My Last Duchess, стр. 6

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 puppiesbabbling nonsense and making her laugh. His future wife, his first wife, had been reclining on a sofa, a perfect lady fromthe 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 wasa 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 thatroom 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 Hellwere 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 ata disadvantage. I believe we haven’t met.”

“You are acquainted with my husband, Lord Penshallow,” she said.

A tiresome fellow with a propensity to brag about his amorous activities. Hugo felt a dart of sympathy for the lady, but thatwas neither here nor there. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Penshallow,” he said. “I wonder if you could give me the nameof 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 thatshe 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 wasa hint of warmth at the backs of her eyes that suggested that she would have no objection if he cared to waste his time withher. “She was very fond of her husband, and only emerged from mourning in the last few months. In fact, this is her firstexcursion 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, andno 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 betoo 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 forhis boys when he married Yvette, except he had been so appallingly wrong.

“My cousin has no wish to take care of another woman’s children,” the lady continued. “Perhaps you will forgive my observationthat you have too many of them. And as I said, she has no wish to marry again.”

Over her shoulder, half the ballroom was gaping at them, fascinated. They’d missed his real intention; they thought he wasflirting with this elegant young wife. Lord Penshallow was undoubtedly watching from somewhere.

He stepped backward and bowed. “I wish you good evening, Lady Penshallow. I’m afraid that, like your cousin, I must leavebefore the dinner dance. Perhaps you will dance with me another time.” He felt a primitive desire to get out the doors beforehis lady managed to run away from him.

That’s what she was doing.

Running.

She had taken one look at him from under those absurdly long eyelashes and headed for the ballroom door. That meant she feltsomething. Maybe not the same thing he did—not the same jolt of absolute certainty—but something.

He could work with it.

A butler, resplendent in red livery, handed him his greatcoat. The man was dignified, but given his raisin-sized eyes, nottoo dignified for a bribe. A moment later, Hugo had a name.

Ophelia, Lady Astley, the widow of Sir Peter Astley.

He turned it over in his head. Ophelia. One of Shakespeare’s heroines, and a melancholy one, if he had the play right. This Ophelia wasn’t melancholy. Her eyeswere intelligent and fiery; he’d bet anything she had a temper that would blaze as hot as her hair.

He walked through the door and saw with satisfaction that the street was just as snarled in carriages as it had been fortyminutes ago. Carriages were taking a half hour to traverse the street before the house.

When he arrived, he had jumped out and walked, telling his coachman that he would make his own way home later. Other guestsremained in their carriages like a line of patient cows waiting to be milked. Likely some of them