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Eyeing it warily, she inhaled all the breath she could manage, and then she held the cup to her lips and swallowed down as much as she could bear before exhaling.

Stanwyck beamed. “There you are, my lady. You’ll be feeling better in no time at all.”

Ophelia gagged and swallowed hard, hoping her lady’s maid was right. She intended to put on her best attempt at acting as if nothing had happened last night.

And avoiding Prestwick if at all possible.

It had to be possible. He was just one man among many in attendance at the house party. Surely she could hide from him.

Ophelia was hiding from him.

Apollo had been trying to speak with her since breakfast, and she had managed to avoid him at every turn. After luncheon, she had disappeared, only to reappear for Blindman’s Bluff, calling out the rules before leaving again.

But this time, he was wise to her games.

He followed her discreetly, slipping from the drawing room whilst his fellow revelers, Mal included, began playing the naughty adaptation of the classic parlor game. Apollo had no doubt the festivities would eventually escalate into some manner of orgy, and he had no interest in remaining to watch, let alone participating. As he entered the hall, he saw the train of a pale-pink gown disappearing around a corner.

Excellent.

If she had run off to her bedchamber, he would have had a more difficult time of it. But her decision to run elsewhere was quite providential. He lengthened his strides, hastening after her. At the end of the second hall, a door led to a different part of the gardens, one far less traveled than the labyrinth just off the drawing room. He knew it well from his visits to past house parties.

Ophelia must truly be desperate, he thought as she disappeared into the out of doors. She wasn’t even wearing a hat or bonnet to shield her face from the sun, a most ladylike habit he reckoned she observed zealously on account of the freckles gilding her cheeks and nose. As he reached the door himself, he discovered there were also ominous clouds on the horizon, suggesting rain would soon be unleashed from the leaden skies.

The air was redolent with the scent of damp earth and rose blossoms. A limestone statue of Jupiter loomed over the gravel path, looking on with disapproval, as if he could sense Apollo’s objective.

But nothing would sway him from his course. Certainly not a frowning stone god. Hell, Apollo doubted that even a god descended from the heavens before him could keep him from pursuing Ophelia. It had taken all the restraint he possessed to walk away from her last night.

Today was different. She wasn’t inebriated, and he wasn’t walking away.

He moved deeper into the rose garden, and it didn’t take long to find her. Ophelia was standing by a fountain, her back to him. He approached without any effort to quiet his footfalls, not wanting to startle her, but the noise of the fountain drowned out the crunch.

“My lady,” he said before he reached her.

She whirled about with a high-pitched sound of startlement, her eyes wide, hand pressed over her heart. “You.”

An inauspicious greeting, but he would overlook it.

Apollo offered an ironic bow. “Me, madam. At your service.”

A pink flush stole over her cheeks at once. “I…I didn’t expect to have company out here. How did you find me? That is to say…were you looking for me?”

She was adorably flustered. He wondered how much she remembered about what had transpired the night before. God knew every second of it was forever inscribed upon his soul.

“I begin to suspect I am always looking for you, my lady,” he said with utter seriousness.

Her cheeks rivaled her gown. She was like a lush rose in blossom, all stunning pink and lustrous gold complemented by the burnished copper of her hair.

“I must apologize for last night,” she told him. “It was unforgivable of me to make such demands of you.”

“I like it when you make demands of me.”

“You…” She faltered, frowning at him. “You do?”

He very much did. The way she had taken control had been a potent aphrodisiac. And he wanted more.

“I do.” He moved a few steps closer until they were nearly flush together, her silk skirts brushing against his trousers. A breeze stirred up, whipping a curl free of her coiffure and flinging it against her cheek. He brushed the silken wisp to the side and tucked it behind her ear, his fingertips grazing her skin.

He wanted to keep touching her, but he forced himself to withdraw, dipping his fingers into the water of the fountain instead, as if doing so might chase the brand she had left upon him.