Page 7 of Duke with a Desire

He was tall in a way that made her feel safe and small, as if she could tuck herself into his brawny body and he would protect her from all harm. But that was a silly, frivolous notion. If Ophelia had learned anything from her years of marriage to Corbett, it was that she couldn’t rely upon a man to save her.

“I am,” she acknowledged, trying not to notice the way Prestwick’s gaze dipped and lingered on her mouth, as if he, too, were remembering how close they had come to that kiss last night.

He offered her his arm. “May I escort you?”

She could hardly refuse, even if she could scarcely bear the temptation of touching his arm and standing close to his side. “Of course.”

Ophelia placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and they began down the hall as one. They moved well together, in a natural way that suggested an older, far more established acquaintance than they shared.

She told herself it meant nothing. It wasn’t as if Prestwick had been waiting about for her to leave her room. No doubt he had spent the evening in the arms of one of the beauties in attendance. She hadn’t seen him at all after she had been spooked in the gardens, and that had suited her fine, even if her stomach tightened and clenched at the thought of another woman in his bed.

“I see you have miraculously survived the night after all,” she observed, perhaps a bit more sharply than she had intended.

Because she knew she was lying to herself. She had thought about little else since she had last seen Prestwick. And how she wished she had not fled, that, instead, she had tamped down her fretting over propriety. She had felt guilty. Ashamed. And all too late, she had recalled she was wearing a mask and none of her fellow revelers had any notion who she was.

Just as well. Else, she may have stayed. And if she had… Well, there was no sense in thinking about the ruinous events that may have followed.

“It was indeed a miracle,” he said at her side, chasing her whirling thoughts of what might have been. He leaned toward her, his lips nearly grazing her ear as he spoke so that only she could hear. “I shall tell you a secret, my lady. The sole thing that kept me from perishing was the thought of seeing you again today.”

His lips did brush her skin as he said the last few words, sending a frisson down her spine. How she could continue to breathe and put one foot before the other was a mystery to Ophelia. But somehow, she didn’t trip over her hems or fall into a dead swoon.

“I had no notion I possessed such restorative power,” she said when she found her wits.

“You hold all the power, my lady.”

His low confession had her faltering as they reached the staircase. She turned to him, trying to read his expression. But it was no use. Prestwick was as enigmatic as ever.

“I confess, I know not what power you speak of, sir,” she told him calmly. “You make me sound as if I am some manner of witch who has cast a spell upon you.”

“Certainly not a witch.” He cocked his head at her, those bright-blue eyes brimming with secrets she couldn’t begin to unravel, even if she longed to try. “More like a goddess sent here by the divine.” He nodded toward the stairs, and she found herself accompanying him as they descended. “A mere mortal such as myself can do naught but worship you as your humble servant.”

Did the man never quit? She was charmed, although she was more than aware he had likely used nonsensical compliments such as these before. Perhaps with all his conquests. Heavens, for all she knew, he kept a list of effusive flattery and praise to offer the ladies of his acquaintance, all the better to lure them into his bed.

The notion made her mood sour. She stopped halfway down the curving stairs, forcing Prestwick to halt along with her, and craned her neck at him. “Do you say such twaddle to all the ladies in your acquaintance, or do you reserve it for me alone?”

He chuckled. “Yet another barb in my vulnerable heart.”

“I am persuaded there is nothing vulnerable about any part of you, sir,” she told him.

“There is one part of me that is decidedly vulnerable indeed,” he quipped.

And to her great shame, Ophelia’s mind went directly to a distinctly scandalous place, and she missed the last step. Her error had her pitching forward, but Prestwick caught her, keeping her from falling.

“You, sir, are a rogue,” she chastised without heat.

In truth, his nonsense was entertaining her. She was beginning to think he was mad and she had simply overlooked this glaring fact for the entirety of their acquaintance.

“Forgive me,” he said, a soft smile showing off twin dimples beneath his silk mask. “I had no notion that discussing my feet would distress you so.”

“Your feet,” she repeated, still half breathless from the potent combination of her near-fall, his proximity, and his wicked remarks.

“Yes.” He had the audacity to feign complete innocence. “They’re quite ticklish, you know.”

What she did know was that he had been speaking of an entirely different portion of his anatomy. But there were fellow guests stirring around them, along with a host of efficient servants. She was hardly going to press the matter.

“What a curious thing,” she told him lightly. “I have heard there is a cure for such vulnerable appendages.”

“Oh?” He guided her toward the dining room, but a new edge had entered his voice. “And what is that, my lady?”