My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,7

indulged in flirtations. No, she looked fierce, like a warrior, a curvy, beautiful warrior blessed with masses of red hair. She’d powdered it as fashion demanded, but only lightly.

He made his way over to the woman who had been accompanying the lady before she ran out the door as if the Hounds of Hell were after her. “Who is she?” he asked, without preamble.

A hint of defiance showed in the woman’s eyes. “Your Grace,” she said, dropping into a curtsy.

For Christ’s sake. All the same, he bowed and then lifted her hand to his lips. “Good evening, my lady. I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. I believe we haven’t met.”

“You are acquainted with my husband, Lord Penshallow,” she said.

A tiresome fellow with a propensity to brag about his amorous activities. Hugo felt a dart of sympathy for the lady, but that was neither here nor there. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Penshallow,” he said. “I wonder if you could give me the name of the woman you were accompanying a moment ago.”

Her brows drew together. “You do not know who she is?”

Hugo’s gut clenched. Was she married? It had never occurred to him. A raw feeling swept through his chest at the idea that she belonged to another man.

“Is she married?” he asked, knowing his voice rumbled from his chest.

“So you don’t know who she is,” Lady Penshallow said, looking confused. “No, Phee is not married.”

“Excellent,” Hugo said, gentling his voice. “I’m glad to hear it.” That was an understatement. Fee. What could that possibly be short for? Fidelia? No: Phoebe! Of course. But no Phoebes came to mind.

“I thought you had heard about her,” the lady continued.

He shook his head. “I have no idea who she is.”

“My cousin is a respectable widow,” Lady Penshallow announced. Then she lowered her voice. “She is not looking for a dalliance, and you do her no favors by singling her out in such an obvious fashion.”

Few men and even fewer women dared to defy him, so Hugo smiled at her. “You are very loyal.”

“She is also uninterested in a husband, so you needn’t waste your time,” Lady Penshallow explained with a shrug. There was a hint of warmth at the backs of her eyes that suggested that she would have no objection if he cared to waste his time with her. “She was very fond of her husband, and only emerged from mourning in the last few months. In fact, this is her first excursion into society, and as you saw, she chose to return home early.”

“Does she have children?” Lindow Castle was a huge pile of stone that could absorb another baker’s dozen of youngsters, and no one would know the difference.

“She is a wonderful mother,” the lady said, watching him carefully. “She left before the dinner dance so that she won’t be too sleepy when my goddaughter wakes in the morning. At five a.m.”

His mouth eased into a smile. She was a mother. A real mother, the kind Marie had been. The kind he had hoped to find for his boys when he married Yvette, except he had been so appallingly wrong.

“My cousin has no wish to take care of another woman’s children,” the lady continued. “Perhaps you will forgive my observation that you have too many of them. And as I said, she has no wish to marry again.”

Over her shoulder, half the ballroom was gaping at them, fascinated. They’d missed his real intention; they thought he was flirting with this elegant young wife. Lord Penshallow was undoubtedly watching from somewhere.

He stepped backward and bowed. “I wish you good evening, Lady Penshallow. I’m afraid that, like your cousin, I must leave before the dinner dance. Perhaps you will dance with me another time.” He felt a primitive desire to get out the doors before his lady managed to run away from him.

That’s what she was doing.

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