Not his expression, though.

She shivered, despite herself. He was staring at her, just as he had in the ballroom when she first saw him. And this time, she had no trouble deciphering his emotions. Hugo was burning with need and desire. There was an unmistakable intimacy in his eyes as well.

Beside her, Maddie whispered, “Phee! Did you forget to tell me something?”

They reached the group, and sank into curtsies for a round of greetings.

“We’ve met,” Maddie said, smiling at the Duke of Lindow mischievously. “You remember, don’t you, Your Grace? It was at a ball some weeks ago. You were asking me . . .” She tapped her chin with a finger. “Now why can’t I remember what it was you were inquiring about?”

“A woman’s memory is often affected by carrying a child,” Lady Woolhastings commented.

“May I offer my congratulations on your happy state, Lady Penshallow?” Lady Knowe asked.

“Thank you,” Maddie said sweetly. “I am very excited. My husband and I have been married for some years without being blessed with fruit of our union, so this is a true joy.”

Something flashed through Lady Knowe’s eyes and Ophelia realized that she knew. Somehow this lady knew that Maddie had a roll of cotton tied around her waist. But one glance at her face told Ophelia that Lady Knowe would never engage in cruel gossip or divulge such an important secret.

All the same, she had better inform the world that Maddie was confined to bed for the last weeks of her pregnancy. She could handle morning calls herself, just in case more women had the same intuitive grasp of the truth as the duke’s sister.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Woolhastings,” Ophelia said, dropping into another curtsy. “I hope you are well?”

“Absolutely,” the lady said.

Hugo didn’t say a word, just kissed Ophelia’s hand. But there was something about the intensity with which he looked at her . . .

Lady Woolhastings showed no signs of feeling possessive, or even particularly happy about the fact that she and Hugo were attending the supper together. And yet they were betrothed.

Strange. If Hugo were her fiancé . . .

“Lady Fernby,” Ophelia said, pulling her hand back from Hugo’s, as he showed no sign of letting it go. “Don’t you have a collection of miniatures? I would dearly love to admire it.”

“Of course!” Their hostess bustled over to the side of the room, where a glass-topped cabinet presumably held her treasures. “Lady Woolhastings, do come look at the darling miniature I have of the queen!”

Hugo watched as Ophelia walked away without a backward glance.

Her features were pleasant, whereas her cousin Maddie had the cheekbones of an aristocrat. Ophelia’s figure was round, and her hair—even powdered—unfashionably red.

But . . . she was the only woman for him.