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The snow had no intent; it fell here or there without volition. But the two bodies straining together, warm mouths, clinging arms . . . There was a ferocious intent in them.

Ophelia felt her limbs weaken and desire riot through her until she whimpered into his mouth and moved restlessly on the horse’s broad back, her legs tingling, her flesh tender and longing for caresses.

“I want you,” the man kissing her growled.

Peter never growled. He wouldn’t have known how. But somehow, she found herself kissing a man whose growl came naturally from his broad chest. She was in uncharted territory, Ophelia thought dimly.

If she stayed with this man, this duke, her peaceful, quiet life would never be the same. The cheerful tenor of days spent in the nursery would change.

He would want her with him, during the day. During the night.

She and Peter hadn’t shared a bedchamber; the idea was inconceivable. She had the strong feeling that this duke wouldn’t consider living any other way.

His mouth slanted down over hers, hunger speaking to her in the brush of his chilly cheek against hers.

“Getting cold,” she murmured sometime later. It wasn’t true. She felt like a torch in his arms, as if she were burning in every pore. She could tumble into the snow and it would all melt beneath her.

She didn’t know what she wanted from him: but she did know one thing. In the wake of Peter’s death . . . this warmth was precious.

Worth chasing, preserving, exploring.

That low sound he made?

She wanted more of that.

“Did you say you’re cold?” he asked suddenly, a kiss later. His voice grated like gravel underfoot.

“Mmm,” Ophelia said. He pulled back, but that was all right. There was the enticing smooth skin of his neck, a powerful neck with a man’s sinews and a man’s strength under her lips.

He shifted, said something to the horse, and they were off again.

“Your hat is covered with snow,” she said, giggling.

Even with only the light from the dim lantern, she could tell that his eyes were burning hot.

“It’s too cold and snowy for you to go home tonight,” she added.

She felt his reaction in his body, through her dress and cloak, and his shirt, waistcoat, coat, greatcoat . . .

He jolted.

“You could stay at my house if you wished,” she whispered. Between them, a snowflake spiraled down twisting in the air, melting as it reached their warm breaths.

“I do wish,” he stated.

Their eyes locked. She was unnerved by the invitation she had issued. Unnerved by the kisses she had given him. Unnerved by the images going through her head: the duke without clothes. Those broad shoulders bending over her as she lay on her back, quivering all over. This desire was scorching.

It was madness.

Blissful madness.

“My invitation does not mean marriage.”

Silence.

Then, “In that case, I’m not certain I should stay the night, Ophelia. To my mind, bedding means marriage.”

“The barmaid?” she asked, eyebrow raised.