Page 3 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

Her prompt response had taken the starch right out of his ducal self. No doubt The Dangerous Duke, as Asherford was called behind his back—none dared speak the moniker to his face—hadn’t considered she’d refuse, much less fail to thank him for the privilege.

She hadn’t even offered an excuse. Just a firm “No.”

Oh, and the lemonade, of course.

Regardless, Ophelia had been silently hurling insults at him in her mind.

None of the ton or lower orders denied Stanford Bancroft, Duke of Asherford, anything, as his unflattering nickname alluded to.

“Until now,” she muttered to herself.

“Until now, what?”

Mouth parting on a strangled screech, Ophelia jerked her head up. She barely succeeded in stumbling to a stop before plowing straight into the too wide chest of the very man she’d been musing about.

Bother and blast.

Asherford grasped her elbows, steadying her, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a large man—a man known for his emotionlessness and lack of empathy.

Heat zipped up her arms, and she stepped backward, snapping her fan shut. She’d much rather whack him with the accessory for giving her such a start. Even now, her pulse ticked in her throat as frantically as a netted bird beating its wings.

“You may release me. I assure you, I am in no danger of falling, Your Grace.”

At once, he released her but not before his mouth twitched in amusement.

His humor raised Ophelia’s hackles, and the urge to hit him again rose within her like a wave crashing to the shore.

Why did he have to be the single man who brought out the worst in her?

Usually, she was good-natured, patient, and genial. And assuredly not moved to violence.

How in the blazes had Asherford managed to get upstairs before her anyway? What was more, how had he known she’d seek the retiring room and not return to her friends or family after the dance?

“I knew you’d retreat,” he said dryly as if reading her mind.

Ophelia did not like that in the least. That he anticipated her actions unnerved her in a manner she couldn’t describe. Tilting her head to meet his piercing blue eyes rimmed in violet peering at her from behind his peacock feather mask, she straightened her spine.

Must he be so dashed tall?

He stood at least a head above every other man she knew. Even when she wasn’t looking for him, he was easily spotted because of his height and hair so raven black, it looked blue in some light.

“You err. I am not running away, Your Grace.”

Ophelia was fleeing in a manner of speaking. Nonetheless, she would gargle nails before admitting anything of the sort to him. Instead, she raised what she hoped was an imperious eyebrow, then she realized her mask hid her calculated move.

Just as well. Ophelia was utter rot at such machinations.

“I am merely overly warm and wish to apply a damp towel to my face.” Assuredly, she wasn’t going to mention the other activities that took place in the ladies’ retiring room.

“I have just the solution then,” Asherford offered with a smile that was designed to melt iron.

Ophelia was well on her way to wilting from the heat already.

“Your costume is quite extraordinary and most becoming.” His voice dipped a seductive octave. “But I’m afraid I’m at a loss to know what you represent.”

“I’m midnight.” How she wished it was midnight, and she might excuse herself for supper.

“Ah. Yes, I see it now. Brilliant.” He raked his appreciative gaze over her.