“Mmm,” Ophelia said. He pulled back, but that was all right. There was the enticing smooth skin of his neck, a powerful neck with a man’s sinews and a man’s strength under her lips.

He shifted, said something to the horse, and they were off again.

“Your hat is covered with snow,” she said, giggling.

Even with only the light from the dim lantern, she could tell that his eyes were burning hot.

“It’s too cold and snowy for you to go home tonight,” she added.

She felt his reaction in his body, through her dress and cloak, and his shirt, waistcoat, coat, greatcoat . . .

He jolted.

“You could stay at my house if you wished,” she whispered. Between them, a snowflake spiraled down twisting in the air, melting as it reached their warm breaths.

“I do wish,” he stated.

Their eyes locked. She was unnerved by the invitation she had issued. Unnerved by the kisses she had given him. Unnerved by the images going through her head: the duke without clothes. Those broad shoulders bending over her as she lay on her back, quivering all over. This desire was scorching.

It was madness.

Blissful madness.

“My invitation does not mean marriage.”

Silence.

Then, “In that case, I’m not certain I should stay the night, Ophelia. To my mind, bedding means marriage.”

“The barmaid?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“I didn’t bed her. She sat on my lap, kissed me a few times, and ran off to take care of other tables.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips past hers. “Even drunk, I managed to remember that I had a family waiting at home.”

She dragged her hands down over taut muscles, thinking about men she’d seen working in fields of wheat. Men who weren’t peers. Men who had brawny chests and muscled thighs.

The idea of going to bed with him was terrifying. And fabulous.

“I’ll spend the night with you, Ophelia, but I won’t make love to you until you promise to marry me.”

She made a disappointed sound before she could stop herself.

He laughed, a joyful noise that echoed off oak trees muffled in snow.

“You’re probably right,” she said, straightening her back and wrinkling her nose at him. “I have never had the ambition to become a fallen woman.” She couldn’t stop smiling, because she had the first inklings of that ambition in the last hour, and he knew it.

They rode out of the last line of trees, into the street. A linkboy ran toward them, inadequately dressed, and fell in at the horse’s head, leading the way with his torch.

Another block and they would be home. Halfway, Bisquet came trundling down the street holding another torch, followed by two grooms.

Ophelia let male voices rise around her, the sounds urgent and yet peaceful. There was nothing men liked better than a small emergency. An obstacle that was easily overcome.