and starch. The mattress was comfortable. A warming pan had taken the chill from the sheets.
It had everything to make a guest happy—except for one thing.
Which explained why he lay awake, staring into space, hoping.
Ophelia didn’t want to be a duchess, and he didn’t blame her. He had too damned many children, and yet he couldn’t bear the idea that even one might not have existed—and that included his orphaned ward, Parth.
He would even marry Yvette again, knowing what lay ahead, to have their children.
Just as he was deciding to close his eyes and fight for Ophelia’s hand the next day, the door opened soundlessly.
He slid out of the bed faster than he’d ever done before, threw on his wrapper, and snatched her in his arms as an involuntary groan escaped his lips. “Bloody hell,” he whispered into her hair, “I feel as if my blood went to a simmer hours ago, and I haven’t calmed down since.”
Ophelia’s hair slipped through his fingers as she tipped back her head. She’d washed out the powder, and damp strands of silk covered her shoulders.
“I want you,” she whispered. “But perhaps not as a husband. I haven’t decided that yet.”
“Am I on probation?” He wasn’t sure what to think about that. His body had no doubts. He could seduce her, bind her to him, show her the pleasures of making love, because it was possible that Sir Peter had not.
The ethical side of him didn’t feel happy about seduction without marriage.
“I’m a widow, Hugo,” she said, her eyes crinkling into a smile. “I can bed whomever I wish, and I choose you. Tonight.”
“What if I seduce you into marriage?”
She laughed, the sound lazy and sweet. “Do your worst, Your Grace. Do your worst.”
He had her on the bed in a minute and unwrapped her as carefully as if she were made of the finest china.
And when he realized that she wore nothing under her wrapper?
In strong contention for the best moment of his life.
Chapter Seven
Ophelia hadn’t bothered to put on a nightgown. Why should she? Hers were all white and edged with lace, clothing that hinted at chastity and innocence. A woman bent on sin needn’t pretend to virtue.
That meant she got to see Hugo’s eyes darken and his jaw clench as he pulled open her dressing gown.
She followed his eyes down. She was a creamy, curvy type of woman, whose breasts had become even more lavish after nursing Viola.
The desperation in his eyes fired her blood—past a simmer, straight to a boil that made her shift on the bed, pink rising in her cheeks, her hands reaching for him.
He moved back and pulled off his wrapper. She caught a flash of hard male body, a slice of golden skin, and then his mouth crashed down on hers and his body lowered with hardly more grace.
His weight made a sob rise in her throat. There was something so comforting about being surrounded by warm strength. The feeling of a man’s body on top of hers was marvelous.
He began kissing the side of her neck, so she turned her head and ran her hands over powerful shoulders.
She felt untethered, as if she were held to the bed only by the weight of his body. How could she have forgotten the delicious feeling of skin roughed by hair, hard-muscled thighs, and hard other things? Hugo rolled against her and her arms tightened as her belly clenched. A puff of air escaped her lips.
“Tell me if I’m too heavy,” he murmured.
“I like it,” she said. She almost stopped there, but this man wasn’t her husband—and she didn’t want another husband. With a lover, she could be absolutely honest. So she kept going. “I like the way our knees knocked together, and the fact your arse is extremely muscled.”
His grin was pure mischief, a man’s wicked fun, not a boy’s.
She let her fingers dance over his bottom, making him shiver. “I would never have mentioned that word to Peter.”
“Could we forget the word ‘Peter’ and keep ‘arse’ instead?” He pulled back, coming up on his knees so she could see his face. He was older than Peter had been, with traces of laughter around his eyes.
“You don’t fancy comparisons?” She reached up and traced the amused arch of his lip.
“Not allowed in polite society,” he stated, with all the calm authority of a duke.
“Are there any other rules I should know about extramarital congress?”
“No thinking. Thinking is as bad as mentioning former spouses.”
“I can’t stop thinking,” Ophelia