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Running.

She had taken one look at him from under those absurdly long eyelashes and headed for the ballroom door. That meant she felt something. Maybe not the same thing he did—not the same jolt of absolute certainty—but something.

He could work with it.

A butler, resplendent in red livery, handed him his greatcoat. The man was dignified, but given his raisin-sized eyes, not too dignified for a bribe. A moment later, Hugo had a name.

Ophelia, Lady Astley, the widow of Sir Peter Astley.

He turned it over in his head. Ophelia. One of Shakespeare’s heroines, and a melancholy one, if he had the play right. This Ophelia wasn’t melancholy. Her eyes were intelligent and fiery; he’d bet anything she had a temper that would blaze as hot as her hair.

He walked through the door and saw with satisfaction that the street was just as snarled in carriages as it had been forty minutes ago. Carriages were taking a half hour to traverse the street before the house.

When he arrived, he had jumped out and walked, telling his coachman that he would make his own way home later. Other guests remained in their carriages like a line of patient cows waiting to be milked. Likely some of them had been here then, and they were still here now.

Night had fallen. Linkboys were milling about in front of the house and running between carriages, their flaming torches held high, biting circles into the darkness. Snowflakes were falling lazily into the patches of light, as if the white fluff popped into existence when light met the dark air.

Ophelia was nowhere in sight, which meant her coachman had escorted her to her carriage—but he doubted the vehicle had gone anywhere. Traffic was at a standstill; two coachmen had descended from their perches and were shouting about a scratched side panel.

Which carriage might she be in? To his left were three commodious family carriages, the doors picked out with crests. She wouldn’t be found in one of those. Sir Peter Astley had been a baronet, not a peer.

If there was an elegant barouche, it would have gone to the heir, not to the widow. His brows drew together as he realized that many a young widow, especially one who hadn’t given birth to a male heir, might find herself in financial straits. Rational thought quickly asserted itself.

Ophelia had been wearing emeralds, and a dress his sister called a sack gown. It had glowed in the candlelight of the ballroom, glittering with gold thread, but more importantly, with flowers. Hand-painted flowers on French silk.

Louisa owned one gown made of hand-painted silk, the fabric imported from France. Characteristically, Louisa’s was bright with poppies. Ophelia’s gown had been painted all over with charming flower sprigs. It didn’t call attention to itself, and yet it must have been wildly expensive.

His heart eased. His lady wasn’t worried about money. In fact, she must be swimming in guineas.

Good for Sir Peter. He had died, leaving his wife and baby girl behind, but he’d made certain that they were comfortable, cared for.

There were four carriages to his right. One of them belonged to the Dowager Duchess of Windebank. Two were hired rigs and one . . .

That was it.

It was small but exquisite, made of rich bronze-colored wood and fashioned with three windows to a side. The carriage body looked like a delicate egg trimmed in strands of twisted brass, the body painted with bluebirds.

It was absurd, and absurdly lovely. It suited her, down to its curves.

It wasn’t moving and wouldn’t until those coachmen stopped their squabble.

Without haste, he walked toward it, his shoes splashing into the sludge on the streets; the first layer of snowflakes had already melted. Delicate silk curtains were drawn across the windows, and a soft glow from the inside told him that Ophelia had lit the carriage lamps.

As he grew closer, he made out her silhouette. She was leaning back against the cushions, reading a book. Hugo paused for a moment, savoring his reaction to finding her.

His life had jerked to a halt with Marie’s death. In the years since, he took care of the estate, went through the motions of being married to Yvette, tried to be the best father he could to the children.

But now, unexpectedly, strangely, with no more than the sight of a tantalizing woman . . .

His heart was thumping in a rhythm he’d forgotten.

Feeling the prickle of eyes on him, he looked up and discovered that her coachman was watching him closely. The man looked like a good fellow, strong and loyal, with the tenacity and skill to fight off anyone who threatened his lady’s well-being.

A groom in livery was perched behind, his gaze as hard-eyed as the coachman’s.

Hugo tilted his head in a silent question.

After a moment, the coachman nodded, so Hugo sprang up beside him. The conversation took longer than he would have thought and necessitated pulling his sword out of its sheath, displaying the ducal crest set into the hilt, and finally handing it over.