Page 8 of Duke with a Desire

“Soaking in an ice bath,” she said with a smile of her own. “If you will excuse me, sir? I must see to some of the other guests. It wouldn’t do to relegate myself to just one, you see. I should so hate for anyone to think I am partial.”

She disengaged from him as they reached the drawing room door, though it pained her mightily. But she knew that the only way she could avoid his advances was simply to create time and distance between them. With enough hours that passed, the house party would sooner be at an end, and in the absence of Prestwick’s direct presence, she couldn’t be so tempted by him.

An excellent solution. Pity it felt rather as if she had swallowed glass shards when she turned to the nearest gentleman and bestowed a false smile upon him, leaving the duke to stare after her.

“Why, sir,” she told the gentleman, who was tall, dark-haired, and lean of build, “would you be so kind as to help me fill my plate from the sideboard?”

He offered her a ready smile beneath his own half mask and gave her a courtly bow. “I should like nothing more, madam. Come.” He proffered his arm, and she took it.

The man was handsome, at least what she could see of his strong jaw beneath the mask he wore. He had threads of silver at his temples that suggested he was closer in age to her than Prestwick was. This was the sort of man to whom she ought to be drawn, one who was entirely anonymous to her. One who was experienced. Who didn’t think he could win a lady with some well-polished flattery he used on every woman he wished to bed.

So why, then, did it leave her feeling naught but hollow as she filled her plate alongside her new companion? And why did she feel rather as if she had kicked a puppy whenever she glanced in Prestwick’s direction as breakfast unfolded, only to find him watching her?

Breakfast had been nothing short of torture. Apollo had envisioned any number of painful ends for the bastard who had taken his place at Ophelia’s side, gallantly filling her plate and laughing at every word she uttered. All of them had been bloody, though some had been decidedly more violent than others.

Suffering through a morning game of Naughty Forfeits had been little better. Lady Ashland had quite thoroughly groped Viscount Mellingham’s cock before the gathering under the guise of searching for the ring she’d given as forfeit, and the poor fellow had nearly been unmanned in his trousers, if his groans and gasps had been any indication. Then, the Marquess of Darlington had nearly suffocated in Lady Ipsley’s ample breasts when he had been forced to recover his pocket watch from between them—with his teeth. Lady Ipsley had delighted in showing off her assets, but not even the glimpse of her bare bubbies had moved Apollo.

It was the sort of raucous diversion that the Wicked Dukes Society house parties were known for, and yet, Apollo hadn’t found one whit of entertainment in the interminable hours since he had last had Ophelia on his arm. Because all he could think about was her.

With each blasted second she spent distracted by others, he felt his chance to win her increasingly slipping through his fingers. He had to do something, to seize the opportunity to get her alone and further his suit. Apollo couldn’t shake the feeling that if he didn’t act now, he would never again have such a perfect opportunity.

Which was why, as the participants in the game of Naughty Forfeits dispersed, Apollo cut through the throng, heading directly for Ophelia. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of pink that not even her mask could hide, no doubt the result of the particularly rude fashion with which Lord Darlington had been forced to retrieve his timepiece and the resulting show of Lady I’s nipples. It would appear that the lady and the marquess had no such qualms; the two of them were departing the drawing room hand in hand.

Apollo stopped before Ophelia, offering her a courtly bow. “My lady.”

Her full lips parted with surprise, her gray-green eyes going wide. “Sir.”

“I wondered if you might grace me with a walk in the gardens,” he invited, hoping to get her away from everyone else.

To have her all to himself, it was true.

“I need to dress for luncheon,” she protested.

“Luncheon isn’t for another hour at least,” he countered, ready for her to fight him.

He had known, of course, that Ophelia wouldn’t be an easy conquest. He also knew instinctively that she would be worth it. He had wanted her from afar for too long. This was an opportunity he refused to squander.

She frowned, clearly trying to furnish another excuse to avoid being alone with him.

“You needn’t fear I will attempt to collect the debt owed me,” he added, giving her a gentle smile.

Ophelia pursed her lips. “I am not aware of any such debt. Perhaps you have me confused with another lady in attendance. I don’t gamble.”

He chuckled. “I can assure you that I would never confuse you with someone else, my lady. The debt I refer to is the kiss you promised me but failed to deliver.”

Her flush crept down her neck now, drawing his attention to her modest decolletage, the tops of her breasts swelling over the edge of her bodice, a dusting of freckles scattered over her flesh. He wanted to trace each one with his tongue. It seemed to Apollo that his life would be an utter failure if he were to meet his end without having done so.

“I never promised you a kiss,” she told him coolly.

But he didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked to his lips, lingering there like a sinful caress. Ophelia was no more unaffected by him than he was her, even if she was trying valiantly to prove otherwise. Heat stirred within him, making his cock twitch to attention.

“Perhaps not in so many words,” he allowed.

She was flustered and adorable. “Not in any words.”

“You promised to keep me from perishing.”

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed. “You appear quite healthy at the moment.”