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Her heart was pounding so ferociously, she wondered if he could hear it.

Surely he didn’t know who she was.

Did he?

No, he couldn’t. How would he? No one had any inkling, save the founders of the Wicked Dukes Society and Aphrodite.

Prestwick sauntered toward her, already anticipating her answer, it seemed. No doubt any other woman in her place would welcome his presence and attentions both. His reputation certainly suggested so. Ophelia was more than aware of the number of beautiful women who were rumored to have been his lovers.

She had to think. How would a lady, seasoned by clandestine assignations, ordinarily conduct herself? She wouldn’t run, that much was certain, even if it was precisely what Ophelia longed to do.

“Take the air with me if it pleases you,” she said lightly, struggling with all her might to appear unaffected.

An almost impossible feat, that. Her rapidly beating pulse called her a liar. As did the heat sweeping through her body at Prestwick’s proximity.

A softer smile pulled up the corners of his lips as he drew to a halt beside her, one that was more genuine and intimate. “It pleases me well enough. The company within is rather dull, I find.”

There was nothing at all dull happening within the walls behind her. Rather, it was decidedly shocking and wild, and they had only just begun. But then, perhaps to a man as accustomed to sensual revelries as he, it was woefully boring in comparison to the many similar revelries he had no doubt attended.

“I am dismayed to hear it was the company within that compelled you to join me in the gardens and not my presence alone,” she said and then hastily inwardly berated herself for flirting with him.

What was she thinking?

She hadn’t been thinking.

Just as she had not been thinking when she had agreed to take on this role. It was dangerous, foolish, reckless, being hostess to a wicked house party. It was the kind of ruin she couldn’t invite, given the scrutiny she continually faced from Lord Timothy. Thank heavens Aphrodite had allowed Ophelia to use her as an excuse for her absence.

Still, she had been wholly unprepared for what it would truly entail. But she also desperately needed the funds to be earned by taking it on, she reminded herself sternly—thousands of pounds to be had, and all for this small role. When her husband had died, she had been left with almost nothing to sustain herself and the children, his heavy debts weighing upon them.

Prestwick’s smile deepened into a roguish grin once more, jolting her from her ruminations. “As I cannot possibly bear the weight of your dismay upon my conscience, I will confess. I followed you out here.”

Her breath quickened at his admission. “You did?”

“I did.” He slanted a look in her direction that might have incinerated her entire gown had his stare been made of flame. “How could I possibly resist the chance for a moment alone with you, with a sunset to rival your beauty in the distance?”

She swallowed hard and recalled that Prestwick didn’t know to whom he was speaking. He would never utter such rakish platitudes to her. They had crossed paths over the years, often at his country seat, and he had always been the soul of politeness. He had never offered her even so much as a roving gaze.

Why did he have to be so near to her now? Every part of her was frightfully aware of him.

“You, sir, are a flatterer,” she observed without heat, taking a small step to her side to put some distance between them.

But Prestwick followed, closing the gap again, close enough that his trousers brushed her silk skirts. Thank heavens the modiste her friend Kingham had recommended had been able to replenish Ophelia’s meager wardrobe in time for the house party, all at a cost covered by the Wicked Dukes Society.

She fanned herself again, still feeling overly warm despite her escape into the fresh air. But the motion only served to flood her senses with Prestwick’s scent, some diabolically divine combination of citrus and pine. She wanted to breathe him in and never exhale.

“Hardly,” he denied, studying her instead of the horizon. “The sunset is no match.”

She agreed. She couldn’t look away from him. His half mask was black silk to match his evening coat. With his dark hair and the shadow of whiskers on his jaw, he was part nobleman, part highwayman. If he had halted her carriage, she would have been tempted to surrender more than just her jewelry to him.

But she had to remember that these were practiced words from a talented seducer, and she needed to remain unaffected.

“I am wearing a mask,” she pointed out wryly.

His blue gaze dipped to her lips. “The mask cannot hide your luscious mouth.”

An ache blossomed deep within her, swelling. Was this how it felt to be someone who was free? Perhaps more importantly, to be someone who was desired? She couldn’t recall Corbett ever looking at her with such blatant, unabashed longing.

Ophelia licked her lips, feeling a new part of herself come to life. “Again, you flatter me.”