Peter had liked to dance and of course she willingly accompanied him everywhere. It wasn’t until he passed away that she realized how happy she was not to spend every evening in a crowded ballroom.

And the duke? She shuddered. One could scarcely imagine the burden of social engagements that he likely had to fulfill.

These days, her time was her own.

Tomorrow, she would be alone again, and happily so.

Chapter Five

Hugo turned his head and shouted a last instruction to John Bisquet, then gently opened the carriage door and climbed inside. Snow came with him, of course, blowing over his shoulder. His wig was matted and wet, so he pulled it off and tossed it on the tilted seat.

Ophelia was tucked in the corner of the carriage, cloak pulled up to her nose, bright eyes examining him over the velvet.

“Hello,” he said, feeling the earth shift again. He wasn’t a smiling man, but the corners of his mouth curled up without conscious volition. He was grinning like a fourteen-year-old fool, and he didn’t even care.

“Your Grace,” Ophelia said, inclining her head ever so slightly.

She had dignity. He liked that. Honesty made him admit that he’d like her just as much if she was an undignified, giggling woman.

His father had once told him that Wilde men fell in love at first sight and the rule seemed likely to hold true in this case.

The carriage was securely balanced on the snapped axle, so he sat down on the slanted seat. “We’re in the middle of the park, Ophelia.”

“I do not know why you think it’s appropriate to call me by my first name, when we scarcely know each other.”

Dignified—and tart.

“My name is Hugo.”

“That’s irrelevant, Your Grace.”

He laughed, watching as her eyes narrowed—thinking he was mocking her. He would never mock her. Never. The truth of that blazed through him. Not that he had ever mocked anyone.

If someone ever mocked her in his presence, he’d go off like an exploding chestnut.

Ophelia was wearing that exquisite, hand-painted gown, and they were a good walk from her house. “We need to get you home to Viola,” he said.

She nodded, her eyes solemn.

“Bisquet and your groom are taking one horse back to the mews. He reckons that your lead horse can bear both of us easily, and luckily enough, the horse is very calm and won’t mind riders. No saddle, but if you’ll trust me, I won’t let you fall off.”

“All right,” she said, sitting up straight. Her velvet cloak appeared to be trimmed and lined with white rabbit fur.

He choked when she picked up a fluffy round thing that was easily the size of her upper body. “What is that?”

“My muff!”

“Four foxes’ worth?”