Page 6 of Duke with a Desire

“I could demonstrate.”

She swallowed, and he tracked the quickening in her elegant throat, narrowly resisting the urge to set his lips there to feel her pulse. “A bold offer from a man who claims to be on the precipice of his reward.”

A grin pulled at his lips; she was clever, his Ophelia.

“One kiss from you, I have no doubt, will restore me,” he countered with a ridiculous, courtly air—all for her benefit.

He nearly crushed her in his arms and laid his claim then and there. But, no. He knew he needed to treat Ophelia with the utmost care and respect. Any sudden moves on his part and she would likely flee him. He couldn’t bear to lose her when he finally had her so damned close.

“You have a stronger faith in the healing properties of my kisses than I do, sir,” she said, sounding a bit breathless.

“I have every faith in them,” he vowed.

Because he did.

And he’d been waiting eight blasted years to taste her lips beneath his.

Eight long, endless, almost unbearable years.

He angled his head toward hers, anticipation making his heart gallop faster than the hooves of a runaway horse. Her breath caught, her eyes shining luminous in the fading sunlight as her chin tipped up, her pretty pink mouth ready for him to claim.

But before he could settle his lips on hers, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel had Ophelia flying from the bench as if she were a startled bird on a bough, winging into the sky. She slipped away in a swirl of golden silk just as a couple swept around the bend in the maze.

CHAPTER 2

She had almost kissed Prestwick.

What had she been thinking?

Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking at all. No, she had been feeling. That would prove her everlasting downfall if she didn’t take care. Every part of her had been clamoring for the sensation of his lips on hers. And they had been so close, until the sound of others approaching had brought her back to reality with an unpleasant start.

Ophelia suppressed a groan as she reviewed the possible list of entertainments for the day. She’d been provided the suggestions by the Wicked Dukes Society. But she felt her face flame as she read them anew.

Naughty Forfeits? Wicked Charades?

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to cry off her duties as hostess, return to London, and forget any of this had ever happened.

No. She needed the funds she had been promised for carrying out her role as hostess. She could do this. Certainly, she had been tasked with far more difficult burdens in her lifetime, and no doubt she would again.

Leaving the list on her writing desk, she rose and moved across the room to study her reflection in the mirror. Her lady’s maid, Stanwyck, had done an excellent job of taming Ophelia’s wayward red curls into an elegant Grecian braid on her crown. Her morning gown was a becoming shade of gray-green that matched her eyes.

With a deep breath, she tied a matching mask into place. Anonymity was imperative. Not a soul must ever know that she was here, save her stringently loyal lady’s maid. If Lord Timothy were ever to learn of Ophelia’s presence at a scandalous house party, he would stop at nothing to destroy her. The reminder sent a shiver down her spine.

She needed to take greater care. To be utterly circumspect in all she did. She must not allow the task she had undertaken to help protect her children to cause any harm. With a final look at her reflection, Ophelia left her chamber.

She would keep to herself today just as she had last night after she’d fled the gardens. And she would stay far away from the Duke of Prestwick. She moved swiftly down the hall, her steps filled with purpose.

A door sounded somewhere behind her, and she hastened her pace.

“My lady.”

The deep, pleasant voice was as familiar as it was unwanted, causing her to falter. She turned to find Prestwick sauntering toward her, looking refreshed and handsome, the same black silk mask in place, which only served to draw her attention to his sensual mouth.

The lips she had almost kissed.

A pang stole through her, so sudden and sharp she nearly made a sound. She ought to have kissed him when she’d had the chance—she acknowledged this to herself as she watched him approach, the wicked young rake unencumbered by life and its inevitable burdens.

“Are you off to breakfast?” he asked, stopping before her.