“No need,” she said. She reached back and pulled forward a wide hood, big enough that it went up and over her hair before falling down to frame her head in a border of fluffy white fur.
He cleared his throat. It wouldn’t be appropriate to kiss her again, just because she looked so adorable dressed for winter. “The good news is that the wind has let up,” he told her instead. “But snow is still falling.”
“I’m almost ready.”
He jammed the tricorne onto his head, leaving his damp wig on the coach seat. Ophelia tucked her book into an inside pocket of her cloak and tied the ribbons under her chin. He unhooked the lantern that lit the inside of the vehicle and pushed open the door.
Outside, the snow was swirling in the air, and the sounds of London had receded, muffled as if the air itself had thickened, each breath turning to a thousand flakes.
Bisquet had positioned the mounting block before the carriage door, precisely as if the vehicle wasn’t listing to one side. Ophelia took Hugo’s hand and stepped out of the carriage as gracefully as a cat hopping from a chair. She looked at the mound of snow surrounding the mounting block and laughed again.
“My slippers aren’t suited for this weather.” She held out a foot, and Hugo looked down at an impossibly small foot clad in cream silk with fashionable flaps crossed in front, and the whole embroidered with sprigs of flowers.
“I won’t let you touch the ground,” he promised.
They stood in a pool of light lit by the torch Bisquet had left behind, its light protected from the snow by a neat little tin hat. Hugo hooked the lantern that usually hung inside next to the torch. He hadn’t let go of her hand. They both wore gloves, but he still loved curling his fingers around hers.
God, I’ve fallen so deep, he thought suddenly, with a moment of blinding clarity. Then he shook it off because his lady was standing in falling snow.
Laughing. She was looking about with obvious joy, and laughing.
His skin came alive with primal, raw hunger, as well as bewildered gratitude. The sensible man he’d been before he walked into the ballroom was gone.
This new Hugo pulled his lady into his arms so suddenly that her eyes flew to his in surprise. There were snowflakes caught on her eyelashes, melting on her lips. He covered her laughing mouth with his, dazzled by the flash of cold followed by heat. Her mouth was sweet and wet, and threw him instantly into a flush of sensual hunger such as he’d had—
He pushed that thought away.
No comparisons. Ever.
The world had given him so many blessings, and he had thought never to have one of this magnitude again.
She tasted like snow. Their tongues met and twisted around each other, danced an ancient measure. His heart thudded in his chest, making his breath shudder and his hands tighten around her.
Ophelia had kissed him in the carriage. But now, with the snow swirling over their heads, she was fire and ice at once. She submitted to him and owned him all at once. When she drew back, moments later, he felt remade.
As different from his usual self as the white trees, the white carriage path, the white mound that was her little carriage. The one he would beg her to give up because its perch was too fragile to carry such precious cargo.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
She was smiling up at him, still arched against him, allowing her hand to rest in the hollow of his back.
“I’m happy,” he said, hearing wonder in his voice with a touch of embarrassment. “Gentlemen aren’t supposed to experience an emotion so juvenile.”
“Happy Hugo?” she asked, laughing.
He snorted. “My given name is reason enough for never admitting to such a foolish emotion.” He let her go and turned to the horse. Bisquet had cut the lead to use as reins and thrown a blanket over the animal. A layer of snow already covered the blanket.
The coachman had also left a brass lantern hooked to the bridle. Hugo checked, but it was no more than pleasantly warm against the horse’s shoulder. The gelding snorted and twitched its ears.
“I’m going to pull off that blanket and put you straight up on his back before snow settles.”
At her nod, he whipped off the blanket and lifted her up, taking care to make sure that she was well-seated, her cloak tucked around her skirts. “Sidesaddle is absurd,” he muttered. “Not that we have a saddle.”
“I have too many skirts to sit any other way,” she pointed out. “Are you going to snuff the torch and lantern?”
“No, I’ll leave them burning, in case someone tools along in the snow and doesn’t see the downed vehicle until it’s too late.”
Keeping the reins in his hand, he stepped on the mounting block and vaulted onto the horse behind her, his right arm going around Ophelia to steady her. She put a hand on his chest and smiled up at him, and he changed his mind about sidesaddle.
If she had been seated astride before him, he couldn’t have seen her face.
“We merely need to make our way through Hyde Park,” he told her.
“This is so improper,” Ophelia said a moment later, as they rode out of the circle of torchlight, leaving the carriage behind them. Their lantern cast a pale light by comparison, though the snow reflected every ray with the glint of diamonds.
Hugo pulled her close and felt an indescribable satisfaction when she relaxed against him. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said, trying to distract himself from imagining her leaning against him naked. “All the hedges look like puffed-up pillows.”
“Or large ladies huddling under rabbit-fur cloaks.”
“My daughter Betsy loves fairy tales,” he said, forgetting his sister’s admonishment not to mention his children under any circumstances. “Last week, she told me that snowflakes are fairies in little slippers that spin over the church steeple and don’t come down until they’re tired.”
“How old is she?”
“She is four years old, almost five. She can already read,” he said proudly. “Her brothers were much slower learning to talk, and Alexander—my youngest son, who’s three—still speaks mostly in short sentences. But Betsy could instruct Parliament in its duties.”
“My daughter, Viola, is two,” Ophelia said. “I’m not precisely sure what she should be saying, but she’s mastered a few words.”
“My Joan is two as well and she doesn’t say a word,” Hugo told her. “Nothing to worry about.”
Chapter Six
Ophelia adjusted her hood so that she could look up at the duke. He didn’t appear to be trying to impress her by telling her stories about his children. Most aristocrats didn’t speak of their children with easy familiarity and pride.
She had the distinct impression that this particular duke would never try to impress a lady. Perhaps no duke would bother. The title was enough to make the female half of the population simper and beg for a ring.
That thought was souring, but he was giving her a lopsided grin. “Betsy is the most talkative of my children.” A guarded look went through his eyes. “Damn it, I forgot. My sister told me not to mention them.”
Laughter bubbled up in her. “The children?”
He nodded. “No talk of children while courting a lady. Please forget that I said anything about Betsy.”
“I haven’t given you permission to court me,” she pointed out. “Although I do like children.”
His hand tightened around her waist. “I couldn’t have imagined being so lucky as to meet you. We are courting, Ophelia.”
Ophelia felt as if the white-topped trees of Hyde Park had drawn closer as the horse stepped forward, the sound of its shoes lost in the soft blanket that covered the path. Snow was still falling thickly into the tall trees around them, creating a chilly boudoir, a private refuge in the middle of England’s largest city.
They had kissed twice: in the carriage and the snow. Those were the duke’s—Hugo’s—kisses. Now she curled her gloved hand around his right hand, the one that held the reins.
He pulled up, givi
ng the horse a soft command. It came to a halt, and then even the soft clip-clop of its hooves was gone and the only sound was the gentle swish of branches bracing themselves against white blankets.
“I feel as if time has stopped,” His Grace said, the words a deep rumble from his chest.
“I’m not marrying you,” Ophelia said, peaceful with the decision. “I’m going to kiss you because, as you said, this is a time stolen from our ordinary lives. And you kissed me twice.”
“Which means you owe me two kisses?” he prompted hopefully.
“I haven’t kissed anyone since Peter died. I didn’t even think about that.” How could she have let the moment go without noticing, without marking it, without a silent apology to Peter?
The duke nodded, his eyes dark. “After Marie died, I thought I’d never kiss another woman.”
“But you did.”
A rueful look crossed his eyes. “In the second year, I got drunk one night, and found myself in the arms of a cheerful barmaid.”
Ophelia couldn’t help her spurt of laughter. “The barmaid and the duke!”
“Oh, she had no idea who I was. I dropped into a public house with friends. She was friendly and warm, and she coaxed a frozen man back into life.”
“I’m not frozen,” Ophelia said.
“We men are stupid,” he said, his shoulders shifting, uncomfortable with the subject. “I couldn’t bear the pain of it when Marie died. I . . .” He sighed. “I was very young and passionate. I vaguely wanted to be Romeo to her Juliet—though she hadn’t taken her own life but succumbed to a chill—but I had children. And a ferocious will to live. What I did instead was turn myself to stone.”
“Stone?”
Ophelia leaned against his shoulder so she could see his eyes.
“Walking about, not really alive.”
“Ah.”
He shook his head. “You weren’t nearly as mad, were you?”
She took a deep breath and decided to tell the truth. “It sounds as if you loved Marie in a different . . . as if you had a . . . Peter and I were enormously fond of each other.”
His eyelashes closed for a moment, and the sound that came from his chest sounded like—like relief? Surely not.
“I loved him, of course,” she added. “He was Viola’s father and he would have adored her. I see him in her every day.”
“I tell myself that if Marie hadn’t died, I would have been a good father to the three boys she and I had together,” His Grace said thoughtfully, “but I’m not certain. I might have followed the path of least resistance, like my parents and all my friends, and just seen the boys a few times a year.”
The snowy silence felt as if it compelled truth. “I might have done the same. I know that Peter would have insisted on attending social functions every night as soon as I was in full health.”
“Mourning sent me into the nursery,” Hugo said, nodding.
Ophelia lifted up her face and finally remembered what she meant to do when she silently asked him to stop the horse in the midst of a snowy forest. “A kiss,” she whispered huskily.
His eyes lit.
“Not marriage,” she reminded him. But her lips had reached his, and the slow slide of her tongue against his made her shiver, her hand closing around the chilly wool of his greatcoat.
The snow had no intent; it fell here or there without volition. But the two bodies straining together, warm mouths, clinging arms . . . There was a ferocious intent in them.
Ophelia felt her limbs weaken and desire riot through her until she whimpered into his mouth and moved restlessly on the horse’s broad back, her legs tingling, her flesh tender and longing for caresses.
“I want you,” the man kissing her growled.
Peter never growled. He wouldn’t have known how. But somehow, she found herself kissing a man whose growl came naturally from his broad chest. She was in uncharted territory, Ophelia thought dimly.
If she stayed with this man, this duke, her peaceful, quiet life would never be the same. The cheerful tenor of days spent in the nursery would change.
He would want her with him, during the day. During the night.
She and Peter hadn’t shared a bedchamber; the idea was inconceivable. She had the strong feeling that this duke wouldn’t consider living any other way.
His mouth slanted down over hers, hunger speaking to her in the brush of his chilly cheek against hers.
“Getting cold,” she murmured sometime later. It wasn’t true. She felt like a torch in his arms, as if she were burning in every pore. She could tumble into the snow and it would all melt beneath her.
She didn’t know what she wanted from him: but she did know one thing. In the wake of Peter’s death . . . this warmth was precious.
Worth chasing, preserving, exploring.
That low sound he made?
She wanted more of that.
“Did you say you’re cold?” he asked suddenly, a kiss later. His voice grated like gravel underfoot.
“Mmm,” Ophelia said. He pulled back, but that was all right. There was the enticing smooth skin of his neck, a powerful neck with a man’s sinews and a man’s strength under her lips.
He shifted, said something to the horse, and they were off again.
“Your hat is covered with snow,” she said, giggling.
Even with only the light from the dim lantern, she could tell that his eyes were burning hot.
“It’s too cold and snowy for you to go home tonight,” she added.
She felt his reaction in his body, through her dress and cloak, and his shirt, waistcoat, coat, greatcoat . . .
He jolted.
“You could stay at my house if you wished,” she whispered. Between them, a snowflake spiraled down twisting in the air, melting as it reached their warm breaths.
“I do wish,” he stated.
Their eyes locked. She was unnerved by the invitation she had issued. Unnerved by the kisses she had given him. Unnerved by the images going through her head: the duke without clothes. Those broad shoulders bending over her as she lay on her back, quivering all over. This desire was scorching.
It was madness.
Blissful madness.
“My invitation does not mean marriage.”
Silence.
Then, “In that case, I’m not certain I should stay the night, Ophelia. To my mind, bedding means marriage.”
“The barmaid?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“I didn’t bed her. She sat on my lap, kissed me a few times, and ran off to take care of other tables.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips past hers. “Even drunk, I managed to remember that I had a family waiting at home.”
She dragged her hands down over taut muscles, thinking about men she’d seen working in fields of wheat. Men who weren’t peers. Men who had brawny chests and muscled thighs.
The idea of going to bed with him was terrifying. And fabulous.
“I’ll spend the night with you, Ophelia, but I won’t make love to you until you promise to marry me.”
She made a disappointed sound before she could stop herself.
He laughed, a joyful noise that echoed off oak trees muffled in snow.
“You’re probably right,” she said, straightening her back and wrinkling her nose at him. “I have never had the ambition to become a fallen woman.” She couldn’t stop smiling, because she had the first inklings of that ambition in the last hour, and he knew it.
They rode out of the last line of trees, into the street. A linkboy ran toward them, inadequately dressed, and fell in at the horse’s head, leading the way with his torch.
Another block and they would be home. Halfway, Bisquet came trundling down the street holding another torch, followed by two grooms.
Ophelia let male voices rise around her, the sounds urgent and yet peaceful. There was nothing men liked better than a small emergency. An obstacle that was easily overcome.
When the duke leapt off and then turned, his arms open
, she slid down into his embrace, knowing that Bisquet was watching. Her grooms were there too, eyes wide.
Hugo didn’t care, even though he felt Ophelia’s body stiffen infinitesimally. He turned and began walking toward her house with her in his arms, holding her and her skirts, and her cloak, and her huge muff.
“I can walk,” she said, nestled against his chest like an extraordinarily bedraggled bird.
“I like carrying you.”
“I can see a star,” she breathed, a few steps later.
He tipped his head back. “I see chimneys and snow.”
“It’s there. The snow is stopping.”
Up the stairs to an excellent townhouse: Sir Peter had left his wife more than comfortable. Hugo spared another charitable thought for the man and pushed it away.
A stout butler with anxious eyes stood with the door open. Ophelia was obviously surrounded by good servants, which said a great deal for her. Hugo smiled. “Good evening. As you can see, I have your mistress safe and sound, if wet and cold.”
“Fiddle,” Ophelia said, “this is the Duke of Lindow. We are going to put him up for the night.”
“Yes, madam,” the butler murmured, bowing low.
“Good evening, Fiddle,” Hugo said. He strode into the spacious entry and put Ophelia on her feet. The next few moments were taken up by the removal of layers of damp clothing. His greatcoat had held off most of the water, but Ophelia’s velvet cloak was soaked through.
A maid took her up the stairs, and he followed the butler, who was solemnly offering a bath.
“I’ll send a groom to your townhouse to inform them that you are here, Your Grace. Roberts can serve as your man,” the butler said, gesturing to a young footman. “I shall have your clothing cleaned, pressed, and returned to you by morning. Would you like a light repast after your bath?”
“Yes.”
Hugo had just made an unwelcome discovery.
This wasn’t his house. If Ophelia wished to sleep with him, she’d have to come to him. There was nothing he could do about it.
He was not a man who liked to be at another person’s mercy. But it was Ophelia, he reminded himself. He was at her mercy in more ways than one.
My Last Duchess Page 5