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“She did seem quite intent upon winning today,” she said.

“Allow me to guess… Naughty portrait painting was her suggestion?”

Disappointment sliced through her, sharper than a knife. “Yes.”

The duke nodded. “And she was responsible for the rules of the game.”

Ophelia nodded. “Yes, I do suppose she was.”

“As I thought. She also conveniently added a prize I never offered for the winner.”

“This dinner?”

“A private dinner with me, specifically. I had not included myself as the spoils of portrait painting.”

His revelation took Ophelia by surprise. “I thought your machinations were responsible for this dinner, that the prize was your idea.”

A stillness came over her as she considered everything Prestwick had just confided.

He shook his head slowly. “This dinner was your so-called friend’s idea, and because she was convinced that she would win it herself, I’ve no doubt. She conveniently neglected to inform me, and I learned of her intentions along with everyone else.”

A seed of misgiving had been planted by Prestwick’s revelations. Perhaps she had been a fool to believe Theodora was truly her friend. Indeed, perhaps Theodora had merely been using Ophelia from the first.

“I am sorry,” she rushed to apologize. “There is no need for you to honor the dinner.”

“On the contrary.” He grinned, and his dimples reappeared. “I wouldn’t miss this dinner upon threat of death. I’m afraid you won’t be rid of me that easily, my lady.”

A rush of emotion coursed through her at his insistence. It was heady indeed to be the object of Prestwick’s attentions. To be alone with him. How would she arm herself against his smooth charm, sly innuendos, and those blasted dimples?

Ophelia forced a smile. “If you insist, then I will let the servants know we are ready to begin.”

This, she said with remarkable sangfroid. Quite as if her heart weren’t racing in her chest and she didn’t long to trace the grooves in his cheeks with her lips. She moved to the bellpull, as much to begin the dinner as to put some desperately needed distance between herself and Prestwick yet again.

A maid dutifully arrived, and Ophelia informed the girl that the private gathering was ready to begin the first course. The door to the salon had just closed before Prestwick was once again in tempting proximity, this time to hold out her chair for her.

“My lady.”

Her skirts felt as if they were fashioned of lead. The unnecessary layers she had donned—much to the befuddlement of her lady’s maid—now felt as if they were each laden with stones. She moved past him with difficulty, given the size of her bustle and number of petticoats she was wearing. Seating herself was no better. She settled on the edge of the chair, her gown puffing up about her, making her feel as if she were drowning in silk. Her stays bit at her sides, and the heat in the room felt suddenly sweltering as he leaned into her, giving her chair a discreet push to get her nearer to the table.

“Else you shall be wearing your dinner in your lap,” he murmured in her ear, lest she found herself wondering why he had concerned himself with the placement of her chair.

The efficient servants had rearranged the furniture for the occasion, moving the heavier pieces to the periphery of the chamber to make way for a small dining table and pair of chairs. The result was quarters that were far more intimate than an ordinary dinner table in mixed company would ever be.

Thank heavens for the stiffness of my petticoats, she thought, as her skirts spilled onto his chair, forcing him to shift it to the side so there was room for him to sit.

“Your skirts appear to have a life of their own this evening,” he observed as he sat as well.

So. He had noticed, then.

Heat scalded her cheeks. “This dress requires a certain silhouette, or so my lady’s maid insists.”

Poor Stanwyck. She had no notion Ophelia was maligning her, but it was the first excuse that came to mind. She couldn’t very well confess that she’d dressed in as many layers as possible to thwart any wayward notions she might harbor where he was concerned.

“It is a lovely gown,” Prestwick said, his voice warm. “Silver silk is an excellent foil for the golden flecks in your hair and the freckles that dapple your shoulders, neck, and nose.”

He had noticed her freckles? He wasn’t meant to notice them.

She frowned. “You are too kind.”