Page 9 of Duke with a Desire

“Appearances can be deceptive.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “But fret not, my lady. As I said, I’ll not hold you to your solemn vow, even though it may prove my demise.”

She huffed out a sigh. “And as I said, there was no vow, solemn or otherwise. You, sir, are maddening.”

He leaned toward her, his head bent, and inhaled her sweet, decadent scent. “You may as well confess. You like it.”

“I like nothing of the sort,” she told him swiftly.

But the smile toying with the corners of her lips said the opposite. He was amusing her. Apollo had the impression she didn’t know whether to capitulate or deliver a crushing setdown.

He offered her his arm. “Come. I know how you adore flowers. What can be the harm?”

“And how do you know that?”

Damn. He had nearly given himself away. He did know Ophelia had an interest in flowers. She collected them, in fact. She kept an orangery at Corbett House laden with all manner of flora. He didn’t dare admit that, however, for then she would surely know it was Apollo hiding behind the mask. And he wasn’t ready to make that revelation just yet.

“Admiring flowers is one of the many feminine arts.” He saved himself swiftly. “Is it not?”

She eyed his arm. “I suspect the blooms in the garden are not the sole reason for your request, sir.”

“You are absolutely correct in your suspicions,” he agreed easily. “I also want to have you to myself.”

Her eyebrows arched behind her mask. “That is an incredibly forward admission.”

He inclined his head, sensing he was winning this little battle and enjoying himself immensely in the process. “Why waste time on subterfuge when honesty is so much more efficient?”

Ophelia laughed, the sound light and husky, and he wished he could capture it to listen to again and again. Earning her levity made him feel as if he were twenty feet tall and bloody invincible. He was of half a mind to climb to the Wingfield Hall roof and make the announcement for all to hear. But he also wanted to keep the knowledge to himself, to jealously guard it like the treasure it was.

She settled her hand on his arm, as light as a butterfly. “Well, sir, your honesty and persistence have paid off. I shall accompany you on a walk through the gardens.”

He didn’t waste a moment in steering them toward the door. “I am the luckiest man at this house party.”

And in the whole bloody world.

“Or so you tell all the ladies you take for garden walks, I’m sure,” she said tartly.

She had no notion that she was the only woman who could hold his interest within these walls. Hell, within all London, and not for lack of trying on his part.

But she had no notion of the feelings that had been burning him from within, hour by hour, day by day, year by year. He had kept that particular secret tucked safely into his heart.

“You are the only lady I want to take for garden walks,” he returned.

Now and forever.

But he wisely kept those last few words to himself as they left the drawing room and ventured into the outdoors. Apollo fully intended to win her, but first, he had to woo her.

CHAPTER 3

The sky overhead was gray with the portent of rain, but Ophelia selfishly hoped the weather would hold for at least another half hour. Indulging in the fanciful pretense that a man seven years her junior—and one she had secretly admired for some time—was interested in her, was thrilling. Also, disastrously reckless. Likely, wounded pride had proven the spur to Prestwick seeking her out and requesting a walk in the gardens, Ophelia reminded herself sternly. Nothing else.

Moreover, he had no notion it was her hiding behind the mask. Heaven knew that if he did, he likely wouldn’t have cast even a protracted glance in her direction.

“Have you had sufficient time to explore the gardens, my lady?” Prestwick asked as he led her deeper into the boxwood labyrinth.

“Aside from our brief time yesterday, no,” she admitted. “I’ve been far too occupied to linger as I would have liked.”

Indeed, taking on the role of hostess had kept her busier than she could have imagined. She was woefully rusty at throwing soirees of any sort. There simply hadn’t been funds for lavish balls and suppers or even for musical evenings in the latter few years of her marriage. The scandalous events during the earlier parlor game had left her wondering whether she could continue playing hostess.

“Don’t forget to take time for yourself whilst you are here at Wingfield Hall,” Prestwick told her as they swept past a fountain with fish spouting water from between comically puckered lips.