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“Everyone was spellbound,” Mal mused. “But if I had to choose the most intriguing lady in this gathering, I would be remiss if I didn’t say it was our lush hostess.”

Apollo’s spine snapped straight at Ophelia being referred to as lush. “If you are seeking a hasty fling, Mrs. Gilpin would be more than happy to accommodate you, I’m sure. Just don’t expect loyalty, and gird your purse well.”

“But I don’t like to bed down with vipers,” Mal countered. “There’s something about the hostess that’s utterly intoxicating. She is leading us in debauchery, and yet she herself seems to be innocent as a lamb. I’ve not seen her with anyone in attendance yet. Perhaps I can persuade her to cavort with me.”

His friend winked, grinning.

It was the sort of ordinary, lighthearted conversation they often had. And if they were speaking of any other woman in the world, Apollo wouldn’t have been filled with a soul-crushing level of jealousy. As it was, he could scarcely form words.

Cavort.

Ophelia didn’t cavort. And she was absolutely not going to cavort with Mal. If she was going to cavort with anyone, it would be Apollo, damn it.

He clenched his jaw. “She doesn’t seem the sort to draw your interest.”

Mal cocked a brow, looking surprised. “No? Why not?”

“You can’t see her nipples, for one thing,” he drawled.

“That can be arranged.”

He ground his molars so hard he feared they would crack. “And for another, I doubt she is interested in dallying.”

“And how would you know what the lady is interested in?” Mal demanded. “Have you asked her yourself?”

His ears went hot.

Mal jolted as if he’d been hit by an invisible fist before Apollo could respond. “You have, haven’t you?”

His friend knew him too well. Or perhaps his countenance was merely that easily read. Regardless, he didn’t want Mal further investigating. Nor did he want to have to talk about what he felt for Ophelia with anyone else. Not even his own sister knew, and Aphrodite was a busybody who demanded to know everything from everyone in her circle at all times.

“Of course not,” he snapped. “I don’t go about asking women if they’re interested in dallying or cavorting. Bloody hell, do I look like I need to do so?”

“Yes.”

He scowled. “Curse you, Mal. Leave off.”

His friend shrugged, still grinning as if he were enjoying himself immensely at Apollo’s expense. “You ought not to have asked the question if you didn’t wish to hear the answer.”

“Whose friend are you?”

“Yours, quite naturally, which is why I’m managing to exercise some restraint and keep my mockery to a reasonable amount.” Mal grinned. “It’s interesting, you know.”

“What is interesting?” he asked sharply.

“I think you’re far more petulant when talk of our hostess comes up than you are when Mrs. Gilpin is mentioned. I can only assume the reasons for that.”

“Assume all you like, old chum.”

“She’s the one, isn’t she?” Mal prodded.

God, yes. Ophelia was the one. The one who haunted his dreams, the one he would surrender his soul to touch. She was the one whose taste he was desperate to know. The one he wanted more than anyone he’d ever met before her, and more than he would ever desire another after. The one he had tried to banish from his thoughts for years, to no avail.

But if he admitted any of that aloud, his friend would never cease in his relentless mockery.

“I haven’t an inkling what you’re prattling on about,” he told his friend, not about to make any declarations.

“Hmm.” Mal’s eyes narrowed. “I think you do.”