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For a moment, she thought he might reach for her. Ophelia found herself swaying toward him, like a plant chasing the rays of the sun. But then he stayed where he was, his smile laden with something that looked an awful lot like regret.

“I should go,” she said hesitantly, hating to leave him here and yet knowing she didn’t dare linger.

He glanced up at the glass ceiling overhead. “Fortunately, it looks as if it was just a few passing clouds. I do believe the rain is beginning to slow.”

“Fortunately, yes,” she echoed. “I shall see you later, sir. At dinner, perhaps.”

In truth, she planned to be as far away from him as possible, but she had no intention of admitting the effect he had upon her aloud.

He inclined his head. “Until then, my lady.”

She wrapped his coat back around her shoulders, feeling foolish and awkward. Her heart yet pounded, and everything simmering within her wanted nothing more than to remain in the orangery and bask in his attentions. But she couldn’t. Ophelia had learned long ago that a woman’s primary duty was to be selfless. First as a daughter and sister, putting the needs of her family before her own, then later as a wife, placing the husband foremost. Finally, as a mother, placing her children before all else. She had spent her life sacrificing for those she loved and even a few she didn’t.

Without another word, she fled the orangery, leaving Prestwick where she’d left him amidst the lush hothouse blooms. She had disappointed him as much as she had herself, but it was for the best. He could pursue another lady of his choosing. Ophelia was setting him free, like a beautiful butterfly that would wing away from the gardens and never return.

“We’ll have a bit of a rest, gentlemen,” purred the masked lady who had chosen to be the dealer for vingt-et-un that evening. “I’ll return in one quarter hour. Don’t get into too much trouble before you come back to me, now.”

Her golden curls were swept up in an intricate coiffure, her breasts were all but spilling from her bodice, and she had a mouth that no doubt half the men seated round the table were presently imagining fucking.

But her lush beauty, like everything else that had happened since the orangery was lost upon him.

So close.

Apollo had been so bloody close to having Ophelia’s lips on his.

But he had sensed the moment she had changed her mind. It had been as if she had instantly bricked up a wall between them and he’d been left unceremoniously on the other side, with no hope of getting in.

He had retreated, even if doing so had nearly killed him.

His fellow houseguests seated at the vingt-et-un table chortled and rose, most of them going their separate ways. Apollo remained where he was, grateful for the opportunity to brood into his whisky.

“You seem distracted, old chap.”

The dry observation at his right pulled him from his frustrated musings and back into the present.

He turned to his good friend Malcolm Holland, Duke of Wrighton, who had arrived at the house party as he did most society events—fashionably late that evening, after dinner. “Is this not the place for distraction? I confess, I thought it was why we had all come here.”

Mal regarded him with a raised brow, looking distinctly unamused. “You just lost for the fifth time. If you carry on in this vein, you’ll have naught left but a name to give your firstborn child.”

Blast. Had he lost again? Apollo glanced down at the table and discovered that he had indeed been bested by another. But he couldn’t bring himself to care about the loss of funds. He wasn’t a gambler by any means. He never wagered more than he could afford to lose, which was the cardinal rule of gambling, aside from not wagering anything at all.

“As I have no intention of having a child, I am free to squander every last ha’penny my father left behind,” he drawled. “How fortunate for me.”

“What of your mother and your sister?” Mal asked, frowning. “Never say you would willingly cast the both of them into penury.”

“I can afford to lose what I did this evening many times over, and you know it. Why do you rake me over the coals?”

His friend’s expression turned abashed. “Would you believe it’s boredom?”

He studied Mal with a critical eye. “I think not.”

Mal sighed with dramatic flair. “Pray don’t believe it’s because I’ve suddenly developed a conscience or even so much as a hint of compassion, for that would be a dastardly lie. We both know I’m utterly without a soul.”

A reluctant half grin turned up one corner of his mouth. “Rest assured that I would never do something so foolish as believing you capable of acting with honor.”

“Thank you, old chum. Can always count on you for a kind word.”

Apollo grinned fully. “I return the favor readily. Now, then. Tell me why you are truly fretting over my losses.”