He turned from the window, leaving the curtains open so that the room was lit with a soft, romantic glow, an excellent setting for a seduction, if only a lady would join him. The bed was laid out in fine linen that smelled faintly of lemons and starch. The mattress was comfortable. A warming pan had taken the chill from the sheets.

It had everything to make a guest happy—except for one thing.

Which explained why he lay awake, staring into space, hoping.

Ophelia didn’t want to be a duchess, and he didn’t blame her. He had too damned many children, and yet he couldn’t bear the idea that even one might not have existed—and that included his orphaned ward, Parth.

He would even marry Yvette again, knowing what lay ahead, to have their children.

Just as he was deciding to close his eyes and fight for Ophelia’s hand the next day, the door opened soundlessly.

He slid out of the bed faster than he’d ever done before, threw on his wrapper, and snatched her in his arms as an involuntary groan escaped his lips. “Bloody hell,” he whispered into her hair, “I feel as if my blood went to a simmer hours ago, and I haven’t calmed down since.”

Ophelia’s hair slipped through his fingers as she tipped back her head. She’d washed out the powder, and damp strands of silk covered her shoulders.

“I want you,” she whispered. “But perhaps not as a husband. I haven’t decided that yet.”

“Am I on probation?” He wasn’t sure what to think about that. His body had no doubts. He could seduce her, bind her to him, show her the pleasures of making love, because it was possible that Sir Peter had not.

The ethical side of him didn’t feel happy about seduction without marriage.

“I’m a widow, Hugo,” she said, her eyes crinkling into a smile. “I can bed whomever I wish, and I choose you. Tonight.”

“What if I seduce you into marriage?”

She laughed, the sound lazy and sweet. “Do your worst, Your Grace. Do your worst.”

He had her on the bed in a minute and unwrapped her as carefully as if she were made of the finest china.

And when he realized that she wore nothing under her wrapper?

In strong contention for the best moment of his life.

Chapter Seven

Ophelia hadn’t bothered to put on a nightgown. Why should she? Hers were all white and edged with lace, clothing that hinted at chastity and innocence. A woman bent on sin needn’t pretend to virtue.

That meant she got to see Hugo’s eyes darken and his jaw clench as he pulled open her dressing gown.

She followed his eyes down. She was a creamy, curvy type of woman, whose breasts had become even more lavish after nursing Viola.