Page 42 of Duke with a Desire

Clearly, Kingham had made a dreadful mistake when he had decided to entrust her with the Wicked Dukes Society house parties. She wasn’t made for hedonism. She didn’t even know how to ensnare a rake who had helped her out of her bodice.

That memory returned to her of Prestwick’s fingers glancing against the bare skin above her corset and chemise when he had undone her fastenings. Her breath had hitched, and her body had become a conflagration, so acute was her reaction to him.

Apparently, however, Prestwick had not been so moved. He had denied her. Kissed her on the cheek as if she were a particularly trying sister. And then he had left.

At least he didn’t know it was Ophelia behind the mask and she’d had the sense to leave her disguise on until he had been gone from her chamber. She would be spared the misery of facing him when this house party was done with him knowing she had thrown herself at him. He would be completely unaware that she was dying inside each time their paths crossed.

Perhaps she could move to the country. Then she’d never have to face him again. But, no. The country seat was in a dilapidated state, thanks to Corbett’s mismanagement of funds. In the last few years of his life, he had been consumed by gambling instead of looking after his estate as he ought to have done for the sake of not only their tenants, but Reggie as well. Their son’s future was in peril, thanks to Corbett’s dereliction of duties.

It was his fault she was in this predicament.

His fault she needed to resort to playing hostess at a wicked house party to make certain her children had enough funds to survive the years awaiting them. Lord Timothy had been firm that he would not be able to afford further dependents, and she was too stubborn to throw herself upon the mercy of her parents.

A surge of resentment knifed through her, joining the burning shame.

Suddenly, a soft knock sounded at her door.

She sent up a silent prayer that it was not Prestwick on the other side.

“Who is it?” she croaked.

The familiar voice of her lady’s maid greeted her. “Stanwyck, my lady. I’ve brought you something that ought to aid your stomach and head.”

Dear Stanwyck. She always thought of everything.

“Thank you,” Ophelia called. “Do come in before I expire.”

The door opened and closed, followed by the sound of her lady’s maid bustling across the room. Stanwyck hovered at the edge of her bed, face concerned, bearing a tray.

“Are you feeling quite poorly, my lady?” she asked, wincing.

“Do I look as wretched as I feel, Stanwyck?” Ophelia moaned, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “Don’t answer. I’m not sure my vanity can withstand your candor.”

“You look as lovely as you always do, my lady,” her lady’s maid answered with staunch loyalty. “However, I’ve brought you a morning concoction that ought to ease any lingering maladies from the festivities last evening.”

“The festivities,” she repeated, grimacing as her temples throbbed. “What a polite way to say getting thoroughly soused.”

Stanwyck frowned as she deposited the tray on a bedside table. “Don’t be thinking you were the only one.”

“Thank you, Stanwyck,” she murmured, not certain she dared to sit up in bed or move, lest she cast up her accounts. “If I didn’t feel as if my head had been trampled by an angry horse, your confidence would likely do wonders for my wounded pride.”

Her lady’s maid offered her a cup of something foul-smelling, and Ophelia’s stomach lurched. “This may not aid your pride, but it ought to help with your head and your stomach.”

“Good heavens, what is that?” she asked, trying not to gag at the offensive scent.

“It’s an old recipe to cure what ails you,” Stanwyck answered. “Learned it from my mother, and it works a charm.”

“I’m sure your mother’s recipe is quite good,” Ophelia managed in between holding her breath, “but I’m afraid drinking something that foul is only going to end in one way.”

“It’s not foul.” Stanwyck pressed the cup into her hand. “Drink it. I promise you it will help to cure what ails you.”

“Does it cure mortification?” she mumbled.

Stanwyck’s brows lowered. “Of course. It soothes all. Try it and see.”

Ophelia was reasonably sure her lady’s maid was bamboozling her. But her head was pounding, her stomach was decidedly unhappy with her, and she would soon need to attend the breakfast table.

Ophelia was just desperate enough to give Stanwyck’s mother’s concoction a chance.