Page 13 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

Ophelia writhed and twisted, trying to kick her assailant in the shins or ankle. She struggled to breathe against the bruising palm clamped over her mouth. Terror sluiced through her veins, one second causing her to tremble from clammy chills and the next infusing her with scorching heat.

“Stop fighting, English witch,” her attacker growled into her ear, the timbre of his voice the lyrical accent of the travellers.

The man had come upon her unawares.

Stupid, stupid girl.

Engrossed in locating the noisy bird, Ophelia hadn’t heard him sneaking up on her. She’d always been fascinated with birds. She kept a journal of drawings of the different birds she had seen.

The man whose iron-like embrace she couldn’t escape was brazen as the devil himself. Laying hands on her with a few hundred people within shouting distance. Which, no doubt, was why the first thing he’d done was render her incapable of calling for help.

Arching her back and craning her neck, she tried to see who held her captive. She didn’t even have a hat pin or parasol to use as a weapon. More was the pity. That oversight would be remedied at once. Never again would she leave home without a means of protection, even if it was nothing more than a letter opener.

Clawing at his hand over her mouth, she screamed.

Only a muffled noise emerged.

“Hold still,” the man hissed, dragging her farther away from the encampment. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Was he insane?

Did he think she’d believe anything he said?

Stanford. Where are you?

Why hadn’t she listened to him?

Well, honestly, she didn’t think anyone was foolhardy enough to set upon her in broad daylight. She stomped on her assailant’s foot, earning a grunt of pain as she dug the heel of her half boot into his arch.

“I knew you were a spirited woman.” He sniffed her hair and pawed a breast. “I saw the way you looked at me. The lust in your pretty eyes, just like Lady Jamesworth.”

Good Lord. Snooty, proper to her nose-in-the-air, overly-plucked eyebrows, Lady Elvina Jamesworth?

“But I told her ladyship I couldn’t oblige her carnal needs today. She was most disappointed. How could I, when a fresh, innocent English Rose such as yourself gave me such a blatant invitation? So why are you struggling now? Do you like to pretend to resist?”

Ophelia went slack for a few heartbeats.

The wrestler?

Was he the wrestler who’d made her uncomfortable earlier?

How could she possibly hope to escape him?

He was a mass of muscles and strength.

Ophelia attempted to communicate that he was mistaken. She’d only been shocked to see a half-clothed man for the first time. She shook her head, and a few more tresses plopped onto her shoulders. Her bonnet had fallen to her back during the initial struggle, and several hairpins had slipped from her hair as well.

His harsh whisper seared her ear. “I know you, aloof English women. You flirt and then pretend resistance. It’s your pride, I think. A Roma is beneath you, but you always find your pleasure beneath Django.”

Shaking her head harder, Ophelia tried to bite his hand.

He laughed at her futile efforts.

“No. No,” she mumbled against Django’s palm. If only she could get an arm free, she could clobber him soundly. She knew how to swing a punch.

He chuckled again, the sound reverberating against her spine.

“My vardo is this way, pretty lady. It assures me privacy when I entertain,” he continued as if they were having a discussion over tea and biscuits.