My Last Duchess, стр. 7

Night had fallen. Linkboys were milling about in front of the house and running between carriages, their flaming torches heldhigh, biting circles into the darkness. Snowflakes were falling lazily into the patches of light, as if the white fluff poppedinto existence when light met the dark air.

Ophelia was nowhere in sight, which meant her coachman had escorted her to her carriage—but he doubted the vehicle had goneanywhere. Traffic was at a standstill; two coachmen had descended from their perches and were shouting about a scratched sidepanel.

Which carriage might she be in? To his left were three commodious family carriages, the doors picked out with crests. Shewouldn’t be found in one of those. Sir Peter Astley had been a baronet, not a peer.

If there was an elegant barouche, it would have gone to the heir, not to the widow. His brows drew together as he realizedthat many a young widow, especially one who hadn’t given birth to a male heir, might find herself in financial straits. Rationalthought quickly asserted itself.

Ophelia had been wearing emeralds, and a dress his sister called a sack gown. It had glowed in the candlelight of the ballroom,glittering with gold thread, but more importantly, with flowers. Hand-painted flowers on French silk.

Louisa owned one gown made of hand-painted silk, the fabric imported from France. Characteristically, Louisa’s was brightwith poppies. Ophelia’s gown had been painted all over with charming flower sprigs. It didn’t call attention to itself, andyet it must have been wildly expensive.

His heart eased. His lady wasn’t worried about money. In fact, she must be swimming in guineas.

Good for Sir Peter. He had died, leaving his wife and baby girl behind, but he’d made certain that they were comfortable,cared for.

There were four carriages to his right. One of them belonged to the Dowager Duchess of Windebank. Two were hired rigs andone . . .

That was it.

It was small but exquisite, made of rich bronze-colored wood and fashioned with three windows to a side. The carriage bodylooked like a delicate egg trimmed in strands of twisted brass, the body painted with bluebirds.

It was absurd, and absurdly lovely. It suited her, down to its curves.

It wasn’t moving and wouldn’t until those coachmen stopped their squabble.

Without haste, he walked toward it, his shoes splashing into the sludge on the streets; the first layer of snowflakes hadalready melted. Delicate silk curtains were drawn across the windows, and a soft glow from the inside told him that Opheliahad lit the carriage lamps.

As he grew closer, he made out her silhouette. She was leaning back against the cushions, reading a book. Hugo paused fora moment, savoring his reaction to finding her.

His life had jerked to a halt with Marie’s death. In the years since, he took care of the estate, went through the motionsof being married to Yvette, tried to be the best father he could to the children.

But now, unexpectedly, strangely, with no more than the sight of a tantalizing woman . . .

His heart was thumping in a rhythm he’d forgotten.

Feeling the prickle of eyes on him, he looked up and discovered that her coachman was watching him closely. The man lookedlike a good fellow, strong and loyal, with the tenacity and skill to fight off anyone who threatened his lady’s well-being.

A groom in livery was perched behind, his gaze as hard-eyed as the coachman’s.

Hugo tilted his head in a silent question.

After a moment, the coachman nodded, so Hugo sprang up beside him. The conversation took longer than he would have thoughtand necessitated pulling his sword out of its sheath, displaying the ducal crest set into the hilt, and finally handing itover.

They had moved approximately three carriage lengths down the street before Hugo leapt down again, having made it clear toMr. Bisquet that, if she agreed, the lady was to become a duchess.

If she rejected him, he meant her no harm.

Now he just had to persuade the lady herself.