He thought he had her, because he was so good at kissing. As well he should be, given the number of wives he’d had.

Ophelia took a deep breath. “That was pleasant,” she said, willing her cheeks to stop burning.

“I found it so,” His Grace said amiably.

The smile playing on his lips made her want to scowl at him, but that would be too revealing. “If you would please take your leave—”

As the words left her mouth, she realized that her carriage was swaying back and forth, presumably on its way to her house.

“Your coachman couldn’t block the street, so when I didn’t leave the carriage immediately, he set out.”

Ophelia did scowl. “Don’t read my thoughts. I don’t like it.”

The duke’s laugh was husky, joyful in a masculine way.

“When we reach my house, Bisquet can return you to the ball,” Ophelia said, noticing that the duke had a dimple. A dimple! In that strong face it was like a private jest.

He was so much a duke. It was easy to imagine him bowing before the king in snowy stockings and a powdered wig. She could picture him addressing the House of Lords, or stepping out of his ornate carriage, or doing other ducal things.

But a little dimple? A husky chuckle? Dukes weren’t supposed to have those—nor the mischievous look in his eyes. Not that either.

They weren’t supposed to kneel before plump widows of no particular status. The notion made her feel suddenly vulnerable. It was so tempting to imagine throwing away the propriety, the rules, that had governed her entire life.

No.

Viola’s reputation was tied to her own. She couldn’t have an affaire with a duke no matter how alluring his kisses, and she didn’t wish to marry him. Time to get rid of him.

“It’s been very nice to talk to you,” she said, “but there is nowhere . . .” She stumbled to a halt. “I do not wish to know you further.”

“Not at all?”

She couldn’t read his eyes, but that couldn’t have been a flash of vulnerability—could it?

Or was it certainty: that’s what she saw most clearly. A kind of deep, knowing certainty shining from his eyes. As if he knew something about her that she didn’t.

“No,” she said sharply. “My life is very pleasant. I do not wish to be a duchess. I certainly do not wish to mother six more children.”

“Eight.”

“Eight!” She felt indignation rising up her spine. “No one should have so many children.”

He cocked his head. “The world does seem too small for the number of the bawling, squalling Wildes I have dropped into it. I apologize.”

“You should not marry again,” she said, less severely. “What if you had even more?”