My Last Duchess, стр. 12
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 realizedhow 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 onthe 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 consciousvolition. He was grinning like a fourteen-year-old fool, and he didn’t even care.
“Your Grace,” Ophelia 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, gigglingwoman.
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 blazedthrough 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 hometo 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 falloff.”
“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 andleaned forward, about to put it over her head so it would keep the snow from drifting onto her pile of hair.
“No need,” she said. She reached back and pulled forward a wide hood, big enough that it went up and over her hair beforefalling 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 pocketof her cloak and tied the ribbons under her chin. He unhooked the lantern that lit the inside of the vehicle and pushed openthe 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 moundof 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 incream 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 littletin hat. Hugo hooked the lantern that usually hung inside next to the torch. He hadn’t let go of her hand. They both woregloves, 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 walkedinto 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 caughton 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