When the duke leapt off and then turned, his arms open, she slid down into his embrace, knowing that Bisquet was watching. Her grooms were there too, eyes wide.

Hugo didn’t care, even though he felt Ophelia’s body stiffen infinitesimally. He turned and began walking toward her house with her in his arms, holding her and her skirts, and her cloak, and her huge muff.

“I can walk,” she said, nestled against his chest like an extraordinarily bedraggled bird.

“I like carrying you.”

“I can see a star,” she breathed, a few steps later.

He tipped his head back. “I see chimneys and snow.”

“It’s there. The snow is stopping.”

Up the stairs to an excellent townhouse: Sir Peter had left his wife more than comfortable. Hugo spared another charitable thought for the man and pushed it away.

A stout butler with anxious eyes stood with the door open. Ophelia was obviously surrounded by good servants, which said a great deal for her. Hugo smiled. “Good evening. As you can see, I have your mistress safe and sound, if wet and cold.”

“Fiddle,” Ophelia said, “this is the Duke of Lindow. We are going to put him up for the night.”

“Yes, madam,” the butler murmured, bowing low.

“Good evening, Fiddle,” Hugo said. He strode into the spacious entry and put Ophelia on her feet. The next few moments were taken up by the removal of layers of damp clothing. His greatcoat had held off most of the water, but Ophelia’s velvet cloak was soaked through.

A maid took her up the stairs, and he followed the butler, who was solemnly offering a bath.

“I’ll send a groom to your townhouse to inform them that you are here, Your Grace. Roberts can serve as your man,” the butler said, gesturing to a young footman. “I shall have your clothing cleaned, pressed, and returned to you by morning. Would you like a light repast after your bath?”

“Yes.”

Hugo had just made an unwelcome discovery.

This wasn’t his house. If Ophelia wished to sleep with him, she’d have to come to him. There was nothing he could do about it.

He was not a man who liked to be at another person’s mercy. But it was Ophelia, he reminded himself. He was at her mercy in more ways than one.

He took a bath and ate an excellent meal, bundled in a warm wrapper, sitting by a crackling fire. The butler withdrew, taking the footman with him, and the house fell into silence.

It had to be two in the morning. He pulled open the curtains. Below his window a streetlamp shone through the snow, another sign of Sir Peter’s care for his property and his family. Streetlamps were still unusual, though he had the feeling that one day London streets would be lined with them. Snow still fell but lighter now, drifting and spinning rather than tumbling down.