Page 5 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

Stanford knew when to make a strategic exit. He’d only attended tonight in this ridiculous peacock travesty because it meant another opportunity to speak with Ophelia Breckensole about a match between them.

He wasn’t quite ready to approach the Duke of Pennington, her brother-in-law, to ask for her hand. There was also a grandfather in Colchester who must be spoken with as well. But Stan, as he was known to his closest friends, preferred Ophelia, a willing participant.

After all, they faced decades together. Far better a cordial relationship than an apathetic or hostile one.

Besides, she was of age, and at one and twenty, it really wasn’t for anyone else to say who she should wed.

Stan wasn’t such an ogre that he’d force her into marriage.

It simply had never occurred to him that she’d refuse his suit. Women tripped over themselves to be in his company, and Stan damn well knew his company was not pleasant.

His initial approach to Ophelia had been faulty. He realized that now.

Ophelia Breckensole was the type of woman who needed to be wooed. His finely honed instincts told him traditional courtship would get him nowhere. The problem was that he knew nothing about such frivolities. Before this, he’d considered courtship a waste of time and money. And a man of his position was hardly going to ask for assistance.

From the moment he’d first seen Ophelia Breckensole at Westfall’s ball last April, Stan had known there was something different about her than the other debutantes and marriage-minded misses. There was an aura about Ophelia, a freshness and vivacity the others lacked.

Something about her beckoned him, made him want to make her his own. From her clear hazel eyes, alight with keen intelligence and a bit of mischief, to her hair, a conglomeration of brown and blond tones, to her contagious smile—she’d enthralled him.

It might be because she’d been raised in the country and lacked the artifice so many women of noble birth affected. In any event, of all the women he’d met in his nine and twenty years, she stirred something in him more than lust. Desire might fade in time, and it was imperative he could tolerate his wife across the breakfast table every morning. A woman who could carry on an intelligent conversation and was pleasantly tempered was a bonus.

And so Stan had determined she should be his duchess.

It wasn’t a rash, impulsive urge but rather a calculated, rational decision based on compatibility.

Although he hadn’t intended to wed just yet, Stan had never doubted he’d take a wife.

Unlike the prior lackadaisical Dukes of Asherford, he took his responsibilities to the dukedom seriously. Far too seriously, many accused. Generally, those he’d refused to forgive a debt owed. He wasn’t known for his benevolence nor his compassion, but he was logical and fair-minded.

Had those charging him with a mercenary character inherited failing estates and massive debts at fourteen, perhaps they’d be a trifle somber and austere too. He hadn’t even gone to university but had spent nearly every waking hour since his sire’s death working toward one goal: making the Asherford dukedom the envy of the peerage, rather than the object of pity and contempt.

He’d succeeded by the time he was five and twenty. Now it was time to do his duty and sire an heir. Three sons ought to secure the dukedom’s future nicely.

A memory of Ophelia’s flashing hazel eyes glaring up at him, her creamy skin bearing a hint of rose across her defined cheeks as she refused his marriage offer, made him grin.

She’d settled those lush pink lips into a pleasant—rehearsed, he’d wager—curve and flat out declined him. And then, in an unexpected display of impoliteness, deposited her lemonade on his coat.

Ophelia wasn’t, by nature, cantankerous, spoiled, or demanding. He’d not have selected her to be his bride if she had been. The lemonade she’d dumped on his suit in response to his less than cavalier insistence that she met the qualifications to become his duchess was deserved.

Well-deserved, in truth.

He’d been a pompous arse.

Stan had no objection to a woman with spirit, as long as she knew how to control herself. Ophelia Breckensole would be his and willingly too. He just had to convince her that was what she wanted.

Ignoring those attempting to catch his eye as he made his way to the entry, Stan considered his next move in his courtship of Ophelia. Not flowers or sweets. Something more meaningful.

“Asherford, you’re just the man to settle a matter.”

Pausing, Stan produced a rare but genuine smile of pleasure. “Sutcliffe. You’re looking well. Marriage agrees with you, it seems.”

Several of Stan’s friends had wed in the past year, and all appeared happy as grigs. But then again, theirs had been love matches. He supposed that was well and good for them, but he’d lived the past fifteen years on his wit, intellect, and keen ability to read people and situations. He wasn’t going to muck up his well-ordered life with sentimental entanglements.

Victor, Duke of Sutcliffe, grinned in return. “Indeed, it does.”

He inclined his head toward his three ducal companions.

Stan acknowledged the trio, all of whom were also members of Bon Chance, along with himself and Sutcliffe, with a slight canting of his head.