Page 1 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

Bedford Square, London

Gravenstones’ Ball

17 June 1810

One rotted, moody duke should not be permitted to ruin such a much-anticipated event as the Gravenstones’ annual masked ball. Especially as Ophelia had commissioned the cleverest of costumes. She’d never seen anything quite like her ensemble before and was rather proud of her ingenuity.

Festooned in shimmering black and swathed in jet and silver beads and sequins, she’d come as midnight: mysterious, mystical, and exotic. She hoped. Except, she’d spent the better part of an hour hiding from him. Stanford Bancroft, Duke of Asherford, the most deplorable, insulting, arrogant, cold-blooded, mulish peer she’d ever met.

And that was after spending the past three weeks since his proposal peering around corners and skulking around at assemblies, always with the fear of running into him. Why, of late, he’d even intruded upon Ophelia’s outings to Hyde Park. She’d taken to glancing behind her or asking one of her friends to enter a room before her all because of his unwanted interest.

Ouch!

“I beg your pardon, Miss Breckensole,” Neville Hornbrook mumbled as he missed another step and trod upon her protesting toes. Again.

Sweet Jesus on Sunday.

Despite her throbbing foot, Ophelia fashioned what she hoped was a believable smile as he ineptly partnered her through the steps of a minuet. Perspiring profusely, the bashful banker moved his lips as he counted the dance steps with laborious concentration.

No doubt behind his rooster’s mask, his forehead scrunched in concentration as well. His flamboyant tail of red, green, yellow, and blue feathers bobbed and thrashed with his stilted movements, reminding Ophelia of an inebriated cockerel.

Remorse quickened in her for forcing the awkward man onto the dance floor.

But, really?

What choice had she?

Accept Asherford’s impending request to dance?

Not that she’d given the pompous bounder the opportunity.

Certainly not.

She would’ve declined, and then propriety dictated she sit out the rest of the dances this evening. By juniper, Ophelia wasn’t moldering away, perched on a chair, when she adored dancing simply because the single man she detested in all of the earth had set his sights on her.

What was more, the dull-witted, obstinate codpate wouldn’t take no for an answer.

What kind of man continued to press his suit when the woman of interest made it clear she’d rather wed a toad?

A boorish, clod. That was what kind.

Thinking swiftly to avoid cutting the Duke of Asherford—even Ophelia wasn’t such a pea goose as to directly insult The Dangerous Duke—she’d practically hauled Mr. Hornbrook onto the dance floor. In truth, she had towed the stunned chap along.

The poor man possessed two left feet, and she winced anew as he bumped into her dear friend Rayne Wellbrook.

Rayne smiled graciously, and the tips of Mr. Hornbrook’s ears took on a purplish hue above his mask. Neville Hornbrook was, if nothing else, an astute man. He knew full well dancing was not his forte.

Le beau monde balls were heaven or hell, depending on whether one was well received, enjoyed dancing and Society, and whether one spent the evening avoiding a particular jackanape. A buffoon who’d unromantically suggested a union between Ophelia and himself at the Wickerfields’ soirée three weeks ago.

Suggested was far too gracious to describe what Asherford had done.

His grace had casually announced in the manner of a general accustomed to immediate and unfettered obedience that he’d chosen Ophelia to be his duchess. He’d been as unemotional as if he’d been selecting which food to bite into next and not picking a wife.

Many empty-headed ninnies and husband-hunting misses might have been ecstatic about his uninspiring proposition.

Ophelia wasn’t among them.

It wasn’t that she was opposed to marriage, per se, but a marriage of convenience?