother for his children was unlikely to conduct a highly visible affaire with a married woman, but she dismissed it. Maddie would soon discover whether His Grace was interested or not.
Even as a child, Maddie had always bluntly demanded whatever she wanted. Ophelia wouldn’t be surprised if Maddie strode right up to the man and suggested a tryst.
They were almost at the door, so Ophelia glanced at the duke again.
He was looking at her.
Not at Maddie.
At her.
Blood rushed into her cheeks, and she barely caught herself before she tripped again. She was a widow, the relict of Sir Peter Astley. A mother. Not the sort of woman who welcomed a man’s eyes raking over her in a ballroom, as if she were no better than a streetwalker.
She narrowed her eyes.
He blinked as if he was surprised, and then a slow smile crooked one corner of his mouth.
“The duke is looking at you!” Maddie said from somewhere to her right. “Phee, that will never do.” Her cousin actually sounded alarmed. “He’s far too much for you. Nothing like sweet Peter.”
That shook Ophelia out of a haze caused by the duke’s attention. She turned her head and smiled at her cousin. “Don’t be silly, Maddie. He’s probably mistaken me for someone else, that’s all. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“It could be that he’s walking toward me,” her cousin said breathlessly. “He could be glancing at you as a decoy.” She gripped Ophelia’s forearm hard enough to leave a bruise. “How do you think he’d respond if I lured him into a side room and tied him up?”
Ophelia ducked behind her fan and hissed, “What on earth are you talking about? You don’t tie up Penshallow, do you?”
“The duke’s so large,” Maddie said, giggling madly. “Of course, I don’t . . . It was just a silly thought.”
“He doesn’t look like the sort of a man who would wish to be tied up for any reason.” Not that she knew any man who had that sort of propensity, for all the ladies whispered about it in drawing rooms over tea.
She dropped her fan just enough to steal another glance over it.
The duke’s eyes were still fixed not on Maddie but on her. He was walking directly toward them, ignoring any number of women throwing themselves into his path.
“Perhaps he knew your husband,” her cousin said, sounding perplexed. “He really does appear to be looking at you, Phee.”
Ophelia shared her confusion. She wasn’t the kind of woman whom a man lost his head over. She had a pointed nose, a temper, a pile of red hair, and an overly generous bosom, even more so after being enhanced by motherhood. The thought of Viola brought her back to herself.
“If he was friends with my husband, he can pay me a morning call, as did Peter’s other friends.”
“I know!” Maddie said, her face clearing. “He’s been told what a wonderful mother you are. Oh, Ophelia, you could be a duchess!”
“I’m not available to mother a flock of discarded children,” Ophelia said sharply. She was conscious of a sense of disappointment. Just once, she’d like a man to look at her for herself.
Peter had been shepherded in her direction by his father and her mother during her debut ball. They danced twice and sat together at supper. Pudding hadn’t even been served before he said, with his disarming smile, “I say, we get along pretty well, don’t we?”
They did. They had.
But Peter hadn’t the faintest idea what sort of woman she was when he asked her to marry him.
“Even to be a duchess?”
Ophelia frowned. “I’m perfectly comfortable as I am, Maddie.”
Her cousin sighed. “It’s true that I can’t imagine you in such an elevated role. It would be like hearing that the baker had been knighted.”
“Maddie!” Ophelia protested. “I’m hardly a baker.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll set him straight,” her cousin said. “You’d better leave unless you want to refuse him yourself; Lady Persell caught his arm, but he’ll be heading this direction again in a moment.”
Ophelia definitely did not want to encounter the duke. The man looked like a hunter, strolling across the ballroom in that pink coat, pretending to be a gentleman, which he wasn’t.
He absolutely was not.
She didn’t know why she was so sure of that, but she was. The Duke of Lindow was a nobleman, in the old-fashioned sense of the term. He probably had vassals, serfs, a county of his own, and an escutcheon.
She gave Maddie a brisk kiss and set out for the door. After a moment she sped up, practically diving toward the entrance to the ballroom. It almost seemed as if she could feel his approach like a warm wind at her back, even though that made no sense.
Just as she turned so she could squeeze between two groups of gossiping peers without her panniers bumping them, a hand closed around her elbow.
She felt the shock of his touch through her entire body.
“Yes?” she said, turning. She managed to keep her tone cool. What she saw in the Duke of Lindow’s eyes made her raise an eyebrow. “You must have mistaken me for someone else,” she said, her tone almost kindly.
No one had ever looked at her, at Ophelia, like that. Not even Peter.
Perhaps Lindow thought she was a girl he had loved in his youth.
“I am not mistaken,” the duke replied. His eyes were a dark, dark green, the color of spruce trees when they stood vividly against the snow.
His voice startled her because it was deeper than she would have thought. Like a bear’s growl. In fact, he looked like a bear emerging from a winter’s sleep, she thought irrelevantly. Coming into the world and looking for a nice rabbit to eat.
She was not a rabbit for any man’s consumption. She had no need of a husband, and no desire for a lover either. Still less did she want to nurture a flock of motherless children, no matter how sad that was.
Given that her own cousin thought of her as a baker, people would know exactly why he was courting her—to turn her into a glorified governess.
“Excuse me,” she said, allowing impatience to leak into her voice. Then she gently pulled her arm from his grasp and walked away.
Behind her, a moment of silence.
And then, to her horror, a shout of laughter.
Chapter Three
She was a delight. Hugo’s heart was pounding in his chest in a way it hadn’t for years.
Nineteen years, to be exact.
When he had walked into a drawing room in Windsor Castle and had seen Marie being fanned by a couple of impertinent puppies babbling nonsense and making her laugh. His future wife, his first wife, had been reclining on a sofa, a perfect lady from the tips of her scarlet shoes to the top of her extravagant, pearl-bedecked hair.
Marie was the one young lady whom every bachelor in London—and most of the married men as well—wanted for his own. She was a minx who delighted in every flirtatious glance and trill of laughter.
Remembering her made Hugo feel a nostalgic flash of love for those heady days. He had known from the moment he entered that room that he had to have her.
This lady was Marie’s opposite. She didn’t look as if she indulged in flirtations. No, she looked fierce, like a warrior, a curvy, beautiful warrior blessed with masses of red hair. She’d powdered it as fashion demanded, but only lightly.
He made his way over to the woman who had been accompanying the lady before she ran out the door as if the Hounds of Hell were after her. “Who is she?” he asked, without preamble.
A hint of defiance showed in the woman’s eyes. “Your Grace,” she said, dropping into a curtsy.
For Christ’s sake. All the same, he bowed and then lifted her hand to his lips. “Good evening, my lady. I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. I believe we haven’t met.”
“You are acquainted with my husband, Lord Penshallow,” she said.
&nb
sp; A tiresome fellow with a propensity to brag about his amorous activities. Hugo felt a dart of sympathy for the lady, but that was neither here nor there. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Penshallow,” he said. “I wonder if you could give me the name of the woman you were accompanying a moment ago.”
Her brows drew together. “You do not know who she is?”
Hugo’s gut clenched. Was she married? It had never occurred to him. A raw feeling swept through his chest at the idea that she belonged to another man.
“Is she married?” he asked, knowing his voice rumbled from his chest.
“So you don’t know who she is,” Lady Penshallow said, looking confused. “No, Phee is not married.”
“Excellent,” Hugo said, gentling his voice. “I’m glad to hear it.” That was an understatement. Fee. What could that possibly be short for? Fidelia? No: Phoebe! Of course. But no Phoebes came to mind.
“I thought you had heard about her,” the lady continued.
He shook his head. “I have no idea who she is.”
“My cousin is a respectable widow,” Lady Penshallow announced. Then she lowered her voice. “She is not looking for a dalliance, and you do her no favors by singling her out in such an obvious fashion.”
Few men and even fewer women dared to defy him, so Hugo smiled at her. “You are very loyal.”
“She is also uninterested in a husband, so you needn’t waste your time,” Lady Penshallow explained with a shrug. There was a hint of warmth at the backs of her eyes that suggested that she would have no objection if he cared to waste his time with her. “She was very fond of her husband, and only emerged from mourning in the last few months. In fact, this is her first excursion into society, and as you saw, she chose to return home early.”
“Does she have children?” Lindow Castle was a huge pile of stone that could absorb another baker’s dozen of youngsters, and no one would know the difference.
“She is a wonderful mother,” the lady said, watching him carefully. “She left before the dinner dance so that she won’t be too sleepy when my goddaughter wakes in the morning. At five a.m.”
His mouth eased into a smile. She was a mother. A real mother, the kind Marie had been. The kind he had hoped to find for his boys when he married Yvette, except he had been so appallingly wrong.
My Last Duchess Page 2