“I loved him, of course,” she added. “He was Viola’s father and he would have adored her. I see him in her every day.”

“I tell myself that if Marie hadn’t died, I would have been a good father to the three boys she and I had together,” His Grace said thoughtfully, “but I’m not certain. I might have followed the path of least resistance, like my parents and all my friends, and just seen the boys a few times a year.”

The snowy silence felt as if it compelled truth. “I might have done the same. I know that Peter would have insisted on attending social functions every night as soon as I was in full health.”

“Mourning sent me into the nursery,” Hugo said, nodding.

Ophelia lifted up her face and finally remembered what she meant to do when she silently asked him to stop the horse in the midst of a snowy forest. “A kiss,” she whispered huskily.

His eyes lit.

“Not marriage,” she reminded him. But her lips had reached his, and the slow slide of her tongue against his made her shiver, her hand closing around the chilly wool of his greatcoat.

The snow had no intent; it fell here or there without volition. But the two bodies straining together, warm mouths, clinging arms . . . There was a ferocious intent in them.

Ophelia felt her limbs weaken and desire riot through her until she whimpered into his mouth and moved restlessly on the horse’s broad back, her legs tingling, her flesh tender and longing for caresses.

“I want you,” the man kissing her growled.

Peter never growled. He wouldn’t have known how. But somehow, she found herself kissing a man whose growl came naturally from his broad chest. She was in uncharted territory, Ophelia thought dimly.

If she stayed with this man, this duke, her peaceful, quiet life would never be the same. The cheerful tenor of days spent in the nursery would change.

He would want her with him, during the day. During the night.

She and Peter hadn’t shared a bedchamber; the idea was inconceivable. She had the strong feeling that this duke wouldn’t consider living any other way.

His mouth slanted down over hers, hunger speaking to her in the brush of his chilly cheek against hers.

“Getting cold,” she murmured sometime later. It wasn’t true. She felt like a torch in his arms, as if she were burning in every pore. She could tumble into the snow and it would all melt beneath her.

She didn’t know what she wanted from him: but she did know one thing. In the wake of Peter’s death . . . this warmth was precious.

Worth chasing, preserving, exploring.

That low sound he made?

She wanted more of that.

“Did you say you’re cold?” he asked suddenly, a kiss later. His voice grated like gravel underfoot.