Page 31 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

Before Ophelia could utter a shocked squeak in protest, Stanford scooped her from her seat and placed her on his lap. He waggled his raven eyebrows playfully.

“I don’t need a second invitation, madam.”

“You, sir, are an opportunist,” Ophelia scolded, but the breathless quality of her voice belied any real censure. This impetuous Stanford had her at sixes and sevens.

She had thought she knew him, but her head and heart were at cross purposes. Her head kept warning her to tread with extreme caution, but her heart? Well, the silly, gullible organ fluttered like an inebriated moth when he directed his full charm toward her.

“When it comes to kissing my wife, I am.” Stanford lowered his head until his mouth was a mere inch from hers. “Are you sure, love?”

Ophelia searched his dark blue eyes. He was so close that she could see the purple ring around his irises and the silver flecks there too. Caught up in some unnameable emotion, or perhaps it was a sensation, she managed a partial nod. More of a dip of her chin because she couldn’t wrest her gaze from his.

“I am most delighted,” he whispered before claiming her mouth.

In point of fact, Ophelia was rather delighted as well.

She melted into his chest, reaching one hand up to clutch at his coat lapel lest she slide onto the floor. For surely every bone in her body had turned to melted butter. She sighed, opening her mouth to the gentle prodding of Stanford’s tongue.

With utter reverence, he cupped her face with one ungloved hand, cradling it as if she were the most cherished of possessions. His tongue met hers, and she gasped in shock. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, just different.

Her blood hummed in her veins, a melody of want and need and curiosity. Her head spun with the headiness of his kiss—with the scandalous exhilaration of kissing him in a coach.

Stanford angled her against him, one steely arm supporting her as he explored the curve of her hip and then ever higher with his other hand. Lost in dizzying sensation, Ophelia arched into him, needing, wanting something more.

Something growing within her and in intensity.

When his fingers skimmed her breast—accidentally? On purpose? Does it matter?—Ophelia gave a throaty moan.

The sound was animalistic and ought to have appalled her. Her behavior ought to have as well. But nothing about what she and Stanford were doing disgusted her. If physical intimacy was anything like this, she mightn't want to wait a month to consummate their union.

The coach lurched, and both birds gave frightened chirps.

Stanford lifted his head, then cocked it to one side.

“I believe we have arrived at Kenclere Hall, Duchess.”

Duchess. I’m a duchess now.

It would be some time before Ophelia would become accustomed to anyone calling her that.

Stanford’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he stared into hers. She could get lost in the depths of his beautiful eyes. Could become accustomed to his kisses and hands upon her person.

Why people called him cold and unfeeling, she couldn’t imagine.

Her new husband was kind and gentle. Considerate too.

Ophelia realized with a start that she liked Stanford.

Truly liked him. Esteemed him as well.

When had that happened?

Just a week ago, she’d believed him to be a horned devil with cloven feet and a forked tail.

“Should we shock my most proper staff and have the coachman drive on a little longer so that we may indulge in more kissing?” He veered a rapid, irony-filled glance toward the coach door. “I fear the door will be opened at any moment.”

“What?”

Good Lord, no.