My Last Duchess, стр. 15

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 tobecome a fallen woman.” She couldn’t stop smiling, because she had the first inklings of that ambition in the last hour, andhe knew it.

They rode out of the last line of trees, into the street. A linkboy ran toward them, inadequately dressed, and fell in atthe 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 twogrooms.

Ophelia let male voices rise around her, the sounds urgent and yet peaceful. There was nothing men liked better than a smallemergency. 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 housewith 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 charitablethought 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 agreat 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 weretaken up by the removal of layers of damp clothing. His greatcoat had held off most of the water, but Ophelia’s velvet cloakwas 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 butlersaid, gesturing to a young footman. “I shall have your clothing cleaned, pressed, and returned to you by morning. Would youlike 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 aboutit.

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 inmore ways than one.

He took a bath and ate an excellent meal, bundled in a warm wrapper, sitting by a crackling fire. The butler withdrew, takingthe footman with him, and the house fell into silence.

It had to be two in the morning. He pulled open the curtains. Below his window a streetlamp shone through the snow, anothersign of Sir Peter’s care for his property and his family. Streetlamps were still unusual, though he had the feeling that oneday London streets would be lined with them. Snow still fell but lighter now, drifting and spinning rather than tumbling down.

He turned from the window, leaving the curtains open so that the room was lit with a soft, romantic glow, an excellent settingfor a seduction, if only a lady would join him. The bed was laid out in fine linen that smelled faintly of lemons and starch.The mattress was comfortable. A warming pan had taken the chill from the sheets.

It had everything to make a guest happy—except for one thing.

Which explained why he lay awake, staring into space, hoping.

Ophelia didn’t want to be a duchess, and he didn’t blame her. He had too damned many children, and yet he couldn’t bear theidea that even one might not have existed—and that included his orphaned ward, Parth.

He would even marry Yvette again, knowing what lay ahead, to have their children.

Just as he was deciding to close his eyes and fight for Ophelia’s hand the next day, the door opened soundlessly.

He slid out of the bed faster than he’d ever done before, threw on his wrapper, and snatched her in his arms as an involuntarygroan escaped his lips. “Bloody hell,” he whispered into her hair, “I feel as if my blood went to a simmer hours ago, andI haven’t calmed down since.”

Ophelia’s hair slipped through his fingers as she tipped back her head. She’d washed out the powder, and damp strands of silkcovered her shoulders.

“I want you,” she whispered. “But perhaps not as a husband. I haven’t decided that yet.”

“Am I on probation?” He wasn’t sure what to think about that. His body had no doubts. He could seduce her, bind her to him,show her the pleasures of making love, because it was possible that Sir Peter had not.

The ethical side of him didn’t feel happy about seduction without marriage.

“I’m a widow, Hugo,” she said, her eyes crinkling into a smile. “I can bed whomever I wish, and I choose you. Tonight.”

“What if I seduce you into marriage?”

She laughed, the sound lazy and sweet. “Do your worst, Your Grace. Do your worst.”

He had her on the bed in a minute and unwrapped her as carefully as if she were made of the finest china.

And when he realized that she wore nothing under her wrapper?

In strong contention for the best moment of his life.