“It isn’t very far,” Lady Fernby said, clearly uncertain whether the structure of her house, or possibly her household, was being insulted. “This drawing room is in the back of the house, but . . .”

“I have a terrible sense of direction,” Ophelia said. “His Grace and I shall return with your handkerchief in a minute or two, Maddie.”

As they walked toward the door, Hugo heard Maddie ask Lady Woolhastings if she’d met his “horde of children.”

Before Lady Woolhastings could respond, she added in a horror-laden voice, “I understand there are ten or eleven of them.”

“Lady Penshallow is your cousin, Phee,” Hugo said, once they left the chamber. “It seems she wants you to be a duchess. In fact, it could be that my sister and your cousin will unite to warn off Lady Woolhastings.”

Ophelia stopped short. “What?” She looked stupefied.

“Did you mind?” Hugo asked, catching her hands in his. “You refused me, after all.”

“Of course, I mind!” she said tartly. “No lady likes to think that she can be replaced in a gentleman’s affections within a matter of hours.” She gave him a wry look. “It is a blow to one’s self-esteem.”

Ophelia’s red hair gleamed through the light powder she wore. She was perfect, from her deep lower lip to her pointed chin. “Do you know what I realized at the Frost Fair?” Hugo asked. “I remembered you as so beautiful that I thought perhaps I had imagined it; you couldn’t have been as lovely as I believed. But you were.”

She looked up at him, utter shock on her face. “I’m not beautiful! I’m nice enough looking. Maddie is beautiful.”

Hugo shook his head. They were standing in a corridor that led to the front of the house. They couldn’t stay here; the butler would appear in a moment with refreshments.

He pushed open the door directly across the corridor and discovered a small morning room, probably Lady Fernby’s private refuge, given the basket of knitting and the gossip sheets lying to the side of a comfortable chair.

“My lady?” he said, walking inside and holding the door open.

Ophelia bit her lip.

He smiled at her, letting the deep joy he felt show on his face. His mind was racing. Kisses wouldn’t be enough to convince Ophelia to marry him. He had to woo her. Court her, the way a future duchess deserved.

But on the other hand, he . . .

She walked inside and turned about to face him. To him, she was already a duchess: utterly composed even in moments of deep impropriety, as now.

“May I kiss you?” Hugo asked, shutting the door and putting on the latch as well.

She looked rather amused. “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” she observed. “You accompanied another woman to this supper, Hugo. One whom you have asked to marry you.”

At least she was calling him Hugo.