Page 33 of Duke with a Desire

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

A familiar voice at his elbow interrupted their verbal parries.

Apollo knew who it was before he even turned to face her. The paint Helene had worn earlier had been removed from her skin, and she was resplendent in an evening gown of red silk that left precious little to the imagination.

“Mrs. Gilpin,” Mal said, offering a bow.

“Madam,” he greeted coolly, hoping his blasted half mask would do its job and keep her from realizing who he was.

But a small smile curved her lips at once. “So, it is you,” she said softly. “I thought so, but I couldn’t quite be sure until I heard your voice for myself.”

“Have we been introduced?” he asked, hoping Helene would understand he wanted nothing to do with her and would continue on to the next potential benefactor.

Surprise flashed in the blue eyes he had once found so alluring, and her chin went up. “Of course we have, and you know it as well as I.”

He sighed, annoyed. “What do you want, Helene?”

“To speak with you.” Her gaze flicked to Mal, then back to Apollo. “Alone, if you please.”

“I daresay that everything we’ve ever needed to say to each other was done nine years ago,” he told her.

Her countenance fell. “Please. A few minutes of your time is all I require.”

Apollo stared at her, wondering at the turn of fortune’s fickle wheel that had landed the only woman he’d ever believed himself in love with at the same house party as Ophelia, and some nine years after Helene had dashed his youthful heart to bits.

He was about to deny her, but there was something in Helene’s entreaty—an aura of desperation, perhaps—that persuaded him at the last second.

He nodded. “Very well. But a few minutes is all I can allow.” Apollo cast a glance in Mal’s direction. “I’ll be back. Don’t misbehave too much whilst I am gone.”

His friend grinned. “No promises on that, old chum.”

Apollo offered Helene his arm, and she took it. As he guided her to the gardens, a burst of remembrance washed over him, spurred by her touch and her familiar scent, still unchanged. Perhaps her perfume was the only thing that had stayed the same. Heaven knew he had certainly changed from the naïve man he’d once been.

CHAPTER 8

Ophelia watched Mrs. Gilpin sweep from the drawing room on Prestwick’s arm and told herself she ought not to be surprised. The actress was one of the most gorgeous women she’d ever seen, and the woman’s grace and poise were undeniable. It seemed as if everyone at the house party was smitten with her. Little wonder that the duke was no different.

Mrs. Gilpin was just the sort of woman who would likely appeal to a young rake attending a notorious house party. The Wicked Dukes Society was not where someone came to find a suitable future spouse. It was where people came together in secrecy, hedonism, and scandal.

Pleasure, too, she thought grimly as a couple in the corner began to kiss with wild abandon and a complete disregard for the fact that they had an audience. Or perhaps because they had one. She had learned that some members of polite society had unusual desires, and those in attendance were utterly shameless about sharing them with anyone who wished to listen. Particularly herself, since she had been cast in the role of hostess. Her ears yet burned from some of the depravities she had heard.

“She’s going to seduce him.”

The flat statement had Ophelia jolting from her thoughts as Theodora approached, whipping a fan in vexation.

“I do believe she already has,” Ophelia pointed out, nodding her head toward the couple she’d spied just a moment before.

“Not those two,” Theodora said grimly. “Mrs. Gilpin and the Duke of Prestwick. Did you not see the way she fluttered to his side almost immediately? They hardly spoke at all before he was escorting her off into the garden. There’s only one reason to visit a garden in the dark at a house party, and it isn’t to take the air.”

No doubt it was for a tryst.

Ophelia’s stomach twisted into a knot.

It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself sternly. You cannot have him.

But she wanted him. It struck her with the sudden haste of lightning crackling through the sky. She wanted the Duke of Prestwick for herself. Wanted him in a way she could not recall ever wanting anyone or anything. Wanted him so much it hurt to breathe.

“Are you well?” Theodora asked, fanning Ophelia with her fan. “You look pale, dear friend.”