“I’m going home,” Ophelia said, wondering why she had come. True, she had put aside her half-mourning attire for the first time, and was wearing a lovely new gown, but that didn’t mean she actually wished to join society again.

It would have been much more fun to stay home with Viola.

“I don’t want to be caught in a snowstorm,” she added.

“Oh, nonsense,” Maddie said. “My coachman was grumbling about the same thing. If traffic snarls up, it might take a wee bit longer to get home, but we’re not in the wilds of Lincolnshire! One scarcely notices snow in London.”

Ophelia wouldn’t have cared if Peter were still alive and traveling in the coach with her on the way home. She was more cautious now, or perhaps less adventurous.

“Oh, very well, I’ll walk you to the entrance,” Maddie said, taking her arm as they began to make their way through the crowd. She lowered her voice. “His Grace is standing just to the right side of it.”

Ophelia sighed. If Maddie started something with a duke whose wife had fled to the Continent—divorced or not—all society would talk feverishly about it for months, or even a year. Her husband would be furious.

Lord Penshallow would not forget, even when society moved on to the next scandal. Maddie’s husband might not want his wife himself, but Ophelia was certain he didn’t want another man in his bed. Men weren’t rational about that sort of thing.

“Maddie,” she said, striving for a tactful tone, “I believe you ought to rethink the idea of an affaire with Lindow.”

“For goodness’ sake, lower your voice,” her cousin whispered. “Do you see him now? He’s straight in front of us.”

Ophelia looked and froze, which made her stumble. It was mortifying, not helped by the fact that Maddie burst out laughing.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” she demanded.

No.

Maddie hadn’t “told.” She hadn’t said what the Duke of Lindow looked like. He had a square chin, high cheekbones, and a straight nose that somehow came together in a way that made a woman instinctively draw in a breath.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome, or broad-shouldered and tall. He was indefinably masculine in a way few of the gentlemen in the room were. He was wearing a magnificent peruke, befitting a duke, and a rose-colored coat that by rights should look effeminate.

It didn’t.

That square chin looked stubbornly male. Her husband had never been able to grow a beard, try as he might, but the duke’s chin was shadowed, though his man had undoubtedly shaved him a few hours ago.

Next to her, Maddie was still giggling. “I told you so.”

Rather than respond, Ophelia kept looking. His Grace was clearly bored. He was paying no attention to the two ladies chattering beside him.