“I can’t marry Lady Woolhastings,” he said flatly. “And by the way, I never proposed to her; she seems to have misunderstood. I considered it, and then I saw you in the theater and realized that if I can’t have you, I’d rather be alone.”

A soundless breath came from her mouth. “Truly?”

He nodded, his throat tight. “Truly.”

“But I’m not beautiful, not that kind of beauty, the kind that would inspire a man to—to turn down marriage if he can’t have me. I’m . . . I’m ordinary.”

“You are not at all ordinary.” He said it with the confidence of a man who had always trusted his own opinion above that of others. “I’m not the only one to think so, but in any case, I’m not in love with your beauty alone. My sister told me of your first marriage. She rarely comes to London, but she has a vast number of correspondents.”

“I see,” Ophelia said. She folded her hands before her. She was wearing a gown that he recognized, thanks to Louisa, as being à la française. His sister wore monstrous petticoats this evening, with a silk gown embroidered with birds of paradise.

Hugo found he vastly preferred a simple rose stripe, albeit decorated with silver-edged ruffles.

“Sir Peter was lucky enough to be introduced to you during your first foray into society,” he said now. “He was smart enough to know what he had in front of him, and he snatched you up before another gentleman had a chance.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. My parents knew his parents . . .”

“Your parents’ only mistake was that they underestimated your charms,” Hugo said deliberately. “Sir Peter saw you, an intelligent, gorgeous, and sensual woman, and he knew he’d found gold. I wouldn’t be surprised if he proposed to you during your second dance.”

She blinked. “Over supper following our second dance.”

“Had he waited until the next day, he wouldn’t have been able to afford you,” Hugo said. “Polite society is a ruthless marketplace. I saw you during your first entry into society after widowhood. I knew that I had no time, so I followed you into a snowstorm. Why do you suppose that was?”

A smile was easing the corners of her lips. “Could we simply agree that you and Peter were slightly mad, and leave it at that?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to win you under false pretenses. I think you could likely have any bachelor of your choice in all London, Phee.”

She was laughing now. “Including the twenty-year-olds, just leaving Oxford?”

“Those too.” He meant it. “London is full of women who are brittle, angry, or—like my second wife—dissatisfied. You look like a person who knows how to be happy.”

“I’m no happier than the next person,” she said, looking startled.