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“Champagne?” she said sometime later.

Dimly, Hugo knew that a groom had opened the carriage door and closed it immediately.

“I haven’t had too much champagne!” She cupped her hands around his face and grinned at him. “I’m not used to drinking wine.”

“That’s precisely why I cannot take advantage of you,” he said apologetically. “Because it would be taking advantage of you, Phee, and I won’t do it.”

She gave him a wicked grin, leaned forward, and ran her tongue along the seam of his mouth. “I had a glass of champagne before supper.”

“Yes, well—”

“And a glass of champagne with berry tart. But to be completely frank, Your Grace, your sister imbibed the better part of two bottles, and Lady Fernby polished off the third.”

Hugo searched her eyes and wondered why he hadn’t seen it immediately. Of course she wasn’t tipsy. Her clear eyes were sparkling with laughter and desire.

“Thank God,” he breathed. He pulled her into his arms and slammed his mouth down on hers.

She opened her mouth with a silent laugh that went straight from her chest to his.

After that, it was a matter of lifting Phee from the carriage and greeting the butler, Fiddle, at which point Ophelia told him that the duke would spend the night since it was late to return to his townhouse and he hadn’t a carriage.

She added matter-of-factly that she’d accepted His Grace’s proposal of marriage, and Hugo found the words so moving that he waited until her butler turned away and caught her in a sudden kiss. “I love you,” he said fiercely, in a low voice meant for her ears only.

But when he followed the butler up the stairs, he thought that Fiddle’s smile indicated that he’d overheard.

Hugo didn’t mind.

“Ophelia will wish to bring her household with her,” he told the butler, on being shown into the same elegant bedchamber as last time.

“I have no doubt,” Fiddle said, bowing.

“No servants will be dismissed,” Hugo said, holding out his hand.

The butler shook it. “Thank you, Your Grace. I appreciate that, and so will the household.”

“You’ve taken care of her at a time when others might have taken advantage. I can never thank any of you enough.”

“We are all very fond of Lady Astley.”

“As am I,” Hugo said frankly.

The butler smiled.

Chapter Seventeen

Hugo might have thought Ophelia was tipsy, but in fact she knew exactly what she was doing, and the rightness of it hummed through her veins as she bathed and allowed her maid to put her in a nightgown.

A chaste white nightgown, because that’s all she had, but the very next day she meant to sally forth and order something marvelous made of silk and lace for her wedding night, whenever that occurred.

First things first.

The deep-down connection she shared with Hugo? The way she no sooner glanced at him than she felt a flutter of desire?

That trumped everything.

When she walked into his room, it was lit just enough to create a cozy nest. Perhaps an eagle’s nest, because propped on piles of snowy white pillows was a man with piercing eyes and a powerful body who—

Wanted her.