He turned, put a hand along her cheek. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Ophelia sat back, her heart pounding. There was a horrid tension between her shoulders at the idea of being separated from Viola. At the same time, there was something so sweet in the duke’s eyes that she felt dizzy.

Her cloak had fallen to the floor. He tucked it around her, passed over her gloves, threw open the door, jumped down, and was gone.

Ophelia looked around, dazed. Her pretty, feminine carriage was changed not only by losing a wheel. She felt as if he had—the duke had—invaded it with his smile and his sensuality and his certitude.

She could say his certainty came from being born to a title, but it didn’t. There was a calm confidence that was the essence of the man. It was potent, like strong tea. Not like Peter, though that was a disloyal thought, and she oughtn’t to think it.

Peter would have been as excited and worried as she if this had happened. Their eyes would have met, and they would have known without words that they were feeling a shared terror.

The duke hadn’t felt terror, none at all. She sensed utter calm in the steely strength of his arms, and the rumbling satisfaction in his voice when he said her coachman was worth his wages.

Bisquet would be cross with her; he had protested leaving the house because the sky was lowering. But she had insisted. It was the first invitation she’d accepted since she left off mourning.

She had wanted to arrive in her sparkling, beautiful carriage, wearing a new dress. She hadn’t spared much thought for the hot, crowded ballroom.

But then she’d seen the duke.

And now . . .

There was no point in thinking about it. Instead she thought about the way he smelled, like clean man and snow. A touch of leather and spice.

He tasted good too, faintly like peppermint. The thought of his taste and his kisses lit a spark of fire in her belly again.

The wind picked up and slammed snow against the carriage, but Ophelia had made a deliberate decision not to worry. His Grace would get her home. He wouldn’t let Viola wake up alone.

It might take a few hours, but she would be with her little girl again. The sound of men’s voices shouting came over the sound of the wind.

She wasn’t alone.

If the duke had his way, she would never be alone again. She turned that idea over in her head. Now that he wasn’t in the carriage, she could think more clearly. She truly didn’t want to marry again.

She had enjoyed Peter’s company, but she adored being by herself, doing whatever she wished. No one made demands on her.