A soft noise came from Ophelia’s mouth, unbidden.
“Joan is my baby,” the duke said. “She’s only two.” His mouth twisted. “Her mother apparently believed we had baptized her Joanna.”
Before she could stop herself, Ophelia reached out and curled her fingers around his fist. “I’m sorry.”
“They are better off with me, although I don’t know how I will explain to them, when they are grown up, that their mother didn’t want them.”
“I don’t know that you’ll have to,” Ophelia said. “Children are very accepting, as long as someone loves them. My daughter, Viola, has no idea that a father is missing from her life. At some point she will understand that she never knew him, but I hope it won’t be a grievous loss to her.”
“Sir Peter didn’t choose to leave his daughter,” the duke said, sounding tired all of a sudden.
Ophelia withdrew her hand, clearing her throat. “I don’t—”
His Grace bent toward her, his eyes even darker green in the soft light of the carriage than they had seemed in the ballroom. Ophelia froze, her heart hammering in her throat. Carefully, delicately, he cupped his hands on either side of her face, bent his head, and brushed her mouth with his.
Ophelia’s mind stuttered and fell silent. The duke’s eyes were fringed with thick black lashes. They didn’t curl up, the way hers did. Instead she had the feeling they hid his eyes from the world—but not at the moment.
His eyes were shining with an emotion she didn’t recognize.
She swallowed hard. “This is madness.”
“Yes. Love is madness. I’m not in love with you yet, Ophelia, but only because I haven’t had enough time.”
It was that moment that Ophelia realized that the Duke of Lindow—a man clearly used to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, a man whom the world had blessed with beauty, power, and wealth—was truly at her feet.
Metaphorically, because he was sitting beside her and kissing her again. This time, when his mouth brushed hers, her lips parted.
Her breath stopped, and her hands rose of their own volition, flattening themselves against his chest. Through layers of silk his chest felt warm and hard. In that moment when she gasped for breath, his tongue slid into her mouth and an inarticulate male sound, a growl or a rumble, came from his chest.
Ophelia shouldn’t . . . She couldn’t help it. Her tongue met his, curiously. She hadn’t felt desire in well over two years, but it came back to her in a rush, tingling through her veins, growing hotter and hotter.
The kiss didn’t end. She and Peter had kissed each other; of course they had. But not like this. Peter had never devoured her, never kissed her as if time had stopped. The duke’s kiss was a decadent kiss, unhurried, hungry, sensual.
Her heart began thudding in her chest, and under her fingers, the duke’s heart was thudding too. She had the sense they could kiss all night and he wouldn’t complain.
This was a get-to-know-you kiss, which was such a disgraceful thought that Ophelia shook off the erotic haze that had lured her into kissing him back and started to draw away.
“Please?” he asked. His voice rumbled from his chest, soft and dark. His hands shaped her waist and slid up her back. His hands were so large that it felt as if they covered her like a blanket.
Ophelia lost her breath again. She opened her lips and fell back into their kiss, letting it melt her, letting feelings that she’d forgotten unfurl in her body, touching her here and there with fire.
Her breasts woke up, as if she were still nursing. She wrenched her mind away from that thought. It wasn’t just her breasts. Her skin was prickling to life all over, her neck, her legs, her . . .
Everything.
She didn’t even think about what came next, not that there was a “next,” obviously. There was just this kiss, a kiss with a stranger, that was somehow ravenous and affectionate.
That thought shocked her and she pulled away again, sharply.
He let her go instantly, his hands falling away and leaving her back cool and uncaressed. She met his gaze and saw the same surprise in his eyes that she felt. But there was a faint smugness as well.
Confidence.
He thought he had her, because he was so good at kissing. As well he should be, given the number of wives he’d had.
Ophelia took a deep breath. “That was pleasant,” she said, willing her cheeks to stop burning.
“I found it so,” His Grace said amiably.
The smile playing on his lips made her want to scowl at him, but that would be too revealing. “If you would please take your leave—”
As the words left her mouth, she realized that her carriage was swaying back and forth, presumably on its way to her house.
“Your coachman couldn’t block the street, so when I didn’t leave the carriage immediately, he set out.”
Ophelia did scowl. “Don’t read my thoughts. I don’t like it.”
The duke’s laugh was husky, joyful in a masculine way.
“When we reach my house, Bisquet can return you to the ball,” Ophelia said, noticing that the duke had a dimple. A dimple! In that strong face it was like a private jest.
He was so much a duke. It was easy to imagine him bowing before the king in snowy stockings and a powdered wig. She could picture him addressing the House of Lords, or stepping out of his ornate carriage, or doing other ducal things.
But a little dimple? A husky chuckle? Dukes weren’t supposed to have those—nor the mischievous look in his eyes. Not that either.
They weren’t supposed to kneel before plump widows of no particular status. The notion made her feel suddenly vulnerable. It was so tempting to imagine throwing away the propriety, the rules, that had governed her entire life.
No.
Viola’s reputation was tied to her own. She couldn’t have an affaire with a duke no matter how alluring his kisses, and she didn’t wish to marry him. Time to get rid of him.
“It’s been very nice to talk to you,” she said, “but there is nowhere . . .” She stumbled to a halt. “I do not wish to know you further.”
“Not at all?”
She couldn’t read his eyes, but that couldn’t have been a flash of vulnerability—could it?
Or was it certainty: that’s what she saw most clearly. A kind of deep, knowing certainty shining from his eyes. As if he knew something about her that she didn’t.
“No,” she said sharply. “My life is very pleasant. I do not wish to be a duchess. I certainly do not wish to mother six more children.”
“Eight.”
“Eight!” She felt indignation rising up her spine. “No one should have so many children.”
He cocked his head. “The world does seem too small for the number of the bawling, squalling Wildes I have dropped into it. I apologize.”
“You should not marry again,” she said, less severely. “What if you had even more?”
The lines of his face were sharp, almost fierce, and yet they softened into a smile and that dimple appeared again. “I told my twin sister as much.”
Ophelia stared at him in fascination. “You have a sister?” It was hard to imagine a female version of him.
He nodded. “Louisa.”
The carriage was silent except for the rising whine of wind. As if gravel was thrown at the glass, a flurry of snow hit the windows.
He pulled back a flap of her silk curtains. “That came on fast.”
“Has it turned into a snowstorm?” Ophelia frowned and plucked open the curtain at her side. In the light cast by the torches attached to the sides of her carriage, snow swirled thick and glossy. The fairy tale–like fluff that she had glimpsed over the duke’s shoulder when he first joined her had turned into a howling dervish. The carriage was progressing at a crawl.
“Bisquet was concerned about snow,” she confessed. “I don’t live far from Lady Gryffyn’s house, though, just on the other side of Hyde Park.”
“In my experience, coachme
n generally favor staying tucked up in a warm stable feeding their horses hot mash and themselves a hot toddy.” The duke dropped the curtain.
Outside, the sudden storm battered the carriage, and Ophelia knew that if he hadn’t been there, she would have felt rising anxiety, if not pure terror. How would she get home to Viola? What if the carriage overturned?
Instead she felt rosy, hot, and unsure after their kisses. Her stomach clenched, wanting more—more kisses, more caresses, more. That unusual sensation, put together with a wave of anxiety due to the quick-rising storm, made her uncertain and off balance.
The duke looked utterly calm. It was only when she met his eyes that she saw emotion there, and the expression in his gaze had nothing to do with storms. His eyes were fiery with desire held tightly leashed.
“We’re already well into Hyde Park and will arrive at your house in no time.” He sounded so sensible. He couldn’t be trembling, the way she was.
Then he reached out and caught one of her hands and brought it to his lips, and she caught another flare of desire in his eyes.
The storm didn’t unsettle him—but she did. That was a surprisingly satisfying thought.
“Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to relax. Her breath was catching in her chest, but she wasn’t sure whether it was due to the storm or his kisses.
“I might as well point out that there are advantages to having a husband,” His Grace said, his dimple making an appearance.
“Are you planning to clamber out and take the reins?” She didn’t take her hand away. His was comforting, a big male hand that looked capable of anything. “You have calluses on your fingers . . . from driving?”
He nodded, turning her hand over. “Whereas your hand is delicate and pink.”
“A useless hand,” Ophelia said, pulling it away.
But he hung on. “A hand needn’t be scarred to be useful.” His mouth twitched and then he said, “Marie rocked her babes every night. Her hands were not scarred, but they were not frail.”
Ophelia was caught between a sense of danger—he really was looking for a mother for all those children—and elation that he had understood. He wouldn’t scorn her if he knew she rocked Viola to sleep.
Just as that thought went through her mind, the carriage skewed across the road. The duke reached over and plucked her into his lap as easily as she might pick up Viola.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He braced one large foot against the side of the carriage opposite them, and the other on the opposite seat. Ophelia craned her neck sideways to frown at him just as the carriage slipped again.
This time it slid clear across the road.
“We’re likely to lose a wheel,” the duke said in her ear, one arm across her chest like an iron band, the other holding on to the strap.
“A wheel?” she managed, but the crack of splitting wood drowned her voice.
His Grace said one short, brutal curse, not at all dukelike.
The carriage began to list to one side slowly, as if it were a boat on the verge of capsizing. Just when it was about to fall over, it rocked back in the other direction and she heard a crunch as the axle presumably hit the ground. They were tilted, but not upside down.
The door blew open, and, with a theatrical swirl, snow rushed into the carriage.
Ophelia hardly felt it. The duke’s massive body had taken the shock of the carriage rocking, and now he tucked her closer against himself, as if his arms could ward off the winter. The wind caught the door and slammed it shut again.
“We made it,” the duke said, sounding very satisfied. “Your carriage driver, Ophelia, is worth every shilling you pay him.”
“My—what happened?”
“We lost a wheel, but he managed to keep us from toppling on our heads,” His Grace said. “Much though I love the feeling of you in my lap, I’m going to clamber from this carriage so that I can get you out. I don’t like the idea that a fool might be bowling along in the dark and run straight into us before he can stop.”
Ophelia was breathless, terrified, oddly exhilarated at the same time. “I must get home to Viola.” She caught his sleeve as he snatched up his gloves and pulled them on. “I must go home.” It came out like a command, the way no duke was addressed, let alone by an insignificant widow.
He turned, put a hand along her cheek. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”
Ophelia sat back, her heart pounding. There was a horrid tension between her shoulders at the idea of being separated from Viola. At the same time, there was something so sweet in the duke’s eyes that she felt dizzy.
Her cloak had fallen to the floor. He tucked it around her, passed over her gloves, threw open the door, jumped down, and was gone.
Ophelia looked around, dazed. Her pretty, feminine carriage was changed not only by losing a wheel. She felt as if he had—the duke had—invaded it with his smile and his sensuality and his certitude.
She could say his certainty came from being born to a title, but it didn’t. There was a calm confidence that was the essence of the man. It was potent, like strong tea. Not like Peter, though that was a disloyal thought, and she oughtn’t to think it.
Peter would have been as excited and worried as she if this had happened. Their eyes would have met, and they would have known without words that they were feeling a shared terror.
The duke hadn’t felt terror, none at all. She sensed utter calm in the steely strength of his arms, and the rumbling satisfaction in his voice when he said her coachman was worth his wages.
Bisquet would be cross with her; he had protested leaving the house because the sky was lowering. But she had insisted. It was the first invitation she’d accepted since she left off mourning.
She had wanted to arrive in her sparkling, beautiful carriage, wearing a new dress. She hadn’t spared much thought for the hot, crowded ballroom.
But then she’d seen the duke.
And now . . .
There was no point in thinking about it. Instead she thought about the way he smelled, like clean man and snow. A touch of leather and spice.
He tasted good too, faintly like peppermint. The thought of his taste and his kisses lit a spark of fire in her belly again.
The wind picked up and slammed snow against the carriage, but Ophelia had made a deliberate decision not to worry. His Grace would get her home. He wouldn’t let Viola wake up alone.
It might take a few hours, but she would be with her little girl again. The sound of men’s voices shouting came over the sound of the wind.
She wasn’t alone.
If the duke had his way, she would never be alone again. She turned that idea over in her head. Now that he wasn’t in the carriage, she could think more clearly. She truly didn’t want to marry again.
She had enjoyed Peter’s company, but she adored being by herself, doing whatever she wished. No one made demands on her.
Peter had liked to dance and of course she willingly accompanied him everywhere. It wasn’t until he passed away that she realized how happy she was not to spend every evening in a crowded ballroom.
And the duke? She shuddered. One could scarcely imagine the burden of social engagements that he likely had to fulfill.
These days, her time was her own.
Tomorrow, she would be alone again, and happily so.
Chapter Five
Hugo turned his head and shouted a last instruction to John Bisquet, then gently opened the carriage door and climbed inside. Snow came with him, of course, blowing over his shoulder. His wig was matted and wet, so he pulled it off and tossed it on the tilted seat.
Ophelia was tucked in the corner of the carriage, cloak pulled up to her nose, bright eyes examining him over the velvet.
“Hello,” he said, feeling the earth shift again. He wasn’t a smiling man, but the corners of his mouth curled up without conscious volition. He was grinning like a fourteen-year-old fool, and he didn’t even care.
“Your Grace,” Oph
elia said, inclining her head ever so slightly.
She had dignity. He liked that. Honesty made him admit that he’d like her just as much if she was an undignified, giggling woman.
His father had once told him that Wilde men fell in love at first sight and the rule seemed likely to hold true in this case.
The carriage was securely balanced on the snapped axle, so he sat down on the slanted seat. “We’re in the middle of the park, Ophelia.”
“I do not know why you think it’s appropriate to call me by my first name, when we scarcely know each other.”
Dignified—and tart.
“My name is Hugo.”
“That’s irrelevant, Your Grace.”
He laughed, watching as her eyes narrowed—thinking he was mocking her. He would never mock her. Never. The truth of that blazed through him. Not that he had ever mocked anyone.
If someone ever mocked her in his presence, he’d go off like an exploding chestnut.
Ophelia was wearing that exquisite, hand-painted gown, and they were a good walk from her house. “We need to get you home to Viola,” he said.
She nodded, her eyes solemn.
“Bisquet and your groom are taking one horse back to the mews. He reckons that your lead horse can bear both of us easily, and luckily enough, the horse is very calm and won’t mind riders. No saddle, but if you’ll trust me, I won’t let you fall off.”
“All right,” she said, sitting up straight. Her velvet cloak appeared to be trimmed and lined with white rabbit fur.
He choked when she picked up a fluffy round thing that was easily the size of her upper body. “What is that?”
“My muff!”
“Four foxes’ worth?”
“Rabbits,” she corrected. “Rabbits have so plagued my country house that last summer I ordered them at every meal.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “Your muff is the size of a healthy child because your lawns are overrun by rabbits?”
“My muff is enormously fashionable,” she said, but there was a gleam of humor deep in her eyes. “I don’t care for waste.”
Hugo tucked that fact away in his mind. It was an excellent trait for a duchess, of course. He picked up his tricorne and leaned forward, about to put it over her head so it would keep the snow from drifting onto her pile of hair.
My Last Duchess Page 4