Page 7 of Loved by a Dangerous Duke

Gypsy Encampment

Gipsy Hill

The next afternoon

Ophelia clapped her hands in time as two talented fiddlers zipped their bows across the instruments’ strings with skill and speed she’d never before witnessed. A trio of pixy-faced children danced and performed acrobatics for the crowd’s amusement. Ebony-haired and with eyes such a deep coffee brown they looked almost black, the children wore colorful clothing and grinned nonstop.

The front teeth of the youngest, not more than six, were missing. He kept sticking the tip of his tongue through the gap when he performed a challenging movement.

This was Ophelia’s first venture to Gipsy Hill, and she adored everything about the outing so far. She’d already purchased two baskets, a scarf, and a carved box. And she’d only been here a quarter hour.

Roma, commoners, and London’s elite roamed the good-sized encampment as if there wasn’t a vast difference in their stations. Here and there, clusters of gypsy women chatted as they wove baskets or worked at other tasks. Several men surrounded a makeshift wrestling ring and called encouragement to the opponent they favored.

Ophelia examined the fair, trying to decide where she’d most like to go next. There was so much to see. It was hard to choose.

Her gaze collided with a bare-chested, neatly bearded young man with shoulder-length hair. He must’ve just finished a wrestling match. Wiping sweat from his torso with a cloth, he boldly assessed her. A slow grin bowed his mouth. Clasping a brown arm across his waist, he bent into an exaggerated bow.

His companions, seeing his preoccupation, turned to look where their friend stared.

Oddly unnerved, Ophelia dropped her gaze at once.

Likely, her discomfiture stemmed from seeing half-clothed gypsies and their casual indifference about their state of undress. Only one other man had dared to stare at her so boldly.

The Duke of Asherford.

At once, she quashed thoughts of him.

Today was meant to be a pleasant diversion.

The afternoon was warm, but an agreeable breeze and the shade from the copse of trees the travellers had camped beneath kept the temperature reasonable. Maxwell had delivered hers and Gabriella’s treasures to the carriage and was now striding in their direction.

More than one woman turned to look after him, but he only had eyes for his duchess. Ophelia had thought him the worst sort of ogre when he’d first approached Gabriella about marriage. He’d proved himself by his unwavering devotion to Ophelia’s twin.

Maxwell was the brother she’d never had, and she’d come to love him as such.

Gabriella and Maxwell’s situation was much different than what Asherford had proposed to Ophelia, however. Maxwell’s motive for making Gabriella his wife had been revenge, which had turned into a deep and abiding love.

At least Maxwell had been passionate about his desire to make Gabriella his wife, if for the wrong reason. Asherford addressed marriage with the same enthusiasm and emotion as one chose a piece of toast for breakfast.

“I think I shall get my fortune read,” Gabriella said, twirling her silk parasol. The pink fringe edging the accessory fluttered with the movement. “Would you like to join me?”

She included Sophronie and Ophelia in her invitation.

“No, thank you, Gabriella. I still haven’t seen the horses.” Unabashed, Sophronie grinned, and her slightly crooked front tooth didn’t detract from her prettiness. Blue eyes alight with mischief, she seized Ophelia’s hand. “Come with me. I cannot go by myself.”

No lady could walk about the camp unescorted.

“Ronie, you’d sleep with horses if it was permissible.” Ophelia laughed. Never had she met a woman more obsessed with horseflesh than this American.

“I did in America. Several times, in fact,” Sophronie said proudly.

“Should I be shocked?” Ophelia muttered drolly, not shocked in the least.

Gabriella’s and Sophronie’s laughter melded with hers.

Fishing in her reticule for a few coins, Ophelia tossed them in the violin case set before the dancing children as she’d seen several others watching the performance do.

“I’ll go with Ronie, Gabby.”