Ophelia forced a smile. This had been pleasurable, and startling, but now she wanted to be alone. A bone-deep melancholy was building up in her heart: a feeling of missing Peter. That was the problem with being widowed: Grief wasn’t something one got over with a year of mourning, or even two.

“I think perhaps we should sleep alone,” she said.

“Most women think that the duchy of Lindow is my greatest asset,” Hugo said, taking her right hand and bringing it to his lips. “Power equals money, after all. The holder of a dukedom is all-powerful in a society like ours.”

Ophelia tugged her hand free. “You seem to me an excellent representative of power and money.” She swung her legs over the bed, reached over, and picked up her dressing gown. She didn’t mind sitting in bed without clothing, but she wasn’t going to stand up naked. The light cotton brushed over her nipples, sending a thrill of feeling down her body.

“I’ve mucked it up, haven’t I?” Hugo said, moving off his side of the bed.

“There was nothing to muck up,” Ophelia replied. “I have much enjoyed our time together. I truly have.” She reached out and caught his hands in hers. “This has been a pleasure.”

“Ophelia,” the duke said.

She shook her head. “I do not wish to be a duchess, Your Grace.”

“May I stay tomorrow?”

“I think not.” She kept her voice even, without a hint of what was really in her mind. There was no reason to spend time together if they couldn’t even be friends.

“Please?”

“Your Grace.” She struck just the right tone. Her voice was firm, reproving but not overly proud.

He shook his head. “Phee, do you know how many people say no to me?”

“If you give your two-year-old a chance, I expect she will startle you in that respect,” Ophelia told him. “Good night, Your Grace.”

She left before he could answer.

Chapter Eight

Hugo fell back onto the bed, feeling as if he’d been struck—not for the first time that evening.

She’d said no.

Ophelia meant it too.

Marie had flirted with him, but from the moment they met, she’d been as interested as he. After that, it was a matter of mating. He’d flaunted his dukedom and his body, just the way Fitzy, the young peacock at Lindow Castle, spread his tail. Marie had pretended to run away, enjoying every moment of the game.

They had been young and beautiful. He had already inherited the title, feeling no true grief for the father he had barely known. She had been the treasured eldest child of a marquess, and had excelled at everything she chose to do—including marriage.

Marie had been amazingly precious to him, partly because she was so direct, so uncomplicated. She was a child of laughter and joy who loved him, and loved their children.