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He searched her gaze. “I reckon it can be. Is that what you want, my lady? Pleasure?”

A frisson went down her spine. “Yes.”

Thank heavens for the wine. She would never be this free otherwise.

She hiccupped once more.

Now, if only she could halt that annoying bodily reaction and also somehow make the floor stop tilting, all would be well in her world.

“Then that is what you shall have.” He retrieved her hand and placed it back on his arm. “But first, you require a nice hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Come with me, and I’ll ring your lady’s maid.”

“But my wine,” she protested before swaying into his chest.

His arm slipped around her waist instead, anchoring her to him and holding her up at the same time. “Trust me, love. More wine is not what you need this evening.”

“You’re right,” she reluctantly agreed, doing her best to concentrate upon her footfalls as they lurched into motion, painfully aware of the way she had nearly toppled twice.

It wasn’t wine that she needed this evening anyway, just as Prestwick had said. What she truly needed was him. All she had to do was persuade him of it. She had until they reached her chamber to try.

Ophelia was drunker than a sailor newly home from months at sea.

Apollo had suspected it the moment he had seen her listing to one side from across the drawing room. He’d known it when she had barreled into his chest in the drawing room. And then she’d flirted with him with a wicked abandon that was delightful but most unlike her.

She had also seen him leave the drawing room with Helene on his arm. He regretted that, and he certainly hoped he wasn’t the reason she’d been tippling.

Either way, his plans to seduce her would decidedly have to wait. She was in no condition for lovemaking, and he would never dream of pressing his advantage unless she was in full possession of her faculties. Indeed, he reckoned the second her head graced the pillow, she would begin snoring.

Hiccup.

Ophelia clapped a hand over her mouth. “Forgive me. I do wish that would cease happening.”

“The wine perhaps had a hand in it,” he drawled.

“I refuse to believe—hiccup—so.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and he led her in the direction of her chamber.

“You are welcome to your beliefs,” he returned gallantly.

“You are being very kind to me,” she said, leaning on his arm as if he were the only thing that kept her from melting into a puddle at his feet.

“I am always kind.”

“Men are not usually so.”

Her wistful tone had him jerking his head in her direction as much as her words did. “They bloody well ought to be where any lady is concerned.”

“And yet, that is not the way of things, is it?” she asked sadly. “Men do not do what they ought to do, do they? But then, I suppose women can be every bit as guilty.”

“Was your marriage an unhappy one, my lady?” he dared to ask.

The question had been on his mind for some time. He hadn’t wanted to pry or to dredge up her past, nor did he wish to cause her pain. But his curiosity couldn’t be contained. He found himself wanting to know everything there was to know about her. All her stories, her secrets, her mysteries. Her past and her present. What made her life, what earned her smiles, her trust. Most of all, he wanted to know what had happened to put that tone in her voice.

Her brow furrowed. “How did you know I was married?”

Blast. He had once again revealed too much, and he had yet to feel comfortable enough to reveal himself to her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she would run if she discovered who he truly was now. More time was necessary.

He cleared his throat. “I do believe you told me, my lady. You are a widow, yes?”