“My meaning is clear,” Ophelia said, scowling at him. “Go. Back to the street, if you prefer plain speaking. You are not welcome in my carriage.”

She had the absurd idea that she’d hurt his feelings, but the emotion flashed by so quickly that she wasn’t sure.

“I apologize,” he said again. “I just saw you for the first time.”

Ophelia waited, but he didn’t continue, so she said, “The fact that we are unacquainted is scarcely reason for this intrusion.”

“How long were you married to Sir Peter?” he asked.

This was such an odd conversation. He hadn’t touched her, and she didn’t know him, and yet they were looking at each other with an intimacy that—

She pushed the thought away. She probably shouldn’t answer him, but she did, because what was the harm of it?

“I married in July of 1759,” she replied.

“I married Yvette in May of the same year.”

Clearly, that meant something to him, but nothing to her. “Is that why you’re following me?” she asked, a dash of humiliation suddenly turning scalding.

She’d got it wrong; he didn’t desire her. He wanted something from her. Or had she known his previous duchess? She couldn’t recall anyone by that name.

His lopsided smile appeared again. “If I hadn’t decided that Yvette looked like a good mother—a decision so misguided as to be comical—I would have gone to a few more balls, and I might have met you before you were betrothed to Sir Peter.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you think that your presence would have affected my feelings for my late husband, whom I loved dearly? You do yourself too much honor, Your Grace.”

His smile broadened. “I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said tartly. “Now, please stop hovering at my knee or whatever it is you are doing and take your leave before I shout at my coachman and ask him to remove you, pistol in hand.”

“Bisquet confiscated my sword,” the duke said with a grin.

With a start, Ophelia realized that the silver hilt that had sat so easily at his hip was no longer there. “He did?”

“You have an excellent coachman. It took me the better part of ten minutes to persuade him to allow me to speak to you.”

Ophelia instantly made up her mind to speak to Bisquet herself and quite sharply too.

“I didn’t offer a bribe, and he wouldn’t have taken one,” the duke said. “May I call on you in the morning?”

“I see no reason for that,” she replied.

He was too handsome, too witty, too everything. There was a hint of sadness at the backs of his eyes, and a ruefulness in his tone when he mentioned his wife Yvette. He was nuanced.

Men were so rarely nuanced.