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Ophelia looked around, dazed. Her pretty, feminine carriage was changed not only by losing a wheel. She felt as if he had—the duke had—invaded it with his smile and his sensuality and his certitude.

She could say his certainty came from being born to a title, but it didn’t. There was a calm confidence that was the essence of the man. It was potent, like strong tea. Not like Peter, though that was a disloyal thought, and she oughtn’t to think it.

Peter would have been as excited and worried as she if this had happened. Their eyes would have met, and they would have known without words that they were feeling a shared terror.

The duke hadn’t felt terror, none at all. She sensed utter calm in the steely strength of his arms, and the rumbling satisfaction in his voice when he said her coachman was worth his wages.

Bisquet would be cross with her; he had protested leaving the house because the sky was lowering. But she had insisted. It was the first invitation she’d accepted since she left off mourning.

She had wanted to arrive in her sparkling, beautiful carriage, wearing a new dress. She hadn’t spared much thought for the hot, crowded ballroom.

But then she’d seen the duke.

And now . . .

There was no point in thinking about it. Instead she thought about the way he smelled, like clean man and snow. A touch of leather and spice.

He tasted good too, faintly like peppermint. The thought of his taste and his kisses lit a spark of fire in her belly again.

The wind picked up and slammed snow against the carriage, but Ophelia had made a deliberate decision not to worry. His Grace would get her home. He wouldn’t let Viola wake up alone.

It might take a few hours, but she would be with her little girl again. The sound of men’s voices shouting came over the sound of the wind.

She wasn’t alone.

If the duke had his way, she would never be alone again. She turned that idea over in her head. Now that he wasn’t in the carriage, she could think more clearly. She truly didn’t want to marry again.

She had enjoyed Peter’s company, but she adored being by herself, doing whatever she wished. No one made demands on her.

Peter had liked to dance and of course she willingly accompanied him everywhere. It wasn’t until he passed away that she realized how happy she was not to spend every evening in a crowded ballroom.

And the duke? She shuddered. One could scarcely imagine the burden of social engagements that he likely had to fulfill.

These days, her time was her own.

Tomorrow, she would be alone again, and happily so.

Chapter Five

Hugo turned his head and shouted a last instruction to John Bisquet, then gently opened the carriage door and climbed inside. Snow came with him, of course, blowing over his shoulder. His wig was matted and wet, so he pulled it off and tossed it on the tilted seat.

Ophelia was tucked in the corner of the carriage, cloak pulled up to her nose, bright eyes examining him over the velvet.

“Hello,” he said, feeling the earth shift again. He wasn’t a smiling man, but the corners of his mouth curled up without conscious volition. He was grinning like a fourteen-year-old fool, and he didn’t even care.

“Your Grace,” Ophelia said, inclining her head ever so slightly.

She had dignity. He liked that. Honesty made him admit that he’d like her just as much if she was an undignified, giggling woman.

His father had once told him that Wilde men fell in love at first sight and the rule seemed likely to hold true in this case.

The carriage was securely balanced on the snapped axle, so he sat down on the slanted seat. “We’re in the middle of the park, Ophelia.”

“I do not know why you think it’s appropriate to call me by my first name, when we scarcely know each other.”

Dignified—and tart.

“My name is Hugo.”