The word reminded her that he was something else as well: divorced. Any woman associated with him would become notorious, and not merely if Ophelia became his third duchess. Everyone would watch to see if she too would find him insufficient, run away, or carry on a flagrant affaire.

Yvette had been, presumably, as passionate in her search for adventures as Francis Clive, and as immoral as well, since she had run away with another man. Leaving not just her children but this man behind. Ophelia had heard about the scandal, of course, but she hadn’t seen him.

Who could leave him?

Yvette likely had very good reason. For example, because her former husband was the type who leapt into strange women’s carriages and demanded to be heard.

“Would you deny entry to me if I paid you a morning call?” he asked.

“I am too busy for calls,” she said. Which was a polite way of saying: Yes. Yes, I would.

He looked surprised, which was good. Men of his rank were likely never refused entrance.

“I don’t know you,” Ophelia continued, “and I have no reason to wish to know you. You are frank, Your Grace, so I shall be the same. As far as I can remember, I had no acquaintance with either of your former duchesses.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Not to the best of my knowledge.”

He was looking at her, eyes intent, seeming as comfortable on one knee as he was in the ballroom.

“And certainly not with you, so what in heaven’s name are you doing, kneeling on my carriage floor?”

“Asking you to marry me.”

For a confused moment, Ophelia thought she’d lost her hearing. “What?”

“You’re the one for me,” he said, his voice deepening to a rumble.

“The one?” To her own shock, Ophelia heard herself laughing. “One, Your Grace? What about your other two wives?”

He rocked back on his heels and grinned up at her.

“You!” she said, rapping him on the shoulder with her closed fan, as if he were a naughty schoolboy. “Have you lost your mind? You don’t know me. I am not your ‘one.’ Get up, if you please.”

“I wish to marry you.”

“I don’t wish to marry you!” Ophelia said tartly. “I don’t even know you. And even if I did . . .”

She would never want to be a duchess. Duchesses were forever being gawked at. Gossip columns described what they wore, and what they said, and whom they smiled at. As Sir Peter’s relict, she had slipped out of that ballroom without anyone taking notice of her.

No duchess walked from a room without people tracking her movements.

He nodded, eyes on hers. “Indeed, duchesses are always in the public eye.”

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

With a swift movement, he rose and sat next to her. Practically on top of her skirts.

“Watch out!” she cried.