Page 13 of Duke with a Desire

“You seem distracted.” Mal frowned. “And besides, you’ve always the devil’s own luck. I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen you lose at cards.”

“There’s a first time for everything. Isn’t that the old adage?” he suggested smoothly.

But Mal wasn’t wrong. Apollo hadn’t ever lost at cards before this night; whether it was down to skill or luck was open for interpretation.

At the moment, however, he was more than just a trifle distracted, and he had every cause to be. Not that he was about to confide any of that to his friend. Apollo was also more than halfway to being a trifle disguised, thanks to the excellent whisky he’d been enjoying.

Enjoying was perhaps a strong word.

He’d been trying to dull his senses, it was true.

Because watching Ophelia flirt with the bastard from breakfast—the Earl of Esterbrooke, as he’d discovered—and over six courses, no less, had been nothing short of infuriating. If she’d been any other woman, Apollo might have suspected her of toying with him for sport. But she wasn’t like anyone else he knew, and he didn’t believe she possessed even a modicum of manipulation in her blood.

No, she was running from him, like a frightened doe in the woods. Ophelia wasn’t acting as hostess because she was looking for a lover, as he had hoped. There was obviously another need that had prompted her.

Just what that was, though, he couldn’t yet say.

“I’ve never seen such awful play on your part,” Mal pressed. “There must be another reason for it.”

Apollo was heartily glad the rest of the players had long since left the table, the buxom dealer included, lest any of them overhear the interrogation his friend was conducting.

“Are you a Scotland Yard detective now, Wrighton?” he demanded, unable to keep the annoyed edge from his voice.

“We both know I’m far too wealthy and lazy for that,” Mal said with a self-deprecating grin. “Just curious, old chap. I’ve never seen you in such a state before…” His words trailed away as an expression of dawning understanding overtook his features. “It’s a petticoat then, is it?”

He vehemently disliked Mal referring to Ophelia as a petticoat. Apollo clenched his jaw, trying to calm his response.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

Damn Mal.

“I’m not.”

“I can see by your face that you’re lusting after someone. What’s the matter? Has she refused you?” Mal laughed, as if the notion were the greatest sally he’d ever heard.

Evil prick.

There was nothing in the slightest bit amusing about the one-sided suffering he was currently enduring. It was wretched. Not just because Ophelia continued to elude him, but because she was Ophelia, and he had longed for her from afar.

“Go to the devil,” he grumbled to his friend, feeling his ears go hot.

He had never told anyone about his obsession with Ophelia. And he bloody well wasn’t about to begin with Mal.

“Who is she?” Mal asked, still grinning.

She was the loveliest woman in attendance. She was all Apollo could think about, and now that she was within reach, his fascination for her had heightened to an almost unbearable level. She was curved and soft and womanly and her scent was enough to make a man go mad.

And sweet mother of all that was holy, when she had accidentally licked his thumb earlier, he had nearly come in his trousers like the greenest of lads who had never spoken to a member of the fairer sex before. It hadn’t been intentional, the act. There had been no mistaking the flare of surprise in her eyes or the way she had reacted afterward. Still, that tiny flick of her tongue would haunt him to his dying day as the single most erotic act he had ever experienced.

But he wasn’t going to admit any of that to Mal. His friend would verbally hang, draw, and quarter him over such a weakness.

“Why must it be a woman?” Apollo countered sharply. “Perhaps I’m employing an elaborate ruse that involves lulling everyone else into the false belief I’m dreadful at playing vingt-et-un. Then, once my Machiavellian plan has unfolded, I’ll fleece every man until he has nothing left but regret.”

“No.” Mal shook his head, his expression smug. “There’s only one suitably Machiavellian villain amongst us, and it’s me, not you. You’re far too softhearted for such ruthless bamboozling.”

Again, Mal wasn’t wrong, even if Apollo did balk at describing himself as softhearted.