My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,17
pale light by comparison, though the snow reflected every ray with the glint of diamonds.
Hugo pulled her close and felt an indescribable satisfaction when she relaxed against him. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said, trying to distract himself from imagining her leaning against him naked. “All the hedges look like puffed-up pillows.”
“Or large ladies huddling under rabbit-fur cloaks.”
“My daughter Betsy loves fairy tales,” he said, forgetting his sister’s admonishment not to mention his children under any circumstances. “Last week, she told me that snowflakes are fairies in little slippers that spin over the church steeple and don’t come down until they’re tired.”
“How old is she?”
“She is four years old, almost five. She can already read,” he said proudly. “Her brothers were much slower learning to talk, and Alexander—my youngest son, who’s three—still speaks mostly in short sentences. But Betsy could instruct Parliament in its duties.”
“My daughter, Viola, is two,” Ophelia said. “I’m not precisely sure what she should be saying, but she’s mastered a few words.”
“My Joan is two as well and she doesn’t say a word,” Hugo told her. “Nothing to worry about.”
Chapter Six
Ophelia adjusted her hood so that she could look up at the duke. He didn’t appear to be trying to impress her by telling her stories about his children. Most aristocrats didn’t speak of their children with easy familiarity and pride.
She had the distinct impression that this particular duke would never try to impress a lady. Perhaps no duke would bother. The title was enough to make the female half of the population simper and beg for a ring.
That thought was souring, but he was giving her a lopsided grin. “Betsy is the most talkative of my children.” A guarded look went through his eyes. “Damn it, I forgot. My sister told me not to mention them.”
Laughter bubbled up in her. “The children?”
He nodded. “No talk of children while courting a lady. Please forget that I said anything about Betsy.”
“I haven’t given you permission to court me,” she pointed out. “Although I do like children.”
His hand tightened around her waist. “I couldn’t have imagined being so lucky as to meet you. We are courting, Ophelia.”
Ophelia felt as if the white-topped trees of Hyde Park had drawn closer as the horse stepped forward, the sound of its shoes lost in the soft blanket that covered the path. Snow was still falling thickly into the tall trees around them, creating a chilly boudoir, a private refuge in the middle of England’s largest city.
They had kissed twice: in the carriage and the snow. Those were the duke’s—Hugo’s—kisses. Now she curled her gloved hand around his right hand, the one that held the reins.
He pulled up, giving the horse a soft command. It came to a halt, and then even the soft clip-clop of its hooves was gone and the only sound was the gentle swish of branches bracing themselves against white blankets.
“I feel as if time has stopped,” His Grace said, the words a deep rumble from his chest.
“I’m not marrying you,” Ophelia said, peaceful with the decision. “I’m going to kiss you because, as you said, this is a time stolen from our ordinary lives. And you kissed me twice.”
“Which means you owe me two kisses?” he prompted hopefully.
“I haven’t kissed anyone since Peter died. I didn’t even think about that.” How could she have let the moment go without noticing, without marking it, without a silent apology to Peter?
The duke nodded, his eyes dark. “After Marie died, I thought I’d never kiss another woman.”
“But you did.”
A rueful look crossed his eyes. “In the second year, I got drunk one night, and found myself in the arms of a cheerful barmaid.”
Ophelia couldn’t help her spurt of laughter. “The barmaid and the duke!”
“Oh, she had no idea who I was. I dropped into a public house with friends. She was friendly and warm, and she coaxed a frozen man back into life.”
“I’m not frozen,” Ophelia said.
“We men are stupid,” he said, his shoulders shifting, uncomfortable with the subject. “I couldn’t bear the pain of it when Marie died. I . . .” He sighed. “I was very young and passionate. I vaguely wanted to be Romeo to her Juliet—though she hadn’t taken her own life but succumbed to a chill—but I had children. And a ferocious will to live. What I did instead was turn myself to stone.”
“Stone?”
Ophelia leaned against his shoulder so she could see his eyes.