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Ophelia sighed. Peter had been given to statements like that as well. Perhaps it was a male failing.

“I could try it,” Hugo said, surprising her.

“You wouldn’t be embarrassed?”

Astonishment crossed his eyes but he kept his answer simple. “No.”

Of course he wouldn’t be. Dukes were probably never embarrassed. Why should they be? Ophelia fidgeted, thinking of the way her skin crawled with embarrassment when she thought about a nanny entering her nursery and seeing the way she played with Viola.

“If you were my duchess, you needn’t be embarrassed either,” Hugo said, exhibiting a nimble ability to turn the conversation to his advantage. “Duchesses set the fashion; they don’t follow it.”

“I have no wish to set fashion,” Ophelia stated.

“Your dress last night was very elegant, and so was your carriage.”

“I ordered both because I enjoyed the designs, not because I wanted them copied by others.”

“You are already a duchess,” Hugo murmured, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Would you be offended if I mentioned that I haven’t had a cockstand this long for years? Since I was a young man.”

Cockstand? Ophelia tried out the word in her head and decided it was useful. “Is that a compliment?”

“Of a sort.”

“Would you like me to return to my bedchamber? It’s just next door, to be frank.”

“Absolutely not. Unless you wish to go.”

Ophelia thought about that for a moment. This was a night stolen out of time, in a way. She had decided not to marry the duke, and he wouldn’t bed her without that promise. So they were at an impasse.

But perhaps . . .

“We could be friends,” she said, blurting it out.

“What?”

“We can’t be spouses, because I don’t wish to marry you. We can’t be lovers, because you don’t want to bed me without a wedding ring.”

“Oh, I want to,” the duke growled.

Ophelia waved her hand, ignoring the fact that her body clenched at the rough desire in his voice. “You know what I mean.”

“Not lovers, not spouses.” His voice was mournful. “Friends? I don’t want to be your friend, Ophelia.”

That stung, but why would he want to be friends? She had been at risk, for just a moment, of forgetting the real reason he had singled her out: because she was a good mother. Because he had children whom he didn’t know, by the sound of it.

“I understand,” she said, keeping her expression absolutely even. She’d learned that trick during her marriage, because of Peter’s dislike of disapproval. She’d practiced in a glass until she knew the exact arrangement of her features that portrayed benign interest without judgment.

Without the flash of real anger that she felt inside. She was good enough to kiss and fondle, good enough to marry, but not good enough to be friends with?

“I didn’t say that correctly,” Hugo said.

“I think your point is an excellent one,” Ophelia said. “Men and women are rarely friends, as I understand it.”

“I am friends with my twin sister.”

“Marvelous,” Ophelia said, another stab of resentment going through her.

“What are you thinking?”