My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,9
Mr. Bisquet that, if she agreed, the lady was to become a duchess.
If she rejected him, he meant her no harm.
Now he just had to persuade the lady herself.
Chapter Four
Ophelia was humiliated to realize how long it took her breath to calm after leaving the ballroom. It was only, she assured herself, because she hadn’t been in society for some time.
A man hadn’t looked at her with interest in years. Peter had never looked at her like that.
The duke’s gaze made her feel overheated. Almost feverish, which was absurd. Thinking about her dear husband steadied her.
She and Peter had approached the bedchamber the way they had their entire life together: with a frank conversation and a generous ladling of respect. Over the years of their marriage, they had come together many times, not merely because they were determined to have children—and surprised by how long it took—but because they genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.
Ophelia took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, trying to focus on the book she was reading. The Life and Adventures of Mr. Francis Clive. It wasn’t a restful book; the poor housemaid who found herself part of Francis Clive’s “adventures” was now in the family way.
Any sensible woman could have told her that he was a rake from the first few pages of the book. As opposed to Peter, for example. Once again, the remembrance of Peter’s steady love and respect made Ophelia feel calmer.
Her late husband would have understood how shocking it had felt to come into contact with the duke, a man who had palpable power and erotic . . . well, erotic something.
Promise, maybe.
The duke looked at her with a promise in his eyes, and his promise had nothing to do with respect.
Undoubtedly, every woman encountered a man like that during her life: a bad man, her mother would have said. A rake, no doubt. One who made all sorts of promises he didn’t—
No.
The Duke of Lindow’s steady gaze came back to her. If he made promises, he would keep them.
She had the feeling he was offering her pleasure. Possibly a different kind of pleasure than the measured joy she and Peter had shared. Something altogether more overwhelming.
The door of her carriage swung open, followed by a blast of chilly air and the clean smell of fresh snow. Ophelia frowned, reaching toward the door. She adored the little carriage that she had helped design herself, but it wasn’t the sturdiest vehicle in the world. Bisquet hadn’t wished to take it this evening because of the weather, but she insisted.
Broad shoulders blocked the doorway as a man climbed into her carriage.
Ophelia shrank back, suddenly aware of how alone she was. Her heart stuttered, and a scream caught in her throat as she flung her hand to the roof, intending to yank open the trapdoor between herself and her coachman.
“I apologize.” His voice filled the small space like one deep note from a cello: calm, resonant, safe.
Air slipped out of Ophelia’s lungs. Her hand fell back and she leaned, boneless, against the back of her carriage seat.
The Duke of Lindow closed the door behind himself and sat down opposite her, his intense green eyes fastened on her face. There wasn’t a shred of shame in his expression. There was regret for having frightened her, but the fact he’d invaded her carriage without an invitation?
No, he had all the bravado of a pirate boarding a ship and informing the captain that he had every right to be there.
She felt a welcome spark of anger at the base of her spine and sat up straight again. She was a dowager baroness. He might be far above her in England’s hierarchy, but that didn’t give him the right to frighten her.
To invade her carriage.
“I did not invite you to join me,” she stated, adding, after a pointed pause, “Your Grace.”
The duke had stuffed his gloves into his pockets, and now he shrugged out of his damp greatcoat without answering. The beautiful wool was speckled with dark spots where snowflakes had melted.
Ophelia was well aware that the person who talks most in any confrontation loses power, so she held her tongue.
He had remarkably broad shoulders. Even his neck looked powerful. He was a male animal, lithe and powerful—but one who meant her no harm. She knew that instinctively, in her bones.
His Grace was no Francis Clive, running around looking for adventures and woe betide any young woman who got in his way.